If you have tried to come back and see my latest entry, only to find the meager two essays posted so far, I offer my apologies. In the last three weeks my life as been turned inside out an contorted more than any circus performer. I was just diagnosed with ovarian cancer.
All the little tummy aches and fatigue were more than too many junk food meals gone bad. They were all indicative of a more serious condition.
The interesting thing, is though my mind raced with all the changes to come . . . surgery, lack of work and income, my sobbing daughter in the corner of the room . . . my deepest grief was in thinking that all those writing projects and partial novels would never know the light of day.
This morbid thinking put me in a near comatose state as I went home and lay down for hours (not much energy to do anything else) to look up information on chemo, natural healing, raw food diet, etc. I was planning to research for my classes all the many books I need to peruse, but the mind can get shut down when anxiety rules.
I thought about words like "cancer", "death", and "debt", all the while knowing that I was a coward for many years because they were always brushed aside. I was too busy. Not to say that I never contemplated my mortality. God, family, writing, mortality, and the ever-waning thoughts about sex, were always a given. I just thought I had a few more decades to get serious.
I do not plan to be depressed. I have those damn novels to write. I have monsters to face in my closet, and many truths to learn about things that were only philosophical musings.
My characters who face death in my work will be wiser. They will have less bravado. I will not make them shrug off danger as though they were in a Saturday morning cartoon with capes flying. They will be linked to a woman who is learning how precious life is, and who must not forget that each day is a new story unfolding. . .
Monday, May 24, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
I Am a Writer . . . I Think
This is a topic that will be addressed often, as one of the great dilemmas in this whole writing gig is knowing when you are worthy to say, “I am a writer”. How do you respond after someone asks you what you do for a living? The “for a living” cut off from the query would make it easy not to hedge. Otherwise one has to resort to answers such as:
Yeah, I chip bubblegum off hospitality tables, a highly demanded skill, but I really am a poet.
I’m a security guard at night, but my 600-page book on How to Read Your Future in Your Feces, is being considered by several editors as we speak.
Or, as in my case, “I am a professional domestic drudge during the day, but I think about dragons and fairies for my novel every minute I can.”
Those minutes are stolen during my commute where I use my digital recorder to rack up story ideas, and kitchen duties are less boring if I listen to audible books. It works out well, because it keeps me in a constant state of creative brain fog. I am able to be slow-witted and maintain a vacuous expression when my boss comes into the room. In my mind I am thinking of plot twists and the villain’s big line, “I’ll-lance-you-with-my sword’ you. Come closer, and I’ll feed your gizzard to my pet harpy.”
What the boss sees in response to a simple question like, “Have you seen my slippers?” is “Slippers? What?” Long pause to translate to my mind how the heck I would know where he took off his slippers, then trying to picture forty-two possible places they could be . . . but before I can shout for joy that I remembered what “slippers” look like, he is gone and thinking me the female version of Forest Gump.
So the question remains, are we truly writers when we are validated by professional publication; when we are able to buy our coffee and bagel that very first time from a royalty check; or the most tried and true confirmation, when a favorite aunt squeals our name at family gatherings, “Oh, there you are, the Famous Author, how I missed you!”?
Each one of these qualifiers will no doubt require a blog separately, that is why I am going to cut to the chase and give you my top five ways to determine if you are truly a writer (be it fiction or nonfiction):
1. Are you into revision? You write a grocery list . . . eggs, broccoli, green beans, cheese, toothpaste, and apples. Do you rewrite the list to properly group the produce, dairy, and non-food items? Wait a minute . . . it could use the ol’ alphabetical order, or maybe you should visualize the aisles and put them in order of display? What if you gave this list to your friend or significant other and they didn’t know you wanted organic green beans. Hell, you better put down the company you trust, as not all farms are the same. And don’t forget, if someone ran into you at the store, knocking you senseless into the condiment aisle, they should not find you clutching your notepad without the special dialogue that spices up the blandness of the list, “Purchase only the succulent green beans from American Organic Farms, as they will grace tonight’s dinner beside the savory pot roast.” Er, you get the idea.
2. Do you eavesdrop on conversations? The Post Office clerk sounds of f her monotone, “Any liquids, flammable items, or hate mail to your mother-in-law?” You ignore the last question because you know that it was all in your head. The next customer comes up and turns out to be a friend. You move to the side to lick and paste stamps to hear, “Bernice, you look so fabulous . . . with only one chin.”
Ah, they are enemies, a cat fight could ensue. How will my clerk answer?
“Thanks, Gabby. Lost a lot of weight after you tossed over your old boyfriend. He’s better than chocolate.”
The women sneer, rather than laugh. The insulting Gabby moves off and you have to think of a reason for the three stamps you glued to the counter, as your clerk gives you an evil glare.
3. “I can use this.” When sick, you try to remember every physical reaction, allowing your senses to capture each grueling moment as you plunge your head into the toilet. (At least after the first few times. The first couple dives are spent deep in prayer.) Or in the middle of getting your heart ripped out by the Great Argument that promises an indeterminable amount of leftovers in your future, do you stop in the middle of your defensive pleas to say, “Wow. This really sucks. I wonder if I can use this in chapter three when Dominic leaves Mariah to get a sex change.”
4. You have fantasies of tropical beaches. Oh, not the kind where oiled, firm bodies, are absorbing UV rays that will haunt them at forty . . . no, on your beach, you are free to set up a large umbrella chair and sit with your laptop properly shaded for the finishing touches on the third book, soon to be a movie. You sigh, “It is done. I thirst.” And your personal assistant, forced to wear a three-piece suit rushes forward with your Mango Smoothie to say, “I will have this off to the publisher before your next foot rub, Oh Great One.” (Okay, maybe your fantasy is better than mine, but I am middle-aged and need to watch out for too much excitement.)
5. You actually write things. I saved this one for last, because it is the hardest. When you’re done dreaming, plotting, and researching, do you actually write things? Scribbled on lunch sacks, old notebooks, and shadowed by obscure file names, are there real stories or essays piling up in boxes and on your hard drive? Do you whisper sweet promises to your characters that, “Someday, your story will be told.” If so, then you are a writer.
Yeah, I chip bubblegum off hospitality tables, a highly demanded skill, but I really am a poet.
I’m a security guard at night, but my 600-page book on How to Read Your Future in Your Feces, is being considered by several editors as we speak.
Or, as in my case, “I am a professional domestic drudge during the day, but I think about dragons and fairies for my novel every minute I can.”
Those minutes are stolen during my commute where I use my digital recorder to rack up story ideas, and kitchen duties are less boring if I listen to audible books. It works out well, because it keeps me in a constant state of creative brain fog. I am able to be slow-witted and maintain a vacuous expression when my boss comes into the room. In my mind I am thinking of plot twists and the villain’s big line, “I’ll-lance-you-with-my sword’ you. Come closer, and I’ll feed your gizzard to my pet harpy.”
What the boss sees in response to a simple question like, “Have you seen my slippers?” is “Slippers? What?” Long pause to translate to my mind how the heck I would know where he took off his slippers, then trying to picture forty-two possible places they could be . . . but before I can shout for joy that I remembered what “slippers” look like, he is gone and thinking me the female version of Forest Gump.
So the question remains, are we truly writers when we are validated by professional publication; when we are able to buy our coffee and bagel that very first time from a royalty check; or the most tried and true confirmation, when a favorite aunt squeals our name at family gatherings, “Oh, there you are, the Famous Author, how I missed you!”?
Each one of these qualifiers will no doubt require a blog separately, that is why I am going to cut to the chase and give you my top five ways to determine if you are truly a writer (be it fiction or nonfiction):
1. Are you into revision? You write a grocery list . . . eggs, broccoli, green beans, cheese, toothpaste, and apples. Do you rewrite the list to properly group the produce, dairy, and non-food items? Wait a minute . . . it could use the ol’ alphabetical order, or maybe you should visualize the aisles and put them in order of display? What if you gave this list to your friend or significant other and they didn’t know you wanted organic green beans. Hell, you better put down the company you trust, as not all farms are the same. And don’t forget, if someone ran into you at the store, knocking you senseless into the condiment aisle, they should not find you clutching your notepad without the special dialogue that spices up the blandness of the list, “Purchase only the succulent green beans from American Organic Farms, as they will grace tonight’s dinner beside the savory pot roast.” Er, you get the idea.
2. Do you eavesdrop on conversations? The Post Office clerk sounds of f her monotone, “Any liquids, flammable items, or hate mail to your mother-in-law?” You ignore the last question because you know that it was all in your head. The next customer comes up and turns out to be a friend. You move to the side to lick and paste stamps to hear, “Bernice, you look so fabulous . . . with only one chin.”
Ah, they are enemies, a cat fight could ensue. How will my clerk answer?
“Thanks, Gabby. Lost a lot of weight after you tossed over your old boyfriend. He’s better than chocolate.”
The women sneer, rather than laugh. The insulting Gabby moves off and you have to think of a reason for the three stamps you glued to the counter, as your clerk gives you an evil glare.
3. “I can use this.” When sick, you try to remember every physical reaction, allowing your senses to capture each grueling moment as you plunge your head into the toilet. (At least after the first few times. The first couple dives are spent deep in prayer.) Or in the middle of getting your heart ripped out by the Great Argument that promises an indeterminable amount of leftovers in your future, do you stop in the middle of your defensive pleas to say, “Wow. This really sucks. I wonder if I can use this in chapter three when Dominic leaves Mariah to get a sex change.”
4. You have fantasies of tropical beaches. Oh, not the kind where oiled, firm bodies, are absorbing UV rays that will haunt them at forty . . . no, on your beach, you are free to set up a large umbrella chair and sit with your laptop properly shaded for the finishing touches on the third book, soon to be a movie. You sigh, “It is done. I thirst.” And your personal assistant, forced to wear a three-piece suit rushes forward with your Mango Smoothie to say, “I will have this off to the publisher before your next foot rub, Oh Great One.” (Okay, maybe your fantasy is better than mine, but I am middle-aged and need to watch out for too much excitement.)
5. You actually write things. I saved this one for last, because it is the hardest. When you’re done dreaming, plotting, and researching, do you actually write things? Scribbled on lunch sacks, old notebooks, and shadowed by obscure file names, are there real stories or essays piling up in boxes and on your hard drive? Do you whisper sweet promises to your characters that, “Someday, your story will be told.” If so, then you are a writer.
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