1/1/2014

Chapter 19, edit of Desert; I'm staring at a blank page and I do it well. My heart beats once to every third blink of the cursor. An episode of Midsomer Murder, quite simply the best detective saga written and then transformed wonderfully into a series, plays on the television. Desiree sleeps nearby. Now and then she lifts her head to check on me. My coffee cup is empty but I've a full pack of cigarettes. Dinner is thawing in the oven. 

I click on the blue W icon. Yep, the page is still blank. Yep, the cursor is still blinking. One, two, three; yep, my heart's still beating. The coffee cup has yet to refill itself. 

People often tell me I should designate writing hours. Oh my god; to do so would frustrate the tar out of me. My heart would be beating with the cursor. Work has specified hours. Writing is not work. I do not set out to write a certain number of pages or words per day. I wonder at those writers who claim they pound out 5,000 words a day. 

If the average book is under 100,000 words and I've been writing at a pace of 5,000 per day yet I'm only completing one to two books a year - how many days begin with deleting the words written the prior day? 

I am at peace with the blinking cursor. I see possibilities in the blank page. Apparently however, I will have to refill the coffee cup.

Exhale. Inhale

The words are strange to my mouth, "I haven't felt like writing". 
The statement is even stranger to my ears.

I've written all my life. Before I knew how to write I scrawled lines of pretend cursive on mom's note pads or any other piece of paper I got my hands on.

I wrote about dreams. I told about places I'd been or something I'd seen that sparked my curiosity. Often I expanded upon interactions with friends and/or animals subconsciously adding plots. Periodically I took inspiration from TV shows and wrote an episode or spin-off. 

As I grew older writing became an emotional outlet. Poetry or prose, it really didn't matter as long as the act of putting pen to paper eased the "too-full, going to burst" sensation in my head. Then when I moved to writing on the computer there came the added bonus of hitting the delete key symbolically eradicating the pain from existence.

Writing has always held a major role in expressing my creative nature. I also: paint, draw, sew, bead and play several musical instruments. While these are great hobbies, they are limited by location, time and space.

This has been a very difficult summer. It has been an extremely sad summer. For the first time in years I've actually wished to be back on OCD meds so my brain was wrapped in layers of cotton. Ok, while that is a true statement, it is not quite the full truth. I have no desire to live in a haze ever again. This has just been one unrelenting summer. I barely had caught my breath and wiped my eyes before the next sad news phone call hit.

Since the end of July I've had to make a conscious effort to breath: inhale, exhale, relax while conducting business. I haven't made it through a day without crying multiple times.

Now here I am days before making [another] major move across country and I should be excited. I can talk a good game. I can pretend there's all sorts of things I'm looking forward to seeing and doing. All the preparations have been made and route west has been mapped. But raw emotions make it difficult to see beyond loss and regrets.

Exhale; blow nose, wipe eyes
Inhale; focus on the horizon

Exhale; accept that I did my best
Inhale; carry the love, leave the regrets

In case you're wondering why I put exhale first it's because when sad things happen one after the other we tend to hold our breaths waiting for the next wave to knock us. You have to exhale in order to inhale. I feel like I've been holding my breath for months. Even though I've been crying everything inside of me is bottled up. So much has happened in secession I'm waiting for another shoe to drop.

Exhale; release what I have no control over
Inhale; grasp opportunity

Exhale; free the emotional log jamb
Inhale; start writing again.

You called them a what?

This morning I ran down to the grocery store.  As I pulled into the drive lane between two rows of parking spaces I noted a man in a full-size pickup.  There were no vehicles between us.  When I was close enough to actually see him turn his head and look at me - he pulled into the lane, and stopped.  Had I been going a couple of mph faster, I would have struck him dead center.  Remarkably he was still looking at me. 

I have taken to referring to drivers like him as "Dip Squiggles."  Dip is short for Dip Shit.  Squiggles comes from how curse words are portrayed in the comics.  Take a few moments and practice saying Dip Squiggles.  Personally I find it rather hard to say without a smile.  The second my mind focuses on squiggles, I see Calvin and Hobbes, thus putting me in a happy place.

The next term I'd like to share with you comes from how I feel about certain people who won't get off the phone.  The initial phone call begins with "Hey Debi, are you busy?" and me saying yes.  To which the caller says he or she will only keep me for a minute.  I know what you're thinking, and in a manner of speaking you are wrong.  This isn't an issue of the caller droning on and on.  The problem is, he or she persists in calling.  "I know you're working but I forgot to say"  "I have to share this"  "I forgot to ask"  Typically it ends with me not answering the phone. 

My term for this is "diarrhea dialing".  Likewise there is "diarrhea texting."    In other words, I think it's pretty damn shitty of you to keep calling or texting when you know I am working.  These are never crisis calls.  I love talking to my friends but my job is time sensitive.  It also requires a bit of concentration to insure accuracy.  Messing with my livelihood to say you rearranged your plants or to described something your pet did, is not scoring you points.

Staples has an "easy" button.  I want a "give me a break" button.  When activated a message will be sent informing the reciepicant "you are important but I can't deal with you right now."

Originally I used "Clickers" for those people who keep clicking the mouse button without waiting a few seconds for the computer to respond.  You know the type.  You might even be one.  Due to the mindset of a group of people with whom I regularly work, I have expanded upon the definition of a Clicker.

I have spent the better part of this year trying to explain time zones to this group.  To this end I have repeatedly sent them a map of the US with the time zones clearly marked and color coded.  On any given day of the week beginning around 8:30 EDT this group will load orders for the West Coast.  Some time around 10am EDT I begin recieving emails asking how soon the orders will be filled.  Between 11:30 and 1pm EDT the phone call start, followed an hour later by another flurry of emails.   This continues until quitting time, EDT.

Let's back up and look at this situation. 

8:30am EDT is 5:30am PDT   It's safe to say the West Coast crews are still in bed.

10am EDT is 7am PDT   none of the offices are open

11:30am EDT is 8:30am PDT   some of the offices are open, but it still takes time to fill orders

When it dawned on my how often I've been on the phone with this group and heard the words "hold on a second, my computer froze" I realized they are Clickers.  They want, and want it NOW!.  Click. Click. Click.

Oh, almost forgot to mention "Dumb Zippers".  These are people who jump green lights or blatantly run red ones or pull any other stupid stunt while driving that endangers other people's lives.  Obviously "Dumb" is short for Dumb Shit.  "Zipper" is for the final punctuation; the zipping closed of a body bag. 

Needless to say, a Dip Squiggle who is diarrhea dialing or texting stands good odds of becoming a Dumb Zipper. 

Feel free to use and expand upon any of these terms.  If you'd like to suggest a few CLEAN ones, make use of the comment feature. 

Meeting Opportunity

Where are you going?

I don't know; maybe Texas, or New Mexico or straight on to Nevada.  Holly (my dog) and I haven't decided yet.  We may not pick a destination until we're on the road.

What are you going to do when you get there?

The same thing I'm doing here.  The beauty of my job is I can do it anywhere as long as I've got Internet connection.  Plus I'm going to work on getting a novel or two published. 

Why are you doing this?

The simple answer is - because I can, see answer above.  The real reason has more to do with opportunity.  North Carolina has been good to us but it's time to move on.  Sometimes your ship makes it to the dock; sometimes you have to go meet it. 

I hate the planning stage.  Making checklists and ironing out details puts my stomach in knots.  Vacations are different, mainly because those have beginnings and ends.  But then, vacations are also a heck of a lot more stressful as you're trying to cram maximum enjoyment into a set amount of days.  Holly and I have the luxury of "when we get there, we get there". 

A lot of my decisions of late are based upon what I don't wish to regret.  I am actually more afraid of spending my last few years on Earth lamenting what I should have done while I had the health to do them, than I am of setting a course without destination or money. 

It is true; life is a mystery. We don't know what will happen five minutes, six months or a year from now.   As long as I remain open to possibilities, opportunity will happen. 

Prime example: while writing this blog I received a phone call from a potential new client.  We chatted; she emailed a contract and now I have to go fill it out.  There is no guarantee how this will translate into dollars.  It might be a little.  It might prove to be a lot. 

Opportunity. 

Qualified?

Four years ago I was in the middle of writing a sci-fi when my brain went blank.  Three days into watching the cursor blink on the screen, I kicked back in my office, stared out the window and cranked up volume on the speakers.  My Rhapsody play list included a bit of everything but opera and spirituals.  Douglas Spotted Eagle, Tom Petty and Buffalo Springfield; then came the opening strains of Alan Parson's "Turn of a Friendly Card". 

I love this song.  So naturally I'm singing along and suddenly the question popped into my head.  Anyone with a creative mind be you writer, chef or chainsaw artist knows this question.  For most of us it begins "what if". 

A few hours later I had written the first chapter of DESERT.  Then I figuratively put it on the shelf and went back to writing the sci-fi.  Problem solved; I was a happy camper.  The words were flowing faster than I could type.  People around me breathed a huge sigh of relief.  Life was normal once again. 

Months later with the sci-fi completed I returned to this lonely chapter to inquire of female lead "how did you get yourself into that predicament?"  Remembering the song that sparked the idea I set the playback to loop and started writing. 

Now after all the rewrites and head-banging-on-keyboard editing DESERT is being shopped to literary agents.  I find this a very frustrating process.  Allow me to clarify that statement.  I realize this is my debut novel and I've a lot to learn about the industry.  However, there is one question that has popped up that, to borrow a Southern term, is killing me. 

"What makes me uniquely qualified to write this novel?" 

 IF I had written a non-fiction, I would thoroughly understand the question. DESERT is fiction. 

My mother was an artist. She has sold paintings in all of the Americas, Europe and Japan. Believe me, Mom would have gone ballistic had someone asked what qualified her to paint a picture. Even back when she was first forging a name, pity the person who voiced that question. Easily it would have taken the police riot squad, National Guard and a dozen sanitation trucks to deal with Mom going nuclear. And even though she's been dead nine years we'd still be hearing about it.

To be asked how I'm qualified to write makes me feel like instead of the synopsis I should send: high school and college report cards; Mensa test scores showing eligibility and affidavits from my proofreaders. 

What qualifies a person to write fiction?  The obvious answer is imagination. 

Help me out here.  How would you, or did you, answer this question?