Write or Wrong

For someone who wants to be a published author, I find myself not writing at all. What's that about? I mean, writing makes me feel good, like I've just eaten a nutritious meal and gone for a long walk (as if my bum bones would allow that). Writing makes me feel strong, clear, sentient of purpose. I am very sure I used that word wrong, but I don't care. It felt good.

Having a goal-driven spirit puts a crimp in things. I want to have my efforts result in a tangible product that I can share with other people and be proud of. And that might, just might, make a stranger stop me on the street and say, "Hey, aren't you that girl from 'Miracle on 34th Street?' What's her name... oh yeah! Mara Wilson!"

Yes, yes I am.

I'm paralyzed by the prospect of failure. I've pushed my memoir pretty hard and found some big-name agents that were receptive. However, either the genre of cancer book scared them off, or they just didn't think they could get a publisher interested. Does it make it worse that no one told me to go back to the drawing board? No one said to keep at it? They said my writing voice was most excellent. They said that my sophisticated style was top-notch.

That makes it devastating.

When you're trying to sell your house, it seems every home is on the market. When you're pregnant (not that I know or physically can know what that's like), suddenly everyone's pregnant. Why does everyone think they're a writer?

I look with complete disdain on the majority of them. "You think you're the next James Patterson, just waiting to be discovered. When an agent reads your query, they'll beg you to let them represent you, right? They'll kiss your feet for blessing the world with your voice."

To be fair to myself, I'm not always wrong about fellow writers. I've attended several conferences across the country and found the experience of being one remarkably talented cow in a sea of painfully average cattle to be somewhat distasteful. (*cough*) Seriously, though.

When you think you've got it and you look around and see all these other people who think they've got it too, who's the one kidding themselves?

I have an acquaintance from high school who has decided she's an author. Not a writer as in "someone who writes," but rather, an Author.

I've kept her on my facebook list because I've been too lazy to remove her. Lately I've been in a fever of keeping people away from myself who annoy me, so I'm going to be one "friend" less as soon as I finish this posting.

"Today has been soooo frustrating. I am so over it! I have to lock myself in my office and write or else my head will explode!" read one post.

I rolled my eyes. I scanned the rest of my "friend"'s boring updates and signed off.

Later, she posted, "All of my writing is coming off sounding like an 18th century novel. I feel like I need to dumb it down so I don't come off sounding like a pompous prig."

Wow. I guess I should give her credit for getting the article "an" correct in front of 18th century, rather than writing "a 18th century novel." But in the spirit of historical accuracy, I think she meant the 1800s, a period known for their overwrought literature, and thus a 19th century novel to which she was referring.

Where to start with "I need to dumb it down so I don't sound pompous"... What an ass.

My dad has mentioned before that I have a tendency to find fault with other people's talents. After high school music concerts, I used analyze fellow trumpeters' performances. Okay, I mercilessly ripped on them. It was never done out of a malicious intent to take others down to build myself up. It was more of a reassurance, if that makes any sense, that I belonged. That I was just as good, if not better, and deserved my spot on stage.

I also wanted to be sure I was heard. I am very good at what I do. I push, I work, I drive.

Don't let me be lost in everyone else.

Some people are happy just to be a part of things. They feel just as much accomplishment with their group's success as they do with their individual acheivements. I would love to say I am one of those people, but I'm not.

My life is a story of isolation with brief periods of belonging. Fact is, I'm alone in the extremes I experience. Spiritually, my writing is all I've got. A little part of me dies whenever someone I see as being a lesser talent is awarded with the fleeting permanence of a published book.

Right or wrong, it is what it is. I guess that makes me a pompous prig.

A Real Head-Scratcher

Life's been rough the past few months. I've been pretty ill, my body supremely taxed with trying to recover from the shingles.

Is it "shingles" or is it "the shingles"? I prefer to go with the latter. "The" shingles gives it more of the respect it deserves. Granted, my respect for the shingles is the same kind of respect I reserve for Sarah Palin and rattlesnakes.

To add insult to shingled injury, I heard from my orthopedist the other day that I need to have my left knee replaced, the same knee that I already underwent a horrible bone graft surgery on to try to prevent the phone call I got last Tuesday. Sure enough, my x-rays were rife with severe osteoarthritis problems and, as the doc put it, "It's not a matter of if, but when."

I've had to come to terms with the probability that my life, as it is, is all there is. Don't get me wrong - I am great with having any kind of life. Even though I might say differently while in the grips of bone pain and the horrid burning, itching of my neck and head thanks to nerve damage from the shingles, I do not actually want to die just yet. As my respected Palin would say, Irregardless, it's a bitter pill at 29.

I've been feeding myself inspirations - "Make your own! Your future is in your own hands! If you dream it, they will come!" - but deep down, I guess I don't really believe all that. Thus, I don't want to try to do anything, as it TRULY, no "woe is me" but TRULY pointless, as it has just blown up in my face every. single. time. for the past 18 months. I desperately want to summon the energy to revive my dream of being a published author, but it's just not there. Perhaps I killed it forever by self-publishing on Amazon, the ultimate admission of defeat. I'm not sure it even matters all that much. Except it does. It still matters to me.

I was lying in bed watching TV last night. I turned to TLC hoping to catch a show so terrible that it would make me feel better about my life. There are certainly enough to choose from. Instead, there was a Christmas concert put on by Justin Bieber.

Justin Bieber. Since I'm not 14, I've not paid too much attention to Bieber Fever. I set down the remote control, intrigued.

Immediately I could tell the boy was lip-singing 90% of his songs, and the other 10% were performed with the heavy-handed assistance of Auto-Tune.

I cocked my head in confusion. Perhaps it was the startling decibels with which the teenaged audience screamed that covered up the reality that the singer has no voice on.

His backup dancers thrashed about on stage with ferocity, intensely believing in what they were doing. Do they know that Justin Bieber is an extremely minimally talented young man? Perhaps their ferver was actually hope that the blindness to Bieber will keep their gravy train a-chuggin.

His show should have been twice as elaborate, twice the spectacular, in order to cover up his shortcoming as a singer. Instead, it was almost a parody of a late-80s concert, complete with Bedazzled jean jacket and Vanilla Ice crew cut.

I scratched my head in bewilderment.

I kept scratching.

Right before I drew blood, I realized it was the shingles I was scratching at.

Oh well. Justin Bieber, nasty skin disease that is completely miserable... at least a handful of calamine lotion shuts up one of them.