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.

A Piece of Candy and a Little Something Extra

Halloween at my house is always a chaotic affair. Because my neighborhood is flat, self-contained, and has a good number of houses jammed together, we get a lot of trick-or-treaters. Some of them actually live in the neighborhood.

Most, however, are driven in by these soccor moms who drive slowly down the street, alongside their kid as he or she rushes up to the door to exact upon adults the only revenge that kids can.

Now that's just plain lazy. So it's a little chilly. Put on a coat and walk with your kid. I doubt the expended calories would put you behind for the day.

But I digress. At the stroke of 6 p.m., I saw a line of cars stream into the neighborhood. It looked oddly like a funeral procession. At about 6:15, the madness started.

I was ready. I had my 9 bags of candy, large mixing bowl, scissors for fast opening, trashcan so I don't slip on a discarded bag and kill myself in my hurry to provide kids with more cavity-causing material.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong...

Two hours later, it stopped almost as quickly as it started. After checking for any strays on the front walk, I flicked off the lights and settled in to survey the spoils I had picked around for myself.

Plenty of Reese's, that's good...some Butterfingers...

As I looked at my hands poking through the few remaining pieces of candy, I noticed something was amiss.

Wasn't I wearing...Nah. Wait...I was wearing one because of the cut on my thumb...

My bandaid was gone.

The Misplaced Target

I had an interesting comment on my previous post by a gentleman named Doug. He brought up the point that Halloween isn't something children are exposed to day in and day out. While I may have a point that overly realistic decorations are deleterious to a young person's development, perhaps things such as video games and television programming are a bigger priority in need of addressing.

Addressing. That seems to mean "identify and fix." I don't think all entertainment mediums automatically need fixing. I'm not a huge fan of war-like video games, complete with 3D blood splatter flying out of television screens. I am weary as to where entertainment is going to go from here? We've pushed and pushed from "Leave it to Beaver" to "South Park" and "Family Guy." Is Family Guy responsible for schoolyard stabbings and neighborhood drive-bys? Of course not. But what, if any, role does entertainment media play in our development as individuals and as a society?

Books are not immune from this debate. I hesitate to post this for fear of complete misinterpretation, but as nary a soul reads the blog anyway, I figure I'm relatively safe. I read "Huckleberry Finn" for the first time as an undergraduate in college. Yeah, seems a bit late to be reading that, but at least I got to it eventually. There is a certain word beginning with the letter "N" that is sprinkled liberally throughout the book. I was enthralled by the story and did nothing else but read it over a period of about 12 hours. Time after time after time, I encountered the n-word.

At first it jarred me from my reading flow. "Wow. I knew it was coming, but...wow." It's a shock to see it on the printed page.

I resumed my reading, tripping over the word, and then only mildly noticing the word...and then feeling the word become a seamless part of the story.

I closed the book and headed out of my dorm room for dinner. Inside the cafeteria, people bustled about, trays rattled, and silverware clinked against dishes. Ahead of me in line was the football team. I thought to myself, "Gosh, i didn't realize so many members of the team were "n-s".

Upon realizing what thought had come through my brain, I almost passed out. Good God! I was so shocked at myself. I was completely astounded, dumbfounded, that after reading one book, a book considered a classic, I temporarily became less of a person. How did this happen?

I wasn't paying attention to what I was consuming (the book, not my dinner). I got caught up in the entertainment of it, and passively allowed any and all influence of the book into my subconscious mind.

The element of entertainment most in need of addressing is our consumption. It is likely not going to kill our brains to spend many hours watching questionable television programming or shooting at something on the screen. However, continuing to passively engage in entertainment with no thought as to what it means, what role it plays in our lives and the shaping of our worldviews...that could kill more than just our brains.

PS-Thanks for the comment, Dad. You know how much I love having to back up my wingnut ideas and theories.

The Halloween Conundrum - How Scary is Too Scary?

When I bought my house three years ago, I wasn't too keen on the neighbor's Halloween decorations. They put up orange lights around the doorway (no problem there), some pumpkins on the porch (still no problem), and a plethora of fake headstones in the front yard. Nothing says "Good Morning" like leaving for work and seeing a cemetary in your rearview mirror.

But alas, culture (or is it permissiveness?) has continued its slide toward...something, and the innocent cemetary of my neighborhood has been overtaken by The House on Farr.

At this house, a huge grim reaper hangs from their front porch so low that even the tiniest trick-or-treater's heads will be brushed by the hem of its death cloak. Every inch of landscaping is covered with spider webbing. Iron stakes line the front walk, complete with fake skulls skewered on top. There are headstones...with skeletons digging their way out of the burial plot, expressions grimacing and contorted in pain. In front of the driveway hangs the piece de la resistance - a headless, bloody torso.

For the love of Pete. I'm 29 years old and it freaks me out to drive past the house. What if I were a 9-year-old girl with a group of friends, tasked with not looking like a wimp as the rest of the group fearlessly tromps to the front door?

I know, I know - they're just decorations. It's all make-believe, right?

Yes, to a point. It's all plastic.

What is not make-believe is the insensitivity and poor judgement of the homeowner who purchases said plastic decorations and with them, litters a holiday meant for children. It's not make-believe when the majority of trick-or-treaters are NOT afraid to walk up to a house that looks like that.

Boo hoo, right? Kids like to be scared. No harm, no foul. It's all in fun.

Okay, great. For fun, let's amp it up a notch and instead of "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown," let's give them a real scare and sit them in front of "Saw IV," or "Hostel," perhaps.

"Scary" used to be defined by witches and ghosts and goblins and scarecrows that jumped out at you from the porch. Haunted houses had bowls of "eyeballs" that you'd stick your hand in, later to find out it was only wet grapes. I can't compare that with what haunted houses currently do, because I haven't been in one since peer pressure was a mitigating factor in my life.

The scariest part of Halloween nowdays is that imaginary fantastic has been replaced with realistic. As adults in charge of shaping the next generation of children, what the hell are we thinking?

In need of head repair? Call Trumie Weiner.

Two days ago I spent 437.41 to repair my heating system. Yet again.

Upon waking this morning, I checked the system because it seemed to be firing a lot. I stepped into the laundry room where the system is located, and promptly put my foot in a puddle of water.

My water tank is leaking.

The same water tank that was replaced less than 3 years ago for leaking. That tank was replaced under a warranty. Is there a warranty for the warranty?

To be honest, while I'm in an even worse financial situation than I was a couple years ago when dealing with this and can even less afford to just eat the costs of repair and not fighting it, I just don't have it in me to fight for getting the tank replaced under warranty. Hopefully I'll wake up in the morning and magically have the fight in me.

Until then...what better way to cheer up oneself than dress one's dog in a Halloween costume?

Why I'm not the President.

Every evening around the dinner table, my parents and I solve the world's problems. We second-guess world leaders from our perch within our small worlds, implement policies that would never have a chance at partisan, let alone bipartisan, acceptance, and then we laugh off our outlandish ideas.

Only, our ideas really aren't that outlandish. President Obama was on to something during his campaigning of 2008 when he sat across from regular Americans at their dinner tables. Not only are we the "boots on the ground" who are living the consequences of policymaking, but we're not idiots. We may not have a background in politics, but we Americans are educated through school, through life, and through the good ol' Americana concept of freedom of speech.

People change once elected to office. They do what they can to keep their jobs. No reason to spit at that - we all do what we can to keep our jobs.

So let's make it not a job. What if congress was like jury duty? Two years of your life, very handsomely compensated, and at the end of those two years you go back to the workforce with experiences that make you a valued employee. While some individuals throughout history have been very beneficial career politicians, they're the exception by far. New perspective is what the Occupy Wall Street movement is all about (at least I think that's what it's about. I'm not quite sure).

It might seem scary to entrust the power of legislation to a random sampling of Americans. Who knows what backgrounds they have? What if they have no education? What if they're crazy liberal/tea-partier/republicans? Average Americans are not up to the job of Congress.

Every day, twelve average Americans sit in groups in courtrooms across America, collectively deciding the fates of those charged with crimes. Average people are tasked with deciding whether someone lives, or is killed.

I think average Americans are up to the job of Congress.