The sun’s out the sun’s out the sun’s out. Melt thou most stubborn of snow, melt!
Merry Christmas! I’m feeling the good vibes now!
Yea!
Aaand, kind friends offered to drive me to their house for Christmas dinner. Yum! (Sun and good food — what more does this girl need at the moment? Nothing!) (Oops, afterthought: Add a few holiday drinks to the mix and I’m set!)
Today, I woke up in a better mood than I have in weeks. It’s a bouyancy out of nowhere, and I’m once again amazed by human resilience. There’s no reason for my mood, none whatsoever. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m snowed-in. We in my family won’t celebrate the holiday until this weekend — hopefully. I’ve been cooped up for 10 days, hiking to the grocery store, stewing in my juices.
You’d think given all this time, I’d have accomplished much writing. Hah!
Old-time Portlanders are talking about this snowfall as the worst winter in 40 years. All I know is that struggling through the snow, I meet up with fellow hikers who smile wide and offer benedictions like, Beautiful, isn’t it? even as they nearly fall on their bums. Smiles all around, shrugs, slips and slides — it’s a strange but welcome comraderie.
Today it must be 34 or 35 degrees — a step in the right direction — and when I opened the balcony window the lovely hush I’d gotten used to had disappeared, replaced by snap-crackle-popping, a most enlivening sound. Truth is, I’d never before heard the sound of a slow thaw. Ice and snow falling off the evergreens and telephone lines, snow pockmarked and slushy: unique to me.
It’s thawing out there; my heart is thawing out a little too. Time to ready myself for a bright, shiny New Year!
Though, more snow is supposed to be coming for us — one more bout before it lets us go. But I don’t care. Even if I’m snowed-in, it’s still Christmas, and Christmas was always one of the happiest times in my family. We did it BIG. Or rather, my father did it big and brought us along with him. The eight-foot tree with thousands of lights; the beautifully made nativity scene, hand-sculpted and -painted, the kind you don’t see anymore. Chipped as it was, I used to love playing with it as if it were a doll set. The multitudes of presents under the tree — too many really — maybe it was almost disgusting, but as I kid, what did I care?
I may be holed up, but it’s still Christmas.
Merry Christmas!
P.S. A few pet pictures, typical of the last 10 days.
Luna, the dog reminiscent of a cat, snuggling into the warmest spot next to my drying boots (in front of the space heater).
Trio, the cat reminiscent of a dog, playing in the snow.
I can’t help but laugh at myself when it comes to writing Christmas cards. I know we’re supposed to be merry and hopeful, but I love to write a good old-fashioned downer of a card. I mean, this is my life, right? Why do I have to be merry?
If I’m not ending the year on a high note, why fake it?
Plus, writing about my conflicts, self-doubts, angsts, and all that jazz is more fun. It’s like writing stories with good conflicts. Who wants to read a novel about a happy single girl? I’ll tell you: no one.
And speaking of storytelling in whatever format it takes, my stats have gone up on this here blog since my troubles began on November 21st. Why? Because people like stories with conflicts. Seems so obvious. But I’m not going to milk my woes for the sake of stats, just so you know.
Back to Christmas cards: I’ve received plenty of favorable reviews on them over the years. Some of my friends look forward to my cards. I can imagine some of them thinking, What kind of train wreck is Lisa going to describe this year? Must be a hoot for them, and I admit I play it up a little. I mean, I’m a writer, I can do that for the sake of fun and drama.
Problem with that is that some folks might get to feeling sorry for me. That poor Lisa, what a pathetic life. But I don’t care. I like writing my downer Christmas cards…
I was thinking about all this last night after reading the following on One Word, One Rung, One Day, a blog well worth checking out. Being that I was in the middle of writing Christmas cards, I cracked up, I couldn’t help it!
“Why is it the only time you hear the word tidings is during the holidays and in reference to the song. Can you have tiding of something besides joy? I think I’m going to wait until March or April and when something makes me mad I’m going to say I offer you tiding of pain and discomfort. Or the next time Whataburger screws up my meat and cheese only burger I might ask the doofus behind the counter, “Have you been snacking on tidings of stupidity again?” “
I always did have a special fondness for Eeyore.
Relentless gray.
Bright spots.
Today, still snowy, and I’m officially back to where I was before November 21st. Writing-wise, I mean. You may remember that during the first half of November I took myself off for a writing retreat to work on a manuscript. I’d planned to send the new project to my agent by the end of November. I was in a good mood, hopeful even.
Hah.
That was before my agent flew the coop and became Erstwhile Agent (EA). That was before I fell further into a slump because of my dire financial situation (which hasn’t changed, by the way; I’m just used to it now).
Last week I sent Nice Agent (NA), the one who inherited me from EA, the manuscript I’d worked on with EA. I’d spent a few weeks going over said manuscript. Did I mention that I found out EA had no editorial experience? Did I mention that I’d made plenty of changes to said manuscript per EA’s suggestions?
Enough said. I’m happy that NA is willing to read said manuscript. I’m hoping NA likes my writing enough to want to work with me even if nothing can be done with said manuscript because of the rejections it has already racked up.
It’s been a downer three weeks and now I’m staring at the other manuscript, the one from before bummer-dom. I’m not as motivated to revise it, I suppose because part of me wants to wait on a reply from NA regarding said manuscript.
However, bunk to that. I’m going to work on the other manuscript anyhow. See here? See all these notes I made on the pages while doing the quick-read last month? I’ve got work to do, agent or no!
Like I said, work-wise I’m back to where I was a month ago. Feels surreal, like I lost a chunk of my life. I’ve bobbed back to the surface to continue on like the trooper I am. But not like nothing’s happened, unfortunately. My energy level is definitely at low ebb.
But, just gotta keep working so that’s what I’m going to do. We’ve all been there, right?
I’ve still got that quote up on my wall, the one from Thomas Jefferson about creating luck through hard work.
It doesn’t take much for this California girl to call it a snow day and hunker inside, happy as a kid on hookie day. It might surprise you to know that Portland doesn’t get much snow that sticks, much less accumulates. And I’ll be the first to claim that I can’t drive on days like this. I’m a wuss that way.
So, yippee! A snow day!
I get to sip the spiced cioccolata that I bought for my book group, postponed until next weekend, and nibble on the traditional Czech holiday cookies that I bought from a woman who’s a fabulous baker. Yippee!
I get to cuddle on the sofa and write Christmas cards while watching the BBC Pride and Prejudice miniseries, the one with young Colin Firth rising out of the water in soaked white blouse. You must remember that — put Firth on the map in these here United States. And, yes, I own the DVDs…
I get to tramp to the grocery store in the hiking boots I rarely get a chance to use (and that I love!) and take a few pictures along the way.
I get to laugh at my dog when I eventually take her out on a pee break. She’s not going to be pleased.
It’s not as if I had an eventful day planned after my book group, but somehow it will be more fun writing my Christmas cards now. I call snow days one of life’s little pleasures.
Right now, though, I’m heading back to bed to read the latest novel with a spiced cioccolata mocha. Yippee!
It never fails: When I’m unsteady in life I buy a self-help book. It comes over me, this desire to read the words of someone else, hopefully someone wise, hopefully someone whose words get me thinking about my life in a new way, or at least optimistically.
So, the other day I bought a little book called The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch. I haven’t started it yet. In fact, it’s sitting on the dining table. It looks inviting. Knowing it’s there soothes me.
A strange coping mechanism, I guess. But then, I don’t have religion to fall back on. I don’t have a therapist (though my friends are wonderful stand-ins for that) either.
I do have the writing. I’ve noticed over the past few weeks that sinking into the writing wipes everything else out of my mind. I’ve been working hard, in fact. Could writing be my religion?
Hmm…Was that a sacrilegious thought? Or blasphemous? And what’s the difference between those two words?
If, as I believe, there are as many ways to find faith or succour or simply steadiness as there are people on Earth, then why not fall back on writing? Now that I’m thinking about this, I realize that I stopped looking for a system of belief when I got serious about my writing. Whatever it was I’d been looking for my whole life, I’d found.
Comforting, that.
Still, like I was saying, in times of excess turmoil, I like a self-help book too. And I’ve got some doozies on my shelves, I’ll tell you that much! It’s kind of funny, actually. And, it may be weird, but then, context is everything. I hail from lapsed Catholic stock, and my parents’ stock was VERY Catholic. My parents moved from the Midwest and eventually settled in one of the most liberal, swinging areas of the United States. This was the 1960s. Dad wore Berkenstocks instead of ties. Mom took ceramics classes and baked her cookies with wheat germ, whole wheat flour, and brown sugar. She was a health-food nut before it became the rage. I detested her healthy pancakes and always tried to finagle a sleepover at my friend Kathy’s house so that I could indulge in Bisquick pancakes.
I remember the big leather-bound Bible on the bookshelves. It was red with gold leaf and a section of pretty pictures. (I still remember the burning bush, but I couldn’t tell you the story behind it.) It was just another book, squeezed in between Jung’s Man and his Symbols and Dad’s Arquitectural Digest magazines. I guess that says it all about our heathen ways.
Anyhow, what I going to say is that my parents were amongst the original New Agers, before New Agers became a thing and got a bad rap for rubbing crystals. (My parents weren’t of that ilk.) My parents like a good self-help book, so I suppose this is where my predilection for them comes from. It’s my brand of comfort the way Sunday service is for others.
To each his own, right? What are your comfort coping mechanisms in hard times?
I don’t care what my financial situation is, I’m not, I repeat not, going to buy mutant tomatoes with grayish, waxy sheens and zero aroma at the superstore just because they’re half the price of the organic vine tomatoes at my regular grocery store.
And, I don’t care what my financial situation is, after sending in a resume for a 9-to-5 job purely out of fear, I’m no longer going to entertain for one millesecond technical-writing positions that pay $20,000 less than I’m worth. I’m a senior-level technical writer for crying out loud! What was I thinking?
I guess that’s fear for you. I’m done with the fear. I buy my organic vine tomatoes in good faith.
(That said, I’m may still be funky and moody for awhile.)
Newly discovered holiday treat that I’ve been eating for the past few days instead of healthy snacks: ye old-fashioned ribbon candy.
That said, maybe I’m feeling better because I’m motivated to complain about something other than my dire finances, 9-to-5 jobs, loss of dreams, and every other Debbie-Downer thing that plagues me. Or, maybe I’m not better and this is a welcome distraction (like ribbon candy).
Here’s the rant: semi-colons.
How mundane is that? Maybe this is all I’m capable of at the moment, complaining about semi-colons. And when I say this, I mean my semi-colons. I can’t believe myself. I let my manuscript go out with hundreds of semi-colons? Is this why the editors rejected it?
So, here I am, reading through the manuscript before sending it to Nice Agent for a look-see; making minor changes along the way (scary how there’s always room for improvement); and all I’m seeing are semi-colons. Everywhere; for no reason; they’re out of control and annoying like ants at a picnic. See; what; I; mean?
What the bleep was I thinking?
Seems like I’d finally figured out how cool semi-colons were and took them too far. Like discovering eye liner back in high school and assuming that if a little goes a long way, more is better; or, like spritzing on perfume then adding two more squirts just in case; or, like feeling great after the first cosmo and sucking down three more because you can.
So, was that correct semi-colon usage? Someone, tell me, because I don’t know anymore!
(Continued from yesterday’s post.)
And you think: poor baby, a real job. But I’ll die a slow death of the soul. I can feel it already. I’ll have to give up my fiction for the most part. My fiction will become the thing I try to fit in, like a hobby, and that feels so wrong to me. So wrong. That’s not what my soul wants to do: FIT IN the fiction. No.
The 9-to-5 world sucks me dry. Maybe it’s my temperament, maybe it’s the florescent lighting, but it really does sap me of energy. I never did get much fiction accomplished during my salaried days. I don’t know how Bloglily and Nova do it, frankly. I have a lower energy threshold, I suppose, and that’s what I have to accomodate to get the fiction in–which is why I put myself at risk outside the system, so I’d have sufficient quiet time plus sufficient writing time.
At the moment, it feels like the risks haven’t been worth it, feels like I’ve given up a whole helluva lot (my life, basically) for the fiction. Feels like I’ll never have anything to show for the sacrifice. How’s this for wallowing and honesty in blogging?
Obviously, I’m emotional right now. The rawness will pass, but I’m depressive, too, so I hope I don’t fall into that stupor over the rest of the winter.
Even as I write this, I know that I’ll adjust as necessary to keep a roof over my head. It’s just that I hate feeling shriveled down to survivalism. I’ve never worried about money before. I’ve never felt that anxiety before. I’ve never felt the pull of money at odds with the pull of my dreams. Going for fiction never felt like risky behavior until now. I always assumed it would happen.
If this is a process, then I’m in the midst of just another obstacle, right? A deep and wide obstacle, but only an obstacle. If this is so, why does it feel like the end of my dreams?
The economy will improve, money will free up again, but that’s THEN, this is now.
