Archive for the ‘Neurotic Griping’ Category

There is nothing on this earth that will make a normally egotistical human being feel more in touch with the rest of the animal kingdom than to feel the wrath of an unpleasant weather pattern. Cry Global Warming if you must, but when it all boils down, we are just another species of fragile creatures living on a pulsing moving rock ready to bring mayhem upon our heads at any given moment. Our cross to bear is our self-awareness in the face of this inevitable outcome and our complete lack of control to do a damn thing about it.

Oh, but we try. There are entire fields of science dedicated to predicting when the Tera monster will release its planetary bodily functions, but even the most dedicated scientists working in these fields will tell you it’s more art than science. If it were truly otherwise, we wouldn’t be taken by surprise with tornadoes, earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, blizzards, ice storms, forest fires, and so on.

Actually I would say most of the time, weather in any particular area is basically predictable, and that’s the problem. We become complacent in what we consider normal, so when it’s not, we are upset. “How could this happen?” we cry in outrage. “I had plans today.”

The jet stream doesn’t give a rat’s ass about our plans. The shifting tectonic plates aren’t keeping track of our social calendars. The ever circulating “ninos” and “ninas” that take turns rotating the planet and messing up our “average weather patterns” are completely indifferent to our carefully orchestrated lives. They just are.

And that’s OK. Life is a never going to be one hundred percent predictable. We are not omnipotent. However, we are resilient. We stubbornly turn up our collars and take what comes, even if we choose to bitch about it the whole time.

This little gripe is brought to you by the record breaking snow totals we got in the Upper Midwest today. It’s May. Really, I’m not lying. Look at your calendar. Just don’t look out your window. Gripe.

Just about any writer will tell you that they spend a lot of time alone. It’s kind of job requirement. The alternate universe in a writer’s head feeds on that solitary existence. It gains more credence with less outside stimuli…well, most of the time. There is a bit of a loneliness factor. It has nothing to do with interacting with normal people. I do that all the time. It has to do with interacting with other writers.

I was invited to a local writer’s guild. The lady who invited me was very nice, as were all the other women there. It was a romance writer’s guild, officially a local chapter of the RWA. That was fine with me. My work is a mystery/romance series, maybe with a higher body count than a typical romance, but with an ongoing love story nevertheless.

However, I only went that one time. I did not join. As with most “official” clubs, it was resided over by a set of officers, specifically one domineering president. They also had homework.  I’m sure writing exercises are great. I just know I’ll never do them if I’m not getting paid for it. Overall, the whole experience felt stifling rather than comforting.

There’s a closer, general writing club with a different organization, but it’s during the day when I’m working at one of my W2 jobs. So the search continues.

I know of two other writers in my area. Debbie helped with editing on Book 1, and she’s an award winning published poet. The other is Nick. He’s a screenwriter who does a lot of work with production companies in the Cities on the side.  I love talking to both of them, but I’m still a bit shy about looking them up and injecting myself into their social lives. It feels desperate.

Such is the conundrum. Emotionally awkward people trying to make connections with other people who are also probably emotionally awkward, but no-one wants to be a bother, wear out their welcome, stick their necks out.

Maybe this is why Hemingway was hammered all the time. I don’t know about you, but I’m way more social when I’m shitfaced. Probably not as intelligent-sounding, but definitely more social. Perhaps a writer’s round table at the local watering hole on a weeknight might be in order. That requires contact and invitations, doesn’t it? Maybe I should have a beer first and think about it…maybe two.

It finally happened. I can make up all sorts of plausible excuses for why it happened. I can imagine all sorts of circumstances that have nothing to do with me.

None of that changes the bold faced truth. At my last author appearance, no one showed up. Nobody. My husband and I sat in an empty room for fifteen minutes, switching our lines of site between the clock and the front door. After twenty, I started to cry. We packed up and left.

I suppose breaking down and bawling like a big baby was unprofessional of me, but it’s cheaper than getting hammered and being hung over the next morning.

Regardless, every artist must deal with rejection because it’s inevitable. It’s also necessary. I certainly don’t like that it’s necessary. I hate criticism. I take my work very personally. My skin is translucently thin (literally and figuratively, but let’s stay on topic). Rejection is necessary because you can’t learn if you don’t fail.

Life has kicked me in the teeth on several occasions. When it does I cry. I grieve. I have my little pity party. I swear and curse people’s names. I lament the ignorance of the rest of the world to my creative genius (“stupid bastards”). The one thing I cannot allow, however, is debilitation.

It is very tempting to take rejection as some sort of cosmic sign that I am suppose to stop what I’m doing before I get rejected again. There are so many other, easier things that I could do with my life. I wouldn’t have to expose myself to criticism, or worse, indifference.

That’s not who I am. I’m the creative weirdo with alternative universes running through my head at any given moment. I’m the smut peddler who has the audacity to write a mystery series in which my characters swear and get to have sex. I’m the naive idealist that believes deep down in my soul that my self expression is meant to be shared with the world.

I’m a writer. Deal with it.