Musings

Brain Freeze

We had a sizable but not crazy snowstorm again the other day. The snow itself was wet and dense, beautiful.

oops, don’t forget how slippery the steps down to the subway become.

All so pretty, everyone was out taking photos, talking about how the city looked like a fairy tale.

But then, Tuesday night, we got more snow. By Wednesday morning the falling snow turned into sleet. All freaking day. That lovely, heavy snow became piles of slush with a thick layer of ice.

It’s great that this is a walking city, but it isn’t easy to navigate when the sewers can’t handle the amount of dirty, packed, snow and slush. The corners and curb cuts become freezing lakes. You think you’re stepping onto a snow pile, and then your foot sinks through a pile of icy muck and you’re shin deep. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to navigate the streets with a stroller, and yet, every year when I see those messy corners I think about how grateful I am that I’m not trying to find the one spot you can push through–usually about halfway up the street, exactly when 5 cars are coming through. On my way to pick up Flower Child the other day, there was a woman with a big stroller at the bottom of the stairs, getting ready to carry it up.

Ugh. I remember those days. Not fun in the best weather, let alone when those metal steps are icy and people are crowding to get in or out of the subway as quickly as possible. I helped her carry the stroller. Not a big deal, not a random act of kindness, just common courtesy. Her look of gratitude made me sad, I wish helping someone in this type of scenario was the rule, not the exception.

Yesterday I went out to walk a dog in the sleet. The streets were so iced over it was all I could do to focus on staying upright. Add in the super dooper hood of my parka that blocks my peripheral vision, and I wasn’t noticing anything. Heard a thud as I walked towards a local bodega, but really, I barely noticed, just trying to get to the sidewalk before the snow plows buried me in the ever rising snowbank against the curb. Frankly, everything was so muffled through my layers and I was concentrating so hard on not busting my ass, I’ve not sure I would know I was hit by a snow plow until I was snorting slush.

Picked up the dog, went past the bodega again, now add in trying not to fall on the ice with an overexcited dog pulling towards the park. Drunk guy on a cell phone, “No, they’re being robbed right now. It doesn’t matter if I’m drunk. I’m telling you, now. Send a car from the blahblah precinct.” Oh, New York.

By this morning, the streets look a bit less magical.

What Big Stones You Have, Mrs Fringe

A rock, an island 😉

While getting ready to take Flower Child to art class this morning, I thought about the weather being nicer than it has been, I didn’t have to wear the megaboots, a couple of hours to myself…I’m a rebel, I have big ones– I’ll take the camera, and go into Central Park, take some pictures. I didn’t talk myself out of it, didn’t think about the fact that warmer doesn’t = warm, didn’t think about being tired, maybe I’d be better off just sitting on the couch and zoning out. I remembered to take the camera.

I didn’t remember to check if the camera battery was charged, and I didn’t think about a warmer day meaning the paths would be muddy and icky. So much like the rocks of Central Park, my stones aren’t quite as natural and rugged as they first appear.

Most of the rocks in Central Park were deliberately chosen and placed in the plans.

With my comfy old barely more than slippers squishing when they weren’t slipping and the red battery alert flashing, I figured I’d walk anyway, until the battery completely died.

Nope, doesn’t make me want to run.

The mainstay wildlife of the city, unimpressed by rising real estate prices or the polar vortex, they’re staying and they’re eating.

Sparrow?

These guys were finding plenty to eat.

The reservoir looked perfect, I wish had that damn back-up battery with me.

More than half frozen

Birds going wild.

This blue jay? made me think of my wanna be writing career. Out of season, he was loud, I stalked him from tree to tree, could see him way up high but every time I raised my camera he took off again. I squinted and got this one shot of his tail feathers way, way above me.

The last shot before the camera completely shut down.

Friday Whimper

Remember my last post, focusing on what’s been good? Fuck that. Somehow the three days since then have been 83 days in real time. Just tell me when I can go meet Fatigue for Friday Night Madness. In fact, I think I might splurge. Skip the food and just spend all my dollars on a Kwak. Because it’s delicious and makes me feel special, that’s why.

pauwel kwak (Photo credit: [puamelia])

It is Friday, that’s the good news. Tonight, Fatigue will tell me about his acting class and his singing practice. He will ask me about writing, and I will tell him about fixing-to-get-ready to query. Then we will both contemplate, strategize, and ramble about how much is subjective, and analyze the week to find the bright and hopeful spots. And of course, dog poop. My beasts, his beasts, and any other beasts we walk.

I will remember that Loehmann’s is going out of business. This is a big deal to me. When I shop, I shop the discount stores. Filene’s is gone, Daffy’s is gone, what’s left? There’s Century 21, but their stuff is all higher end, so for me I can buy a splurge piece there, not replace my blown-out-in-the-knee jeans. TJ Maxx, but I rarely find anything in there, and most of what I do isn’t stuff that’s made to last. Yeah, yeah, I’m cranky today but I feel like this is another nail in the coffin of the working class. “You’re a peasant, it’s time you dress like one. How dare you want to wear something that isn’t lycra and polyester?”

And it’s just after the holidays, so it isn’t like I have any money to run in and see what they’ve got before they’re gone.

Goodbye, Loehmann’s

I’ll miss you

Together we will moan and groan about the state of the union, the dearth of common sense in politics, and–depending on how far into my beer I am at that point–I will likely rage about this case, which thankfully is over now, but has been weighing heavily on my heart and my mind. It shouldn’t have been a case at all. I’ve been wanting to write a post centering on it, but I have to wait until I can think calmly and clearly. I’ll still be angry (wtf, politicians? Get your head out of my skirt!) but I want to make sense, whether or not readers agree.

It is warmer today, though I’d prefer that didn’t mean the pigeons were out and bold and noisy. They are, you know. They make this obnoxious whirring trilling noise that is the auditory equivalent of their splatter.

So yeah, just hanging in to get to the end of this hideously long week, hoping nothing goes wrong in my house or Fatigue’s to prevent our meeting up tonight.

No shame whatsoever

All the Cool Kids Are Doing It

pole dance studio (Photo credit: wwphotos)

But I’m not talking about pole dancing. I’ve seen several interesting blog posts recently discussing blogging, inviting readers to talk about who they are, why they blog, what their blogs focus on. Maybe WordPress threw the idea out there, offered a challenge, I don’t know. It’s Sunday morning and the beasts woke me up too early so I’ll jump on the bandwagon, too tired to be clever on my own. Because in a way, blogging isn’t so different from pole dancing. “Look at me, check out this nifty spin, ooh, Mister, would you throw a dollar my way–I’ll give you a peek under another layer.”

There was a recent discussion on the writer’s forum about blogging. The profitability or lack thereof, return on investment, etc. I think the conclusion was that author’s blogs aren’t worth (financially) the time and work required to keep them going. I didn’t participate in the discussion, but I read, and I’m thinking about it. I don’t blog because I’m an author, I’m not selling anything. No book being hawked, no freelancing. Sure, if I ever sell a book I’ll post about it, add a link so the curious and flush can purchase it.

Buy More Stuff, Black Friday 2008 (Photo credit: Michael Holden)

A lot of writers, published and unpublished, also run blogs. Many of them blog about writing. How to. I have to admit, I find the vast majority of writing blogs boring. Is that awful to put into the foreverness that is the internet? Sorry. Doesn’t mean they’re bad. It’s subjective, after all (my favorite song). Maybe I’m delusional, but I don’t think I need to read 8000 regurgitated versions of THE FIRST FIVE PAGES, ON WRITING, or THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE. I own all three, have read them, reread them, dissected them many times.

I follow several writer’s blogs but most are talking about more than writing. They’re fun or touching or snarky, discuss a personal journey, or downright silly. They represent the person blogging. To me, that’s what blogging is, personal. I also follow a few agent/editor’s blogs–those are different, meant to inform by those who actually know what they’re talking about–and still, good reads that offer a sense of who the individual is. Or at least the persona fronting the blog.

Mrs Fringe is not only not a writing blog, I don’t consider it an “author’s blog.” I’m a blogger who also writes fiction. When the coffee grounds appear in just the right pattern and I’m offered a contract I don’t expect I’ll sell 750,000 copies as a result of this blog. I’m pretty sure that’s about what I’d need to sell to in order to say the hours spent on blogging (writing posts, responding to comments, reading other people’s posts and commenting on theirs) were monetarily worth it.

But I don’t blog as a marketing tool. I blog because it’s fun, it’s a release, I’ve made and continue to make fabulous connections with other bloggers–many of whom have nothing to do with the world of writing or publishing. And when I think about it, I don’t consider my time here in Fringeland as time I should be spending working on my fiction or wasted words. It’s rejuvenating. And when I am spending a lot of hours writing, I don’t spend a lot of hours on blogging.

If I’m on the pole it’s at home in my raggedy old yoga pants, no dollars in sight. Of course I hope that somehow, some way, the time spent blogging will provide a boost to my yet-to-be-established writing career. But that isn’t why I do it.

What about you? Do you blog for professional reasons? Marketing? Display your art? The opportunity to make connections? Be positive? Spread the Word? The chance to anonymously scream out all the suckage in your life? And if you aren’t a blogger, but you’re a reader of blogs, what draws you in and keeps you coming back?

Blog Machine (Photo credit: digitalrob70)

Poetic Meltdown

Shooting for the Moon, but not quite focused

I’ve been trying to get a good photo of the moon from my terrace. As yet unsuccessful, but still trying. I took a few shots last night and when I was uploading them today, I realized that in some ways this photo nails what I’ve been feeling and thinking these last several days. A little further away than I’d like, not as sharp as I’d like, out and visible just a little too early.

Writing, working on the WIP. I’m getting close to the end, but it still feels very far away. Further than it actually is. And I’m antsy about it. But if I’m honest, I’m also totally and completely excited. So I’m doing exactly what you aren’t supposed to do, obsessing over my belief that this is the ONE.

I believe it, and I shouldn’t. It’s good. I think it’s really good. I think it’s good enough to happen. But is it marketable? Is it marketable enough? I fucking hope so, but I’m not an agent or a publisher. And it’s magical realism, a genre that makes most people say “huh?” when I mention it. Umm, surrealist fiction, sort of. The conversation only gets more jumbled when the other person asks what it’s like, and the only authors I can think of who are known for magical realism are authors no one of the unwashed and unpublished persuasion should ever compare themselves to. Gabriel Garcìa Màrquez? Isabel Allende? Salman Rushdie? Paulo Coelho? Toni Morrison? Umm, it’s weird. *I am not trying to suggest my writing is up there with the aforementioned authors. It’s the style/sub-genre of literary fiction.

I should be cool. Tattoo all the stats and odds against me across my forehead while I continue writing and face a mirror, and know that this might or might not be the ONE. In the interest of balancing reality and dreams, I’ve been working on the query letter. Another shouldn’t. This one–I shouldn’t hate query letters. They’re a tool, one of a few used to catch an agent’s eye. But I do hate them, because I’m not very good at them, and so I figured it would be a good idea to start working on this well in advance of sending any out. Less pressure. But really, looking at a blank document and typing “Query” across the top, all I want to say is this:

Pretty sure that would be the ultimate cliche. Would that change it from cliche to kitsch? Hmmm. I’ve been getting some feedback–questions and thoughts–from several excellent, skilled query writers. I really want to stomp my feet and say well fine, you write it for me. Except a) that isn’t cool, and b) I would be even less happy with what any of them wrote than with what I come up with. I have no doubts what they came up with would be enticing and fantabulous, but it wouldn’t sound like my “voice,” or capture the tone in Astonishing.

Queries are always tricky beasts, and I’m having a particularly tough time capturing the right notes in this one. One thing keeps sticking in my head. I already tortured my buddy kk whining about this. I can’t whine to Husband, his response is “just write, you lunatic you.” OK, he doesn’t actually say that last part, but I can see him thinking it.

Your turn, Fringelings! A couple of people used the word “poetic” in reference to what I wrote in the query–and I know that I still haven’t hit the right note. Poetic sounds suspiciously like a polite substitute for “purple.” For any readers who aren’t writers, “purple prose” is the phrase for overwritten, melodramatic scenes, usually stated with a sneer. The manuscript is not purple. Descriptive, but not purple. I’ve been happy with the feedback I’ve received so far on Astonishing itself, and much of my feeling pleased centers around a few readers using terms like “clear,” and “clarity.” (And squirm, but that’s a Mrs Fringe thing, I love it when a reader really feels the scene, mwahahaha) Clarity is important in any writing, but when I’m writing lit fic, it’s probably the biggest compliment I could receive.

I wrote poetry a million years ago, in my angsty teen years. In my mind I was Anne Sexton. In reality, I was more like Patti Smith circa 1977 at the end of a show, angry and sweaty and wanting to make. my. fucking. point.

I’m nervous. Because I do believe Astonishing is The Right One, at the Right Time, written with the Right Words. God knows I spend hours reading and rereading and taking out the Wrong Words.

Dear Agent,

Please read my manuscript. It’s better than my query.

Thank you,

Mrs Fringe

Cover of Anne Sexton

Piss and Vinegar

English: Vinegar & Olive Oil (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Mrs Fringe and guilt go together like oil and vinegar. Sure you have to do all that mixing, blending, emulsifying to get them to unite, but once you do they make sense. Unlike this analogy, but I’m under the weather and Flower Child is home sick today, so that’s the best I can do. Besides, I’m a big fan of vinegar, have no less than seven different kinds in the fridge at all times.

And I just had a little mishap on the terrace. I keep a big jug of plain white vinegar for cleaning the reef tank equipment, very effective, inexpensive, doesn’t harm the critters–NOT that anyone should add vinegar to their tanks, reef or otherwise, but it doesn’t leave behind crazy levels of nitrites, nitrates or other nasties reefers don’t want measurable amounts of in our reefs. I got a huge bottle at one of those big box stores for people who like to purchase 72 rolls of toilet paper at once, and left it on the terrace. Because it’s big. And I have a small apartment. Well guess what? Vinegar freezes. And then it expands, and then the plastic bottle leaks, and then the terrace reeks of vinegar. Maybe it will keep the pigeons away.

What was I talking about? Guilt. My most recent guilt episode is one that’s old and familiar, the guilt of slow writing. Everyone has their process, I know this. Some people write faster than others. Know it. But you know when you’re already feeling low, and then you read just the right thing to make you feel like shit? And then you look for more things to read to make you feel worse because what the hell, you’ve been stuck and not making progress on the WIP, plenty of time to read about other people’s mind boggling daily word counts. They are productive. They don’t make excuses. They are working on their 87th draft of their 120,000 word manuscript–pared down from 210,000–while I continue to watch the word counter at the bottom of my page stay at exactly the same number. Which is still too far off from my 70,000 word goal of my first draft. They are disciplined, they write, they earn money, they raise children, they work out, they save the fucking whales and feed croutons to the pigeons in order to soak up the excess vinegar.

Well I was stuck. And I pondered. And then I was more stuck. And then I pissed and moaned and whined. And then I stopped reading about the fabulously prolific and closed the open Astonishing file and said I’m taking a break until I’m not. And then I found myself pondering again. Yesterday I was able to unstick myself, wrote a little.

This morning I was cruising the writer’s forum and saw this link. Hallelujah, I have found my people at last! My perfect critique partners. Ok, it’s true that all except one are dead, but doesn’t that sound like my pace? Bed, grave, is there really that much of a difference? Just my speed. Lying down is my favorite! and is there anything more secure than being in your own bed?

Couple in Bed (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was inspired, wrote more than a little today but not anything another slow writer would boggle at. Not in bed, in my corner on the couch, where I always write. Half lying, half sitting, laptop on my lap.

Come to think of it, I got a new ottoman last week . Maybe the next time I’m stuck, I can try writing from the other end of the couch.

Perfect height, on clearance!

Pick-Up

You know those friendships. We all have them. Pick-up friendships. The people you don’t see, or don’t speak to, or don’t see an email/post from for months and months, and then when you do it’s like you saw them last week and it feels so…good. They are the sweetness in life that leave us smiling, seemingly small but full blessings within the frustrations and drudgery of day to day life.

I saw one of those friends this evening, Honor, and in fact I think it was from him that I first heard the expression, of friendships being like a game of pick-up basketball you find on the public playgrounds of the city. Just walk onto the court and start playing. He was a teacher of Man Child’s years ago, and over the years became a friend to Man Child, a friend to all of us. I call him Honor because he is one of those rare people who lives his principles, always kind, always thoughtful. He was raised by a mother who believes you never show up at someone’s house empty handed. Old fashioned? Yup. Unnecessary? Absolutely. And completely lovely.

A frigid, snowy night. Could there be a more perfect gift?

After a little catching up, Honor, Man Child, and Miss Music left to go out for dinner. They went to a local restaurant that’s about to close. Priced out of the neighborhood after more than thirty years. Oh New York. I’m sorry I won’t get the opportunity to go in before they’re gone, but I didn’t realize they were closing in time to plan. Ah well.

I didn’t get to have my favorite sandwich one last time, but Flower Child and I were treated to our favorite live music.

Thank you, Nerd Child!

Now all is quiet. I’m just watching the snow coming down, waiting to hear if the public schools will be closed tomorrow. Thinking about the WIP, turning a few ideas over in my mind. Tomorrow I write. And continue avoiding the mirrors, I got my hair cut today. Blech.

It’s coming down hard and fast, a snow day is feeling possible.

All the World is Waiting For You

Here we are, post Christmas and pre New Years and I have a confession to make. I had a fabulous Christmas.

Here I am, just like Wonder Woman. Except for the boobs.

Excuse the pj’s. See those fingerless glove thingies? They’re warm, and fabulous, and I loooooove them. Actually, when it comes to the stuff of gifts, I kind of racked up this year. I feel embarrassed by my good fortune. Everything I received was something I’ve wanted for a long time, or would have wanted if I thought of it, and I’ve got a goofy grin looking at the boxes and bits of wrapping that still litter the living room. Fringelings and Husband, also happy.

As you can tell, I’m not one of those who obsesses about the placement of each ornament.

As I get older, I’m getting better about letting go of things that don’t matter. I used to spend way too much time and effort picking just the right tree. This year we gave Nerd Child money and sent him to the corner to pick one. He is not one to obsess over these things. Guess what? It was absolutely fine. Decorated and hung with our old familiar lovelies, it was more than fine, it was a perfectly Fringe-y Christmas. Ornaments from places we’ve visited, different times in our lives, gifts from friends and family.

A handblown ornament I loved was knocked off by one of the beasts. Smashed. I wish it hadn’t, but it’s ok. Here I am, proof of emotional maturity. We won’t mention the huge meltdown I had when I didn’t see my cake stand when I woke up in the morning. Guess I’m a work in progress, after all. Turns out Man Child put it away in a place I didn’t think of, to protect it from Big Senile Dog, since he doesn’t seem to realize rules still apply, old or not.

She’s another favorite. That’s the bonus of choosing smaller trees, I only hang favorites. 🙂

During the day on Christmas Eve I was able to run over to my friend’s apartment and bring cookies for her and her husband. These are two of the kindest, smartest, most generous people I’ve ever known. They gave me a lovely gift, but having them in my life is a gift unto itself.

Normally, I make a big breakfast/brunch on Christmas Day (mostly prepped the night before), and we spend the bulk of the day in our pj’s chilling, playing with new stuffs, and an open door for whatever friends and family would like to drop by. Big Senile Dog and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog plant themselves next to the table, just waiting for something, anything, to be left unattended.

She scored a tissue, he’s holding out for bacon.

This year Man Child did all the breakfast prep on Christmas Eve. Good thing, because I hurt my back and just could.not.stand. for any more kitchen prep. Would have turned into a throwback to the Christmas mornings when I was pregnant and on bed rest–Christmas bagels. After the opening of the gifts, 8 gazillion cups of coffee, and breakfast, we took our time and then went to have dinner with Mr and Mrs Smitholini and their crew.

It’s been a long time since we were all together. And by all, I mean the five of us and the seven of them, plus Mrs S’s brother. Why yes, Mrs Smitholini and I were both quite, ummm, fertile in our younger years. Our kids spent a lot of time together growing up. We used to trick or treat together every year, when the Smitholinis lived in one of the outer boroughs, and I have a photo of the crew on their front steps, in costume, for about 10 years straight. Every year there was at least one more. At this point the age range is from 12 up to 22. Most not really kids anymore, all with their own lives and schedules, and a rarity to have all in one place for the day.

I hope everyone had some peace and laughter during their holiday, whichever holiday you celebrate. A moment where you felt love, kindness, and general silliness.

So yes, it was a beautiful day, peace and laughter and thankfulness. I would appreciate it regardless, but we had a particularly stressful few days beforehand. There was a glitch with our health insurance that is about 1/2 an inch from complete disaster for us, and then discovered someone hacked into our cell phone account and added 6!! lines and purchased 4 iPhones on our account. Life, keeping it real.

I woke up early today and spent an hour and a half scrubbing the stove of the blackened, greasy remnants of the past weeks’ cooking and baking frenzy. I should be working on Astonishing right now, but I’m a little stuck. Again. I hoped the fumes of bleach and Easy Off would trigger some ideas. No such luck. I’m thinking about New Years, goals for 2014, but not quite ready to write them down.

Not exactly Wonder Woman. Not a wonder, not changing the world, no satin tights. But all in all, not a bad close to 2013.

Wonder Woman Covers (Photo credit: jooleeah_stahkey)

Life, Blogging, and Nelson Mandela

The Pen and Sword (Photo credit: DavidR_

Mrs Fringe is not a blog about blogging. It is not a blog about writing. It is not a blog that tells readers how to save the world, raise perfect children, or make the perfect soufflé. Really, it isn’t, check out the “About” page, I claim no expertise and never have.

I touched on this in July, but I’m a little mushy today, so I’m going to write about it again. I began blogging to have a space to be honest and in the hopes of getting myself back into a regular writing schedule–without undue or unrealistic pressure. In navel gazing mode while I grocery shopped this morning, I realized I have achieved these goals, and hope to continue to do so for a long time. The blog isn’t huge, I don’t earn a dollar from it, no agents have sent me sekrit coded messages promising me contracts, but I feel pretty darned good about it.

I get upset by things. I probably shouldn’t because I’m a grown-up and a realist but I do, because I’m a human being with a vivid imagination. Like the complaints going around the building and the neighborhood again, about the local homeless shelters. It’s absolutely true, these buildings, programs, and the people who utilize them are far from ideal neighbors. They need more staffing, support, mental health and drug treatment services. Many of the residents of my building and immediate neighborhood are older people who marched for equal rights, civil rights, against war and nukes and in support of love and peace. Hell, half of them comprised the Occupy Wall Street gatherings. So how come they’re banding together now to close down the local halfway houses, block the homeless shelters? All these years, all this awareness, and still, too few are willing to acknowledge the homeless as more than a nuisance. Definitely not to acknowledge these are human beings, only wanting to hurry up and call them someoneelse’sproblem.

Those pesky homeless guys, the woman staggering down the street? This wasn’t their dream. But this is their neighborhood, and for many it has been since long before Rudy Giuliani cracked down on “quality of life” crimes, Disney took over Broadway and Times Square, and small business owners were squeezed out in favor of 8 gazillion chain drug stores. I’m not glossing over the-way-it-used-to-be; the dirt, the crack vials and shared needles, the squeegee guys hammering on car windows when the bridge and tunnel crowd was trying to get home, the Girls! Girls! Girls! you had to walk through to get to the library.

Description unavailable (Photo credit: Runs With Scissors)

Yeah, it was dirty, sometimes it was scary. Rents were always crazy here, I remember hearing about 8 girls sharing a 5th floor walk up when I was a kid 40,000 years ago. Now the rents have shot from crazy to obscene. The real estate bubble didn’t actually burst here, just sagged a bit. Firm as ever now.

How can it be that I read posts the other day from more than one privileged young American toting the value of sweat shops as opportunities for poor kids?

So where is the compassion? How does someone reconcile “not in my backyard” liberalism with the wailing and gnashing of teeth over the death of Nelson Mandela? I’ve read many, many lovely quotes from Mandela over the last 18 hours. Read many heart warming tributes about what incredible contributions he made to our world. 95% of those tributes include qualifiers, “he wasn’t perfect.” No shit. He was a human being. An incredibly strong, impassioned, brave, fallible human being. But it seems we shouldn’t be human. Not if we’re living on the streets, not if we’re fighting for social justice, not if we’re regular old gals.

I’m the first to admit, I’m not that brave. Or that motivated. Or that strong or that smart. I am not a revolutionary, don’t feel John Lennon’s “Imagine” is my personal anthem.

Mrs Fringe is, however, my little ragged thread of the world. A thread for patching, a thread for connecting. I received a beautiful message this morning from someone who recently found Fringeland. One of my stories made her happy, she connected with it. Over the time I’ve been blogging, I’ve been fortunate enough to receive quite a few notes along those lines. Recently a friend who is also somewhat of a mentor even said that she believes Mrs Fringe has allowed me to hone my voice in my fiction. Nail it. Well, she didn’t say nail it, because she’s way more elegant and eloquent than I will ever be, but that was the gist. I think she’s right, and I wanted to take today’s post to say thank you to everyone who reads, comments, follows, and encourages.

I haven’t written a bestselling novel that opens my nation’s consciousness. I haven’t ended apartheid or led a nation, I haven’t built a homeless shelter or washed the feet of those who walk the streets without shoes. I haven’t even occupied Wall Street. I’m not likely to do any of those things. I do try to be thought-full, to share a smile with others who are living on the Fringe, offer a voice, and more than anything else, remember that I’m a human being, and so is everyone else around me. Thank you for giving me a space to do this, and responses that let me know we do all affect each other.

English: Crystal structure of human DNA polymerase lambda (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Wednesday is Self Pity Day!

Red Wine Cheese Plate @ Artisan Wine & Cheese Cellars (Photo credit: Lehigh Valley, PA)

Yesterday I had a decent writing day. 1000 words added to Astonishing, 400 probably salvageable. I intended to have another decent day today. Derailed.

First, I have to mull. And think. And obsess. I’m debating whether or not to include a seksy time scene in the chapter after this next one, which will influence what and how I write this one. Make sense? Obviously, this makes playing online the best use of my time. Plus, there’s the whole Nerd Child left to go back to school this morning and I’m going to miss him terribly. Yes, yes, he’ll be back in under three weeks, but still.

I was on the writer’s forum, and there was an interesting discussion thread going. The OP (original poster) is someone whose posts I always enjoy, sometimes thought provoking and often funny. A master of self deprecating humor, and hey, I’m a New Yawkah, no one appreciates self deprecating humor as much as we do. Add in the tortured writer thing, perfection.

I don’t often participate in these serious discussion threads. Everyone, including me, gets all touchy–or worse, touchy feely–and then I sniffle because someone on the internetz hurt my feelings, sniffling leads to crying, crying leads to a headache. I now have a fucking migraine roughly the size of Detroit.

English: A bottle of Excedrin’s migraine formula. Taken by myself today with a FinePix S700. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The discussion was about luck and how it factors into writing success, prompted by an interview with Alice Cooper having to do with luck and music. The usual forum thread commenced, some saying yes luck is a factor, others saying no, luck has nothing to do with it, cream rises to the top blahblahblah.

What do “we” want as writers? Readers, fame, glory, acclaim, money, contracts? The list can be long when using the royal we, but for individuals it varies. I’ve been vocal here in Fringeland about my desires, I’d like readers and a dollar.

Why did I post on that thread? Clearly I haven’t felt shitty enough about myself and my writing this week, and after all it is self-pity day, so I chimed in with a thoughtful and eloquent whine speaking for myself and using supporting details and anecdotes about how I call bullshit on the idea that luck isn’t a factor. Not the only factor, but certainly a factor. If you include timing as part of luck, it becomes that much greater.

In my opinion it is both dismissive and disrespectful to state otherwise.

Don’t even think of acknowledging the rest of life, and any responsibilities that may sometimes need to take precedence. Heh. If you’re a real writer, you write, read, and submit every single day no matter what. Screw those kids wanting to eat. Or needing medical care. You’re a writer. But not a writ-ah, because that would be pretentious.

The very next post after mine offered a lovely statement, “getting readers is easy.” Really? Well then, perhaps it’s time for Mrs Fringe to pack it in. Since it’s so easy and all, and I’ve been doing it for a long. fucking. time. at this point I should have thousands of followers for the blog, and gazillions more reading my fiction. And with all those readers and followers, both agents and editors should be begging me to sign contracts. Hrrumph.

I want to be clear, I don’t believe all is up to luck, or chance, or the rabbit’s foot I ran over with my banana seat bike. A factor, though? Yes.