Musings

Official November Post

(as opposed to all those other November posts)

November is Epilepsy Awareness Month. You didn’t remember that from last year? Good thing I’m posting again.

Last weekend when we were up North, I was speaking with someone who used to keep horses, chickens, and goats. I know very little about horses, less about chickens, and less than nothing about goats that doesn’t involve curry recipes. Fainting goats came up. I had never heard of them, asked her about them. As she described how they stiffen and fall over, I thought to myself, sounds like a form of epilepsy, but didn’t say it out loud. I’m pretty sure any animal with a brain can have a seizure. But what do I know about farm animals? I’m not even sure I’ve ever been next to a goat, fainting or otherwise. She then said she believes the fainting is a form of seizure disorder.

Meet Bambi, the Pygmy Fainting Goat (Photo credit: pmarkham)

Well , now I was able to join the conversation. Turns out the woman used to have someone in her life who had epilepsy, and she made a statement to the effect of, well it isn’t like anyone can die from it.

Not true. People can and do die from seizures and epilepsy. Thousands of people. In countries with modern medicine and purple ribbons. There is SUDEP– sudden unexplained death in epilepsy, there are accidents related to seizures (drowning, falling, burning, choking, etc), there is status epilepticus (prolonged seizures that don’t end/resolve on their own), deaths due to treatment, deaths due to underlying disorders if the epilepsy isn’t idiopathic, and suicide related to comorbid conditions like depression.

This woman hadn’t known this information. She didn’t know epilepsy is actually a spectrum of neurological disorders, she didn’t know there are many types of seizures/ways seizures can present themselves. I also think she hadn’t understood that 30% of people with epilepsy are not “well controlled” on their medicines. In other words, they’re doing everything the doctors say to do, taking meds, trying to avoid triggers, and still have uncontrolled seizures.

This was a great opportunity to educate and promote epilepsy awareness. I did, and I think she and the other woman with her were listening. No ribbons (which I don’t think anyone pays attention to anymore anyway, 43,000 disorders and diseases sharing 12 ribbon colors–I made up 43,000–just in case you weren’t sure), no banners, no jazzy PSAs, not even any goats; just an opportunity taken.

*Some, even most, children and adults with epilepsy have seizures that are well controlled on their medication/treatment plan. That doesn’t mean epilepsy is “no big deal.” It can be a very big deal. And you should care, because anyone can have a seizure, anyone can develop epilepsy.

What medicine(s) works for one person doesn’t necessarily work for the next. Whether they work or not, they often have horrendous and lasting side effects. Some people are finding tremendous success right now with certain medical cannabis compounds/cannabinoid. I’m guessing it’s like the other meds/treatment options, it will work for some and won’t work for others. Of course, everyone who wants to have that shot of success will have to be belittled and inspected first, forced to fight their governments and maybe even move. Sigh.

EEG fragment (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But that’s another post.

And by the way, if your dog (or your goat) has epilepsy, and you’re speaking to someone whose child has epilepsy, don’t tell them you know just what it’s like. You don’t.

Epilepsy Awareness. Epilepsy Sucks, pass it on.

Bad Influence: A Feel Good Moment

friends (Photo credit: ROSS HONG KONG)

You may be surprised to learn this, but I don’t have a lot of friends. I know, I know, it’s shocking. But the friends that I have, I’ve had for a long time.

Two of my oldest friends are a married couple I’ll call Mr and Mrs Smitholini. We met in Brooklyn, long before they were godparents to my children, before I was godmother to theirs, before they were Mr and Mrs. Mrs Smitholini and I hit it off as soon as we met. Me and Mr Smitholini? Not quite as instant a friendship.

Mr Smitholini is old school. One of those guys who was born old school–before it was skool. He thought I was a bad influence on the future Mrs Smitholini, with my peasant skirts, tie-die jeans, and loose, wanton ways. “Whaddya mean ya write poetry? I’ll give ya a poem.” We had fun, though–when we weren’t each trying to convince the other (s)he was being a bad influence on (the future) Mrs Smitholini. A lot of fun. I have two other friends I’ve known longer than Mr and Mrs S. We’ve all spent a lot of time together over the years. I was maid of honor at two of their weddings, they were bridesmaids at each other’s. I, of course, was the hussy who got married in Vegas–no bridesmaids. A lot of laughter over the years–most of it completely sober, too! And yes, tears. Weddings, funerals, christenings, baby showers, wedding showers, Sunday dinners, painting each other’s homes, changing diapers on each other’s children and general tomfoolery.

Admit it, ladies. There’s nothing like the relationships you have with your long term girlfriends. Gab, gossip, and gorilla warfare over a pot of tea. Or perhaps in the very, very distant past, banana daqueris. But we won’t talk about that night.

There’s this amazing, mushy joy in seeing our children play, hang out together, and enjoy each other, as well as their “aunts and uncles.”

The four of us (Mr and Mrs S, Husband and I) are friends. Not just got used to each other’s Mr/Mrs, but friends. Mr Smitholini and I each saw what Mrs Smitholini saw in the other one. So I’ve counted him as one of my friends for many years already. And the Mrs? I can’t imagine life without her. We’ve lived close, we’ve lived far, our lives have changed. Day to day for each of us is busier, we no longer spend hours on the phone every single day, but she’s still the first one I call. We don’t get to see each other in person on a regular basis anymore, but when we do, it’s like we were together the day before.

Some of our running jokes have changed over the years. At this point, Mr S busts my balls asking when I’m going to dye my hair (if I look old, well, that makes him…not as young–Mrs S has excellent, youthful genes that have produced remarkably few gray hairs), and I tell him I’ll go platinum blonde as soon as he gets plugs.

Husband and Flower Child and I went away this weekend. We went North again, our timing as impeccable as ever, we missed the fall foliage, but what the hell, right? Mr and Mrs Smitholini said they would join us. We planned to meet at the motel, no plan to arrive at the same time. Halfway up, we were caught in a major traffic jam. Mr S called. They were also stuck in a major traffic jam. What road are you on? Same road. Where are you? Turns out we were 2/10s of a mile behind them, same lane. We had stopped for dinner, they had stopped for coffee and donuts. We were wishing we had coffee and donuts. They moved into the lane next to us. And shared.

Want one?

Yup, Mrs Smitholini passed the box out her passenger side window into Husband’s driver side window. Turns out Mr Smitholini was right all those years ago. I have been a bad influence on her. She would never have done such a thing when we met, way back when.

What could have been a miserable trip filled with why-did-we-do-this, and we-should-have-left-earlier/later/yesterday never was instead a road trip of laughter, courtesy of our cell phones and mutual bad timing.

When we got to the motel, Mr and Mrs S went upstairs before us. We got to our room, they were standing in the doorway. The desk clerk had mixed up our room keys. So while they waited for us to get upstairs, Mr S closed the window in the room so Flower Child wouldn’t be cold. We swapped keys, and then had a midnight snack together, courtesy of Mr S. Sparkling wine, red wine, cheese, crackers, other assorted goodies. And then we laughed until 2AM. The only time I’m awake for anything other than insomnia at 2am (in the past 15 years) is when I’m with Mrs Smitholini. Maybe we’ve had it wrong all these years, and she’s a bad influence on me.

Oh People, Doncha Just Hate’em?

Woods (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

You know those getting to know you/riddle questions, if you were alone on a deserted island/in the woods/lost in space what food would you want/book would you bring/who would you want with you? I hate those stupid questions.

But apparently some people love them so much, they decide to go try it. Like this guy, who went on a survival expedition in the Canadian wilderness. He planned to be gone for two months, just a man and his dog. Didn’t work out so well. When he was a month late coming home, his family alerted the authorities who found him after 8 days of searching; alive, starving, dehydrated, and alone. Attacked by a bear, his supplies and equipment were lost/ruined. His dog saved him from the bear. Sadly, he ended up killing and eating his dog to stay alive. I’m not being flippant here, it is sad, and I can only assume if there was a grove of apple trees, a field of carrots, or a stream full of fish this wouldn’t have happened.

I found out about this through a discussion in the writer’s forum. I don’t generally get involved in those discussions, but they can be fun, informative, and a good way to get to know who’s who.

I have to tell you Fringelings, if you’re a staunch PETA supporter you might want to stop reading here. I love my dogs, love my fish and sea critters, I’m a vegetarian and have been since I was a teenager. In fact, I’ve sometimes wondered if I would be able to get myself any meat/fish/flesh if I was literally starving. And yet I was shocked by the sentiment of people who not only said he shouldn’t have done it/they wouldn’t have done it, but equated it with killing and eating a human family member/loved one. Really? You’re shitting me, right? Well played, what a perfect troll session.

Except the conversation began to meander, as these things do, and there were multiple people insisting their pets really are equivalent to their children, and the death of a pet is as devastating as the death of a child. No. Just no. And then proceeded to say it was judgmental for anyone to disagree.

The Intersection of 36th and Troll (Photo credit: sea turtle)

Perhaps for a few people this might be true, but if you are a reasonably well adjusted person, no. And I don’t care if you’re young, middle aged, or Methuselah. No. And if this is being judgmental, well, okay. I’ll just confess to being a judgmental bitch right now. And more than a bit horrified that it’s so easy to find people who don’t see a difference between a beloved pet and a beloved spouse, mother, father, child, cousin, or BFF who you’ve laughed and cried with for forty years.

I’ve been very, very sad at the loss of pets. Cried. Mourned. Dogs, cat, fish, invertebrates. For the record, fish are not disposable pets, they shouldn’t die within days/weeks/months. Clownfish really have personalities similar to puppies, they come to the top of the tank once they get to know you, will eat out of your hand, and play. I’ve been riveted and excited to see coral spawning in my tank, see my clownfish do the mating dance. When the clowns then ate their eggs, I didn’t feel my world had ended. Didn’t even lose a night’s sleep. What a cold, cruel woman I am.

Yup, laid her eggs right on this soft leather coral.

(sorry for the out of focus photo, but that’s the only one I could find of her in “her” leather)

But. But, but, but. You get a dog or cat expecting it to live 10, 15, 20 years. Same for many fish and sea critters. So sad when a creature you’ve loved and cared for over many years passes. Your child? Mmm, the natural order of things is for your child to outlive you. (I do wonder if this makes a difference for people who keep parrots they expect to outlive them, but still, not a child.) And, yanno, it’s your child. If you get a new fish, and that fish dies when you get it home, or can’t adjust to the new tank and refuses to eat so it dies within days, it’s sad and aggravating and you’re glad you got the fish from somewhere that offers an “arrive alive” guarantee. Cause now you’re going to get credit, and they’ll give you/ship you a new fish. Baby? Not exactly. Not even remotely.

Regular Fringelings know I have a few friends who’ve lost children to fatal diseases. I’ve had some terrifying times with Flower Child. I have more friends whose children face horrendous diagnoses. I’ve been zombified at Husband’s bedside in the Cardiac ICU more than once. I’m not special, my family isn’t special. There are thousands of families who face these events throughout the world, every day. Many of them have pets they love and have loved. Not one will tell you the loss or imminent loss of their child/spouse/sibling/other is the same as the loss of Fido.

You love your dog/cat? That’s wonderful, me too. Swear you wouldn’t eat him no matter that you were facing certain death otherwise? OK, I tend to doubt that I would eat mine either. Can’t say for certain, seeing as I’ve never been lost and starving in the wilderness and I’m unlikely to ever be. Besides, Big Senile Dog is old and tough and scrawny. I will admit that Little Incredibly Dumb Dog’s back legs bear more than a passing resemblance to fuzzy chicken legs when she’s wet and in the bath. Plump, too.

Humans are animals too. Yes, we are. And we’re at the top of the food chain. I intend to stay there. Now I’m off to eat my pasta with meatless meatballs.

And Mrs Fringe Obsesses, doesn’t get much spookier!

smoke (Photo credit: DaleKav)

Yup, that’s me thinking.

Not that I’m thinking clearly or productively–overslept again this morning,–but still. I had a solid, productive day on the WIP yesterday, so I’m good.

You’ve all read my rambles about why I write, what I hope for, what I dream of. Bottom line for those who skip my angsty posts; I write to be read, to tell a story that will resonate with readers, in hopes of earning a dollar.

Over time, as my income and standards have dropped and my age has increased, I have fewer expectations, a more fractious relationship with hope. But whatever principles I’ve got left are still strong. Most of my writing related plans have remained the same. Write, edit, write, edit, edit, query. I added the blog–which has been fabulous–queries have changed from snail mail to email–also fabulous. I don’t get quite as excited as I used to with every query, have a much better understanding of how to not read too much into every little comment I receive.

Money cash (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

One principle that hasn’t changed for me–if anything, gotten firmer–is that writing is work, and therefore I want to be paid for anything published. Not that anything’s been published, but this means I’m a) still searching for an agent (publishing houses that accept unagented manuscripts tend to also not pay advances) and b) I don’t submit short stories to mags that don’t pay at least a nominal fee on acceptance. I’ve heard odds of having a piece accepted by one of the “big,” known literary mags are smaller than the odds of winning the lottery. I think I’m a good writer, but let’s face it, Mrs Fringe doesn’t have quite the draw of oh, say, Margaret Atwood or Salman Rushdie.

First publication rights are what most literary magazines want on acceptance, means the piece hasn’t been published anywhere else. Without those rights, they don’t want the piece. Why am I rambling about this crap again today? Well, I was thinking…what if I said fine, I’m willing to burn first publication rights on a story. Or two. Or three. Posting a story here on the blog counts as published when it comes to rights. So…what? If I post a story here, it won’t earn me a dollar. But it would get a story read by at least two of my five readers. I think. Maybe that story would resonate with one of the two. Maybe that would give me some affirmation. Maybe both would say wow Mrs Fringe really is full of suckage, I’m never going to buy anything of hers if she’s ever published. Maybe two of the three that didn’t read the story will say screw that pretentious Fringe, I’m going to unfollow her.

What do you think, Fringelings? I’m seriously asking your opinions and would love to hear your thoughts on this subject–whether you’re a writer, reader, or fellow wannabe.

I just don’t know. Seems like I don’t really have a lot to lose, and I could gain something. Maybe.

Happy Halloween Fringelings!

Stop Stepping on my Castle!

Fotosequenza – Castle Blaster (Photo credit: p!o)

I don’t know what it is, this inner drive that prompts me to write. I can and have theorized, but I don’t know. Clear to me as I try to find my way back to a disciplined routine this week–this “thing” includes whopping doses of masochism and delusion.

On masochism there’s the obvious, rejections. But honestly, I haven’t faced that many rejections this year because I haven’t sent out all that many submissions or queries. Yes, yes, I said I would have at least two pieces out on submission at all times this year. I lied. Sue me. Then there’s the masochism of sharing your work with anyone. Critiquing, being critiqued, or just being read. I fall behind on official submissions, but I still like to be certain I’m being spanked regularly by sending work to a) people I know it isn’t their thing, and/or b) people who take for-ev-er to respond. Gives me plenty of time to obsess about how appalled they are by my words, and how they’re never ever going to speak to me again.

Image of sado-masochism (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Then there’s the masochism of connecting with other writers. For the camaraderie, the understanding and support. Mmmm hmm. Sometimes it works that way, sometimes it doesn’t. And usually when it doesn’t, I know better. I know better as I’m digging that six foot hole, telling myself to drop the shovel and keep moving. Don’t respond on that thread, Mrs Fringe, it’s a trap you cannot avoid. Like, say, trying to explain and defend that nebulous category of literary fiction. Ridiculous, really. Who am I to defend the validity of lit fic? Unpublished, uneducated, my roots are anything but the ivory tower assumed by many when they see the term “literary.” I sit and sputter and shout at the screen. But I don’t keep moving and respond anyway. Why? Masochism is the only answer.

No it isn’t. Because now my old friend walks in. Hello, Delusion! Walks in and snuggles against me on the couch, plying me with café con leche and unsweetened iced tea as I write. Whispering, “You can do this, you have to do this. A few people like your work. One manuscript, one agent, one publisher. That’s all you need, and then a few more will find your words and like them.”

That’s all I need. So clear, so simple; so ever-loving subjective I sometimes wonder if my time would be better spent dreaming of lottery numbers. Or doing laundry.

I may be delusional and masochistic, but I know we’ve got to have clean bloomers. I also know that some of the very same people who sneer at lit fic refer to their manuscripts as their babies, being critiqued and sending out queries as sending their children into the world.

Yeah, no. I put a lot into my writing. I fall in love with these characters I create, no matter how broken. I write, read, obsess, polish, rip apart over and over again. I love my children, obsess over them, hold my breath in fear and pride as they move out into the world. But I don’t rip them apart or ask others to do so, shrug and move on, dig one out five years later and say hey, if I trim some of the fat off this one I can try again, think of the older ones as learning experiences.

Delusions or not, this day has to move forward. I bet if I search all the way at the back of the dresser drawers, I can find a a pair of clean underwear. Opening the WIP….

Marat/Sade (film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Pigs, Drunks, and Amy

English: Pigs and Daffodils Pig farm and Daffodil fields (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My goodness, October 1st! I didn’t realize how long it’s been since I’ve posted. blahblahblahlifeexcusessadnessmuckfringeblahblahblah.

I’ve come to a very important (though I’m not sure why) realization. Little Incredibly Dumb Dog isn’t all that dumb, she’s just a pig. The other evening I was getting ready to walk the beasts, and the little one was being a nuisance. I dropped my sweatshirt on top of her to keep her busy while I got the leashes.

You know, that’s supposed to be the test of doggie intelligence, how long it takes them to get out from under a towel, or some equivalent. Imagine my surprise when it took her about 1 second. Maybe I didn’t have it completely over her. So I dropped it again, making sure the thing was centered. Same result.

This is the same dog that I still have to keep a pee pad in the apartment for, even though she’s over two years old now. She’ll do great, not use the pad at all for 10 days, and then do nothing when we’re out on a walk, come in and race to her pad to pee/poop. And still, not always remembering that it doesn’t count if only her front half is on the pad. Very special. Even more special is how she’ll take a treat and run to the pad to eat it. Thus, my conclusion–she isn’t dumb, she’s just a pig. Eleven dingy white pounds of gross.

Yes, I’m still writing. Slowly. Painfully. I hit 35,000 words earlier today, which I figure puts me about halfway through the first draft. My protagonist, Christina, is now permanently pickled. Half time, that moment when I close the file and have a wardrobe malfunction through blogging.

The Pin-Up by Charles Dana Gibson. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Do I still think Astonishing is any good? No clue. I’m too deep in it. Slogging through the middle muck, trying to figure out how in the world I’m going to write her way to an ending.

So the other morning I was walking the beasts, thinking once again how much easier life would be right now if I was better at drinking. Sadly, Mrs Fringe pretty much has a one drink a week limit. More might sound appealing in my head, but my body doesn’t want it. But it would be easier to put myself in Christina’s head and ride along with her downward spiral, and easier not to care when Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is rolling in another mystery puddle in the curb. I was contemplating all of this, and then I heard a familiar voice, “Hi Amy!”

It’s a parent I used to see during drop off and pick up when Flower Child was in elementary school. Never got to know him other than 2-5 minute chats waiting for the kids to come out or bring them in. Nice enough guy. Except for one thing. My name isn’t Amy.

I don’t have any clue why he thinks it is, but he does. For all the years I’ve been doing the parent thing, there are more parents of my kiddos’ classmates whose names I don’t know, and who don’t know my name, than who do. I probably didn’t notice the first few times he said it. Hey, it’s a group of parents, I’m waiting for my kid, didn’t pay that much attention. Then I noticed, and corrected him once or twice. Nope. I don’t know if he didn’t hear me or has a mental block, but I decided it didn’t really matter.

I live in a fantasy fringey world of pigs and drunks, I suppose being an Amy is pretty good. Maybe I should use Amy as a pseudonym for Astonishing.

{| style=”width:100%; border:1px solid black; background:#ffe0e0; padding:0; text-align:center;” |- | This photo is of Wikis Take Manhattan goal code R13, Curb cut. |} (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Someday

I can do a lot of dreaming looking at this photo, how about you? ~Mrs F

Late August. Time for the annual panic, “oh no, the school year’s about to start.” I’ve been walking around saying this summer has felt particularly odd because of the cool weather. Lies.

Summer is just never long enough for me. If it isn’t cool temps, it’s temps that are too hot, or too rainy, or too many obligations or too many deaths. Just not enough, which is an old and familiar song for me. The theme of much of my writing, the guilty chorus that whispers about my parenting, the peek at my word count at the end of each day’s writing session, the ever ready want of more.

The other day I went with Nerd Child and Flower Child to my godson’s Eagle Scout ceremony. Induction? I don’t know, scouts aren’t a big thing here in Manhattan. My suburban friends reassure me that scouting exists here in the city, but I’ve never met any beyond a small, half hearted cub scout group when Man Child was in 1st grade, disbanded by Christmas.

Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges (Photo credit: honus)

It was very sweet–though I know better than to use the word sweet in relation to an almost seventeen year old boy– and made me feel old and nostalgic. We took the train to Brooklyn and the Scout’s grandmother, where I sat with my kids on her couch in the living room I spent hours in as a teenager. Not too many people from my past have stayed in Brooklyn, let alone the same house, so it was very alternate reality feeling. We met up with a friend and traveled the rest of the way to Long Island. There I saw more friends, and watched my kids goof around with theirs, and felt the absence of a good friend’s son who passed away last summer.

Obviously more goes into the Eagle Scout thing than I understand, Godson and parents were very, very proud. Local politicians and reps attended and gave brief speeches and congratulations. A snapshot of a lovely moment.

I also missed Man Child. Between boarding school and college he’s been away a lot, and I did get to see him this summer, but he’s already back in the dorm. This is the first time he hasn’t come home to be “home” over a break, and it’s damned weird.

Kind of maudlin today, aren’t I? Did get to the beach with Flower Child yesterday, which felt good, but didn’t quite recharge me in the way I had hoped. A family of three, two parents and a little girl of about 4 years old settled next to us. I couldn’t believe the amount of shit they had with them for two hours at the beach. Six towels, two large shade umbrellas, three huge bags of toys, sunscreen, and snacks: three people. The little girl was covered neck to calves in one of those bathing suit/lycra sun coverall things. I swear Flower Child and I saw bathing suits that looked just like it in the museum last year, what women wore at the turn of the twentieth century. This was not a fair skinned family, but you would think they were albino (am I politically incorrect, is there a more current term?) with the amount of sunscreen they slathered on. I’m not going to mention their little disagreement with the lifeguards about the safety of their sweet pea, and the rule against life jackets/swimmies in the ocean. I know it seems counterintuitive to the Backyard Pool crowd, but really. Big waves, riptides, small children, you don’t want them at all out of reach and where they can’t safely stand.

I know we’re all so much safer than previous generations, fewer kids will find themselves in the dermatologist’s office with a skin cancer diagnosis, but widespread Vitamin D deficiencies weren’t a thing when I was using baby oil and iodine instead of SPF 8000, either.

Listened to Creedance Clearwater Revival on the way home, remembered when that was my favorite beach music. When I had to turn the tape over it was time to flip and freckle my other side. I used to work odd hours, at the time I lived in South Brooklyn and worked in either Manhattan or downtown Brooklyn. In the summer, if I was working overnights I’d leave work and head straight for the beach, get a few hours of sleep and sun before heading home to eat, nap, and go back to work. Swing shifts, I’d get up early, get on the train and go back to sleep on the beach, leaving just enough time to shower before work. Thinking a lot about those days as I work on Astonishing, tapping into those old work experiences and certainties that I would, when I was ready, be a published author.

It’s ok, you can laugh, there was no internet then to tell me that isn’t how it works.

How Do You Measure A Year?

I knew it was coming, knew it was coming, and now, WHAM! My blogoversary has snuck up on me. Yup, today is one year since the “birth” of Mrs Fringe.

I’m in the midst of a dental emergency, and whatever they gave me at the dentist this morning is wearing off, so I’m going to keep this short. Also without all of the links I had intended to post. Just go ahead and check out my blog roll. Really. Every single blogger on my roll is someone whose words I read, someone I respect, someone with something to say, through words or images, that touches my heart.

English: Toothache 13th century corbel head on St.Andrew’s chancel arch http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/771085 suffering with toothache for around 750 years whilst his friend opposite grins unsympathetically http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/771095 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I began Mrs Fringe in the hopes of giving myself a safe place to navel gaze, vent, be honest, and get my writing synapses connecting again. It has fulfilled every one of these hopes and much, much more. I didn’t know if anyone would be interested in reading what I had to say, and that was ok. Did I hope my ramblings would reach a few people? Of course I did. Hell, I fantasized about one of those sensational “hit it” blogs that result in legions of followers and a book deal. I also fantasize about winning the lottery. But I don’t buy lottery tickets, I blog. So here we are, one year later. No legions, no book deal, but the reality is that I have more followers, made more friends, had more great conversations, met more interesting people than I ever thought could/would really happen.

I also completed a manuscript, Wanna Bees–that I’m now querying–and have begun another one. I submitted a few short stories, wrote a few more.

Mrs Fringe may not be an overnight sensation, but for me, it is a rip roaring success. Because of you, my readers, my Fringelings, who have stopped to check out a post and stayed to become a member of Fringeland. In my opinion, a blog is only as good as its community, and we’ve built a hell of a little community here together. Thank you, for visiting, for following, for joining in the conversation whether you agree with my opinion or not. All are respected, all have been respectful, and all are welcome.

I feel honored and humbled by each and every “follow,” each and every person who takes the time to comment. Very few of the people who have become a part of Mrs Fringe are people I know “in real life.” Hell, even among those few, most are people I’ve met online, through blogging, special needs moms communities, or writing.

In this year, I’ve written 177 posts

Gathered 234 followers

Received 3, 386 comments

Had 11, 675 views

from 91 countries

Been asked to guest blog by people who stumbled upon my blog.

Been Freshly Pressed once

Gotten more joy, support, laughs, tears, and warm fuzzies than I thought possible.

Remembered what it is to be a person, an individual, a woman thinking about the world with something to say.

Last August, one of my posts was chosen for Freshly Pressed. It was two days after I posted, and I had no clue why I suddenly had all these comments waiting for me. A new blogger, I had no clue what Freshly Pressed was. I don’t consider it one of my “best” posts, but being recognized among the WordPress community was, in an overused and abused word, awesome. I like to think that one day, with more posts under my keyboard and a greater understanding of what I’m doing here, it will happen again.

Confession. I am a bad blogger. Good bloggers have a posting schedule and stick to it. I don’t. Good bloggers show their readers they care about and respect them by paying for upgrades. I do care about and respect you, but I haven’t paid for upgrades. sorry. It’s a budgeting thing. Good bloggers have one very specific focus, so viewers/readers/followers know right away what type of blog it is, and what they’ll be reading about each time. Oops. Good bloggers don’t use expletives to get their point across, and certainly never in their titles. Shit.

Have I said thank you clearly enough? Muchas gracias.

And now, I’m going to see if I’ve got any pennies left in my bag after today’s shakedown at the dentist. Maybe someone still sells this.

English: “Cocaine toothache drops”, 1885 advertisement of cocaine for dental pain in children. United States. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Which Way?

A depiction of Bugs Bunny’s evolution through the years. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What’s that old quote, and who said it? Something like, the only constant is change. Quite likely I’ve mangled it for my own meandering purposes.

I’ve been working on, trying to work on, the new WIP. The new WIP, the old WIP, the WIP being queried, I’m getting dizzy. Let me slap a title on there for convenience. Working title–Astonishing.

Pretty sure I’ve already mentioned this one is much slower going. Like glacial. Wrote a paragraph yesterday and when I closed the file I wasn’t sure if I should think, “woot!” or “wtf?” Afterwards, I was talking to a writing friend about it. Told her this one feels different, the process is different. Instead of feeling a fluid rush for each scene, it’s like the words have changed form, changed states. Instead of a flow, I’ve got nothing tangible and then whomp! I’ve been clipped upside the head with a hard-packed snowball. That’s my paragraph. On a good day, a page. On a few notable days I was able to produce a few pages.

LOST: Snowball (Photo credit: jaqian)

The strangest part is that while I’m not “flowing,” I don’t feel stuck, either. The frustration is more theoretical. It’s summer, my time is more flexible, I should be able to produce more. It’s been a thousand degrees outside for a week here in NY. There shouldn’t be anything frozen anywhere. Stooped with a friend the other morning, and I swear I was melting. When I stood up there was a clear outline of my butt on his stoop. In sweat. Stooping, for non-NYers, is an outdoor chat, held on the stoop of the front steps of a house or building. A time honored tradition in the outer boroughs, second only to stoop-ball, both less frequently indulged here in Manhattan.

But I like it. I like what I’ve got, and where I think I can go. I tell myself this is better.

And then I beat myself up for the fact that I’ve yet to introduce my second main character. He’s a hoarder, and after four weeks of obsessing and researching I’ve yet to decide on the primary focus for his hoard.

Then I wonder if this is just me tripping myself up again. A metaphor for the rest of my life, not sure what the next step is until I’ve fallen into a hole and the only option is to climb out.

I think I haven’t gotten enough beach days.

Pushing Forward

Sometimes I would like to say forget it, crawl into bed, and stay there for about three weeks. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m in one of those stretches right now but hiding in a bed of apathy isn’t possible, or feasible. Instead I will smile and nod and use the apathy as sunscreen. Keep doing what needs to be done until I forget to apply the sunscreen and realize (about three days later) I haven’t burned after all.

Perfect sky, no?

So strange, isn’t it? I live in the land and age of immediate gratification, entitlement. No matter how aware I am of these ridiculous and selfish concepts, they’re insidious. I want it IwantitIwantit….Part of the daily bombardment of media and those who seem to be living large all around me.

But Fringeland is all about caution and hurry up and wait. Wait for bills, wait for money to pay said bills, wait for test results, wait for responses to queries, and the writing itself, for me, is a slow process. For every hour I spend writing I probably spend another three thinking about what and how to write those words, and then another two editing. And of course, waiting for apathy to blow over, replaced with the usual numb inertia with those invaluable moments of peace. Of this is okay. I’m okay.

I’m thinking about all of this as I push forward with my WIP. Slow going, this one. No beach read here, I want it to have the intensity of my short stories. Which means each and every word has to be the right one. (This is not to say genre fiction isn’t written carefully, with serious attention to craft, just a different style.) Darker than the last, but equally surreal. I’ve decided I have enough realism in my day to day. For now, I’m sticking to the literary equivalent of surrealism. Enough reality to be recognizable, no elves, dragons, or fae, but where the impossible just is.

Yves Tanguy Indefinite Divisibility 1942, Albright Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, New York (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The other night Husband and I went out for dinner. It was raining, but not one of the crazy storms we’ve been experiencing. Weekends in the city are fairly quiet, just the peasants without summer homes or plans, so the restaurant was half empty. The restaurant itself has big plate glass doors that fold back, and they were open since the evening was cool. As I was bemoaning the hideousness of my twitter pitching experience, the awning covering the outdoor tables fell. Talk about surreal. At that point it was raining enough that I think there was only one table with customers out there. I told you, Fringelings, nothing good comes of al fresco dining in the city. A waitress was clipped in the head but able to get right back up. When we left, she was standing near the entry, ice pack on her head. I swear I could feel her willing that damned bump and nausea to die back down. Who can afford a day or two or three of lost tips?

Onward. I had planned to query the finished manuscript slowly, and I have been, but it occurred to me last night that if I go any slower I might as well not query at all. So I’ll pick up the pace a bit. And I’ll keep working on this new WIP, searching for the right words.