fiction

Tail End of Sunrise

Somewhere between 6:30 and 6:45 this morning.

Looks like an impossibility, no? I stood on the terrace drinking my cafè con leche, camera in hand and the blue and gray and pink and white of the sky made me feel inside out, upside down. I could have been looking into an ocean as easily as up to the sky, if it weren’t for the water towers and smokestacks of neighboring buildings to orient me.

This morning’s sunrise was a surprisingly accurate reflection of how I feel as I’m reading The Woman Upstairs, by Claire Messud. So perfectly simple, natural, it’s a deeply complex piece written with such honesty it makes my heart stop every few pages. The words and phrasing aren’t pretty but they’re beautiful (if that makes sense to anyone other than me). Her main character is pure in her anger– no coyness, no stereotypical qualifiers, I’m not reading into it, she tells us exactly how angry she is and how she sublimates that anger in order to function–much the way I know those deep pinks above, stunning as they are, represent a big storm on its way later. I took the photos so I can look at this sunrise again tomorrow or next month or next year, but they won’t give the same wow they did when I stood there this morning.

There are many writers I admire, for craft, plotting, characterization, descriptions, but. There aren’t many writers who have made me feel like I’m holding my breath, chest and head hurting but I’m afraid to exhale, afraid to keep turning the pages because then it gets me closer to the end. I don’t want it to be over, and I also don’t want to find out if it was wrapped up in a neat and tidy package where everyone gets to live happily ever after because sales-marketing-feel good-life is a cabaret.

*this, by the way, is why I don’t write book reviews on the blog. Not too many people looking to buy a novel want to know how a book made me feel, but the feelings are what’s important and memorable to me.

Some novels I read and know no matter how much I enjoy them, they aren’t my type of story to write. Thrillers, horror, so fun! My imagination doesn’t go in those directions. Some novels I read and think yes, I should be querying and pursuing publication, my work is competitive. This is a whole other category.

This is the type of book I will remember the name of, will recommend to friends and acquaintances for the next ten years. I’m guessing there are a lot of people who won’t like it. Anger, especially women’s anger, tends to make people uncomfortable. It’s also the type of novel that makes me wonder what the fuck I think I’m doing. A strange feeling, hard to state clearly because it’s inspiring at the same time. There’s a little back room in my brain where I’ve been drafting a character for another story, and he’s starting to knock, wanting to move forward. As much as I’m loving The Woman Upstairs, feel it was money well spent, it also makes me want to stomp my feet and shake my fists because this is what writing can be, but my writing is not. Cliche as it may be, the word that keeps coming to mind is heartbreaker.

Must mean it’s time to get the Led out before I get back to reading and before the rain comes.

¡A Tu Salud!

Français : Adèle of Champagne (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Happy New Year, Fringelings!

I was looking for an appropriate quote to inspire me for the coming year–or at least inspire me for a New Year’s post, and I found this:

“Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.”–Theodore Roosevelt

I think that’s what I did over the course of 2013. Not a banner year, but hell, those don’t really exist for those of us on the fringe, do they? Still, not a bad year. Bad moments, scary moments, disappointments? Oh yes, plenty of those. But also some lovely moments, and I find myself further along on the path of acceptance, a là Theodore Roosevelt. I did what I could with what I had, where I was.

I wrote. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I wrote a few new short stories, two of which I’m pleased with. I held my breath and closed my eyes and posted one of my stories for all to see here on Mrs Fringe. I finished a WIP, Wanna Bees. I edited, I revised. I wrote a query letter for it, and did some half-hearted querying of it. It’s a light, romancey magical realism/urban fantasyish piece. I participated in a twitter pitch contest with it. Lesson learned, twitter pitching is not for me. And then I stopped querying it. Another lesson learned. I want to be that light hearted, romancey love conquers all woman who believes I can and will have it all. But I’m not. I’m a quirky old gal who will do anything for the people I love, adores each of my children so much it makes my heart ache, prone to the blues when I don’t get enough sunlight, with a tendency to think too much while wondering why, how can it be, and what if.

I want to write what (I think, I hope) I’m best at. So I put Wanna Bees to the side, and began a new WIP: Astonishing. I wish I had the magical combination of freedom, discipline, and a decent night’s sleep every night to produce a reasonable word count every single day. But I don’t. I’m more than 3/4 of the way through the first draft, and at the moment, I’m stuck. Pondering, as my friend Buzzie says. I swing between thinking I’ve really got something here and being convinced this is the suckiest suckage I’ve ever committed to paper (or keyboard) and I’m completely delusional to think any agent will ever be interested, let alone a publisher willing to put money towards it. Literary fiction, for God’s sake–something a good number of people don’t believe is a real thing, and assume anything categorized as such is code for pretentious, bloated, navel gazing prose. Still, I haven’t given up, and don’t plan to. A few people I respect and value who’ve seen excerpts have been very encouraging. They like it. Ask if it’s finished–because they want to read the rest. Completely cool, and completely terrifying.

I kept blogging, through times when necessity dictated more sporadic posts, I doubted anyone was reading, doubted whether any of my words should be out in cyberspace. Through Mrs Fringe I raged, I railed, I giggled. I’m glad I did, I’m glad you’re here, and have no plans to stop blathering any time soon. I made and deepened several friendships through blogging and through the writer’s forum.

All three of my kiddos are doing well. Moments of breath holding, nerves, fear, yup. But no out and out medical crises this year for them or Husband, woot!!

I will never be happy living hand to mouth in a cramped apartment, will never stop dreaming of a beach house, will never be blasé when faced with a mountain of medical bills, will never stop wishing I could do more and be more for my kids, will never stop wishing I could be more productive with the hours in my day, will never stop questioning the worth of myself and my words without the validation of a dollar; will keep dreaming of a dishwasher, a yard and garden, my own washer and dryer, a pert nose and perky boobs. But somehow in the year 2013, I did what I could, with what I had, where I am.

I hope to say the same in 2014, and I wish the same for all of you; my followers, my Fringelings, my friends.

Flags around the rink at Rockefeller Center, 2013

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.

Crying.. (Photo credit: Anders Ljungberg)

Mrs Fringe Gets Nekkid!

Exposed, and Overdue for a Pedicure

A couple of weeks ago, I posted about the idea of posting one of my short stories, asking for thoughts from the Fringelings. The majority opinion was do eeeeet. I thought about it, and I’m doing it.

This certainly feels like I’ve stripped and opened the bedroom blinds. Foolish, maybe. But maybe some fresh air will do me good.

I’ve created a separate page here where the story is, and where any future stories might go, in an attempt to keep this house of Fringe clean and tidy. Perma-link to the page says “Fiction” on top of the home page, next to “About Me” and “Favorites.”

My short stories usually come into my head kind of fully realized as a brief scene, or a snapshot. No muse, no magic, all the fabulous ideas and mental pictures don’t mean shit without that picture being followed up by BiC. Butt in Chair (or in my case, couch) and doing the work of writing. Otherwise, I assure you, my imagination is vivid and fabulous, I’d have been on the New York Times Bestseller list three times over already, with at least one Pushcart Prize under my belt.

One afternoon last year I was out walking a dog through Central Park. I had a moment, in my mind I saw the picture of an old, broken down Brooklyn fisherman talking to a young girl by the water in the 1980’s, saying the word miserosion, the miseries of life translating into eroding body parts. At the time I was working on Wanna Bees, so when I got home I wrote down the word, a couple of notes, and left it to be written when I was done with the romance/magical realism of Wanna Bees.

But the idea morphed, as these things sometimes do. What if the story was hers, the young girl, long after meeting the fisherman, as an adult who has had years of broken souls drawn to her, a lifetime of if-it-wasn’t-for-bad-luck magical realism? And so started Astonishing, my current WIP.

“Miserosion” is Tommy’s story, back in the 80’s, a snapshot leading up to his meeting with Christina, the young girl who becomes the broken woman of Astonishing. Yes, it is magical realism.

Fringelings, I hope you read it, I hope you comment. Most of all, I hope you feel something, whether it’s your kind of story or not. It’s dark, and won’t be for everyone.

I hope you don’t mind, I left my socks on. Now I’m getting a draft!

Window half open (Photo credit: shinealight)

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)

Shhh, Chasing Sanity

English: Hide an seek Spotted amongst the hedgerow beside a footpath (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Well here we are. Fall, again. Nerd Child is back to school, Flower Child goes back on Monday, and Man Child is fully immersed in his year up North. Yeah, yeah, technically the season doesn’t begin until the 21st, but I needed a jacket when I walked the beasts last night, and it isn’t much warmer this morning.

Today was my last day to sleep in. Luckily, Big Senile Dog was on the case and woke me up early. Just because. Fine. Got up, made coffee, went to sit on my terrace with my WIP, and he began barking again. This time to let me know Little Incredibly Stupid Dog had peed all over the floor. Out of paper towels. FYI for the fringelings, it takes an entire box of tissues to clean up the pee of an 11 pound dog.

I’d like to say my posts have been sporadic over the past couple of months because I’ve been busy having a fabulous time and upgrading my life. Nope.

I’d like to say posts will be more regular now that it’s back to school season in Fringeland. Probably not.

The WIP I’ve been talking about, Astonishing? To work on it, I have to tap into my inner muck. The stuff I like to stomp down and pretend isn’t there. You know, so I get out of bed in the morning and do things like make coffee and clean up dog pee. Despite the slow progress, I think I’ve got the bones of a good book. Honest. Distorted for maximum impact, wrapped up in fiction, and tied with the bow of story, of course.

Amuse Bouche (Photo credit: ulterior epicure)

Honest in a different way than Mrs Fringe, where I try to serve each platter of honesty spiced with enough humor to make it palatable for the amuse-bouches that equal blog reading.

Switching gears between the two is hard as hell.

When this summer began I was feeling, dare I say it? hopeful. This was not going to be a summer of death, I was going to relax, destress, and take concrete steps to make changes in my life. Let myself feel and plan. What the fuck was I thinking? I want my layer of numb back, please.

Over the past few weeks I’ve been poked by that little thing I like to call reality. I’ve been grateful to have Astonishing. For me, it is a refuge, my pretend world where I can take the shit that is too often life and manipulate it, tweak the character’s actions, reactions, and responses until I get a result I’m ok with. Something satisfying.

Tricky, this. This tapping into enough real to create honest fiction, while trying to get back a nice fat layer of numb.

Maybe tonight while I’m out at Friday Night Madness they’ll have some numb on tap.

Scared Titless

oral surgery stuff (Photo credit: Newbirth35)

I know, I know, I’ve been an exceptionally bad blogger. My tooth pain didn’t go away no matter how much I tried to pretend it wasn’t there, resulting in much misery, three trips to the dentist, and oral surgery. I’m on the mend now, not all better but much better than I was.

Have I ever mentioned that I have a dentist phobia? I do. The pain, the sounds, and most of all, the someone is in my frickin’ mouth!!! If you’re now tempted to explain how illogical this all is, save your breath and your fingers. Phobia. Irrational fear, I get it.

And now for what I don’t get, but I’m even more afraid of. What’s happening for and to women in this country.

You Say I’m a BITCH … SlutWalk in Miami: FIU Students March to Reclaim the Term “Slut” (Tue., Apr. 2 2013) …item 2.. Woman bit her live-in boyfriend’s penis (16 May 2013) … (Photo credit: marsmet532)

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, started making notes for a post about what ever happened to feminism, pushed it to the back burner. Well, it’s now so front and center my eyelashes are singed, my bra has burned off, and my ovaries are experiencing shrinkage.

Some say the War On Women is a myth, fabricated by those stinky, left leaning, unshaven and leftover hippies. I don’t think so. I think it’s real. Never in my life have I heard so many ignorant, threatening comments made by those in positions of power (yanno, those “service” positions– politics), never have I seen and heard about so many attempts to repeal women’s rights, as I have over the last 18-24 months. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been naive. If it’s so widespread across the US, if there is so much support for those making these statements, I suspect it’s been there, this war, all along. I just didn’t hear about it because there weren’t cameras everywhere catching these speeches, these comments, there was no twitter, no internet, and a limited number of channels and news (?!) shows on tv. I think it’s been a Cold War, and now the heat’s been turned up using the fuel of electronic eyes and the internet.

I’m upset, I’m nauseated, I’m afraid. Why? Well, because of this. How the fuck is this ok? Down what black hole have I fallen to find myself in this alternate history where it’s systemically acceptable for police officers to sexually assault women, and do it in public while putting their health at risk too? Yes, I said it, systemic. One lone or occasional psycho I understand. Still horrible and scary, but I understand. But this wasn’t one renegade mama hating small weiner syndrome sociopath.

Whether it’s written in the manual or not, obviously this is an issue that goes beyond one evil trooper. In the first instance, the male state trooper called for a female trooper to come perform this cavity search. On the side of the road. And don’t forget to recycle, use the same glove for both women. Yeah, these troopers were all about caring for Mother Earth, after all, these cavity searches were prompted by a cigarette butt being tossed out a car window. littering. Another by speeding (waste of gas) And they might have smelled marijuana in the car during one of those stops. Cause every pot smoking woman I’ve ever known would have the instinct to shove a joint up her hoo haa and or butt. And nothing poses a bigger threat to the public, necessitating an immediate public and unsanitary cavity search than a skunk weed tampon.

A beaver pair (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Number One Threat to Public Safety. Oh, why be coy? We all know Public Enemy Number One is

Seated Female Nude, ca. 1937-1940 (Photo credit: americanartmuseum)

So no, it wasn’t this one evil female state trooper, it was a process that involved multiple officers all thinking this is acceptable. And it turns out this isn’t limited to one instance, there have been others in other parts of Texas. And don’t think of blowing this off as a crazy Texas thing, because there have been documented instances in other states. For the record, the female (and only the female) trooper was fired. I’m guessing she’s cursing the fates, smoking women, and the (I assume) unwritten policy that caused her to assault these women in the first place.

Another no, I don’t feel smug and secure because I live in left leaning, blue voting New York. If you’re a New Yorker, you shouldn’t either. Remember, we’re the country’s capitol of Stop-and-Frisk. Not such a big leap from Walking While Black being a crime to Walking While Female.

I think of the Holocaust Survivors I’ve met over the years, the history we haven’t learned well enough. In the beginning, it was all about well they’re only coming for them. Only “them” came to include many. The psychology we KNOW and have studied. “How could the individual SS officers commit these atrocities?” Pretty damned easily. They were broke, unemployed, hungry and afraid. They were given purpose, respect, food, commands, and fear. Told by their superiors, those holding the food and safety of their families, “You have to do this. For your safety. For your family. For your country. Do it. They aren’t really people. They’re a threat to us all. They’re JewsGaysMentally/PhysicallyDefectiveNotUs.” And from post war experiments conducted, we learned that most humans are sheep. We don’t actually need to be hungry or threatened. Just told to do it. Cause another person pain, suffering. Too easy.

Maybe this is the last roar of a dying breed, those who pine for the good ole days. Except the good ole days weren’t really so good, unless you were wealthy, white, and male. I hate to be the one to break the news, but “Leave it to Beaver” was fiction. Being poor sucks, being hungry sucks. Nothing new, it wasn’t fun to be poor and/or hungry 50, 100, 150 years ago either. Being a person of color continues to involve multiple indignities that too many pretend don’t exist. But our President is black has replaced But my best friend is black. Does anyone really believe there’s a significant difference between those statements?

I get it. It’s all about fear, and I understand fear. I’m afraid for me, afraid for my daughter, afraid for my women friends, my goddaughter, my sons’ female friends, the women of America today. WHY aren’t we continuing to move forward instead of sliding backwards? I don’t believe our rights to own property will be revoked, our consumerist society will never give up consumers. The right to vote? I don’t know. Perhaps full body searches will be required before women can cast a ballot. You know, for everyone’s safety.

Suffragettes in Bow Street (Photo credit: Leonard Bentley)

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.

Writing ‘Roids

Tractor-trailer crash on I-95 (Photo credit: VaDOT)

Here’s the thing about writing, or being a fiction writer; with a very few well publicized exceptions, it’s a long, potholed, overcrowded road. Most of those overnight sensations don’t really make it to the bestseller lists overnight, it just seems that way to those standing in the bookstore deciding what to buy.

A lot of people think they want to be writers, but they don’t write. Or they don’t stick with it long enough to do the learning necessary to turn their work into something resembling a manuscript. Some give up after one or two manuscripts that don’t sell, or x number of rejections, or x amount of time. A lot of others do, and with work, perseverance, and luck they get published. And then there are the long haulers.

People like me, who haven’t “hit” for whatever reason, but have gotten just enough encouragement and positive feedback on their work to keep going. I don’t mean “my spouse likes it,” “my mom likes it,” “my third grade teacher told me I should be a writer,” or form rejections they’ve read and projected meaning into. But people who supposedly have knowledge and experience of writing and the publishing world have read their work and said “keep trying, you’ve got something.” And we do.

A long fucking haul. If you’re a long haul trucker, you know you’re going to be tired, might get caught in traffic jams that leave your bladder spasming, and screw up your schedule. But eventually, you’re going to reach your destination. And then you’ll load up and do it again.

English: 1918 advertisement for Jubolitoires (hemorrhoids) Français : Publicité pour les Jubolitoires, suppositoires anti-hémorroïdaires (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hemorrhoids will just be part of the job, and you’ll learn to sleep when you can in the cab of the truck, drink battery acid masquerading as coffee, and make sure you’re always stocked up on Preparation H.

But writing isn’t long haul trucking, the analogy leaves more than a little gap. There’s no certain paycheck, no benefits, and no one pats you on the back in respect for honest and honorable work. Plenty of hemorrhoids, though. Swollen, throbbing, painful pustules that make you wince when you open that Word document. They come in the guise of writer’s block, rejection letters, plot holes, awkward expressions on the face of your significant other, and plain old moments of why-the-fuck-am-I-doing-this. Is it dishonorable to keep writing after x amount of time, or x amount of rejections? Is it dishonest? I’m not talking about people who say they write for themselves (God love you, but I’d rather earn my piles having another baby–and trust me, the last thing I want is any more babies), but those who continue to pursue publication.

If you’re another long hauler, please chime in here in the comments section, and let me know what your thoughts are. What’s the donut pillow that gets your butt behind the wheel, again and again?