Wait! Before You Read That Book.....

 

It was when I found out I could make mistakes that I knew I was on to something. ~Ornette Coleman

On a publisher’s loop once, a fellow author mentioned that F. Scott Fitzgerald was known to have said he wished he could get his books back so he could rewrite them.

I immediately connected with that sentiment.

No, I only have one newly published book out there in Bookland; but, even with that one book, I sometimes feel ‘writer’s remorse’ (I don’t think there IS such a term as ‘writer’s remorse’, but it seems to fit me so well, I’ll coin it myself).

I’m probably the only author on the planet who literally cringes every time a potential buyer comments to me, I’m just getting ready to download your book!

I have to bite my tongue to stifle the advance apologies chomping at the bits to spew—before you DO read it, let me warn you—let me tell you ahead of time, you might think it’s a ‘silly plot’—warning, warning—read at your own risk!

I’m not saying my book is bad. It isn’t bad at all. It is what it is. Or at least I don’t think so. Some may love it, some may like it, some may feel so-so about it.

And some loathe it. But that is true for any book.

What I am saying is that I’m the first to acknowledge that this book—my first published work in several years—has flaws that I can see.

What I am saying is that all my writing has flaws.

What I am saying is that just because I’ve sent this book out the door does not mean I’ve ‘arrived’ at my pinnacle writing experience.

One book—a hundred books—does not the perfect writer make.

This all could seem terribly hopeless, couldn’t it? Well, hell, Vastine, why even keep trying? I mean, if you’re going to just keep messing up, if you’re never going to get it perfect, what’s the point? How discouraging!

Not so, my friend. Not only am I not discouraged, I am ecstatic. I can see my mistakes.

I’ve been fortunate. Somehow, I’ve luckily found a multitude of friends and supporters in the writing community who work with me. But they don’t just work with me. They push me. They push me hard. They push me so hard sometimes I feel like Lucy on the ballet episode—you know the one with the tough instructor who perpetually snapped her baton at the bumbling Lucy?

My teachers haven’t been tender. They haven’t been afraid to tell me what I’m doing wrong. Although they have praised my strengths, they haven’t been easy on my weaknesses. And I have been tempted to snarl at them when they point out an imperfection in my perfect work-in-progress.

But none of my mentors—not even one—will hesitate to tell you that I never balk at their advice. As far as pointers that can make my story stronger, get more bang for the buck with tightening, structure, etc.? I'd be silly not to listen. My mentors will tell you I grab help and run with it, feast on it with greedy passion. Sometimes I cherish the negatives because I know, I just know from experience, they can almost always be turned into positives. They have their own beautiful power.

To find your pristine manuscript isn’t so flawless after all…well, it stings. But I’d rather feel the sting now—as I’m writing the manuscript—and learn to correct my mistakes than to feel the much bigger bites of the readers who catch my blunders.

Winston Churchill said I am always ready to learn although I do not always like being taught.

Like I said, I’m lucky.

Of course I wince at first upon hearing my errors. The opposite end of that spectrum, though, is the unfortunate author who either has not had the opportunity to learn or who does have the chance but refuses to accept they do have weaknesses, even when those more experienced have tried to point them out and help them improve. To ignore help will keep them from growing. Even worse, to think they don’t need help will stunt their writing growth completely.

An unknown author said, Things could be worse. Suppose your errors were counted and published every day, like those of a baseball player.

And that’s just it. By sending our writing out to the public, we are sending our errors to be counted. So, like the ball player, it’s in our best interest to practice, to listen to the experienced ones who try to help us, to learn from our own experience, to be grateful that we have the means to sharpen our skills.

In order to do all the above, we have to know and accept that we are always going to make mistakes. We aren’t going to reach that perfect moment in our writing when we know everything.

Harry Truman said, It's what you learn after you know it all that counts.

Another unknown author said—and I love this—Experience is what causes a person to make new mistakes instead of old ones.

That’s the beauty of it all. In writing, as with everything else in life, we do make mistakes. And, as everything else, we grow from them if we use them as valuable learning tools instead of gauges of failure.

Some time ago I stumbled on an excerpt of a book. The short piece I read was so laden with mistakes and bad writing I actually found it comical. But the tragic part? It wasn’t supposed to be comedy.

My first—and lingering thought—was didn’t this person have any one to help them, to mentor them? How sad that was to me to think.

But, then, my thought progressed to, what if this person DID have a mentor who tried to help them and they just knew more than the person offering the advice? That would have been the ultimate tragedy. Because that book is now out there with all its errors to be counted. And if an inexperienced eye like mine could even trip all over the mistakes and horrific writing, think how it will bode when an experienced eye zeroes in on it?

Falling prey to critical eyes is going to happen to all writers. It’s part of the game. But when my writing does fall victim to dissection, at least I’ll know in my heart the faults that get counted aren’t there because of my refusal to have opened my mind to learning.

 

Leader of the Pack and All That Jazz....

Alessandro Gassmann

I want to see these bad, bad, bad, bad men come to grips with their humanity. ----James Ellroy

 

He entered the joint.

Like sharks gliding silent in the deep, we smelled fresh new talent. Every female gaze, including mine, immediately zoomed in on him.

The guys knew immediately—just male instinct, I suppose—he was going to be a threat, he was going to be trouble with a capital “T”. They knew he was competition because his kind always was.

Louie. His name was Louie. He wasn’t very tall. Oh, hell, he was short. Not even particularly handsome. Waves of red hair, freckles. Not the average Joe we dames usually went for. But something about the way Louie wore his jeans and white T-shirt, something in his cocky grin, the savvy glint in his green eyes shouted bad boy. Very good bad boy.

For me, it was love at first sight. Red-headed Louie—I don’t even remember his last name—stole my heart.

Louie, the predecessor to the Fonz, the copper haired Brando of Red Bluff Elementary. The newly anointed king of Mrs. Smallwood’s second grade class.

One Friday night at Jackson’s Skating Rink, bad boy Louie asked me to skate with him and—there, with the rink dim except for the romantic multi-colored lights dancing over the walls and floor—I lost my heart to him.

And thus, this second grader, wearing my blue rhinestone trimmed glasses and pigtails, began my love affair with bad boys.

My weakness in fiction—films, books, to read AND to write—are dangerous men. In my opinion, Scarlett O’Hara could have saved herself so much time and grief had she only shared my taste in the wicked pleasures of rakes like Rhett Butler instead of boring ol’, dry-as-toast Ashley Wilkes.

Hey, let me at the script for Peter Pan, and I’ll free Captain Hook and toss silly Pan to the giant crocodile. I shiver and fantasize about Lucius Malfoy in the Harry what’s-his-name film. You can have your Mel Gibson in The Patriot. Give me Col. William Tavington. 

In the fiction world, are these bad asses REALLY…well…bad? Or are they just flawed? Are they tormented souls who, as James Ellroy suggests, we want to force to come to grips with their humanity through our writing?

Are we literary co-dependents where our lotharios, mob guys, street-wise punks, highwaymen and pirates are concerned, with an unconscious need to reform them?

In true, everyday life, are these Robert Mitchum/James Dean types really what our hearts desire? Would that kind of guy REALLY make us happy, or have we romanticized them?

Robert Mitchum

If we DO lust for these menaces-in-men’s-bodies, even in our non-fictional world, what is their allure? Is it our own unrequited dream of living on the edge, flirting with danger, being the sensuous yet pure beacon on his dark, tortured sea?

Remember the sixties' song, Leader of the Pack? Part of the lyrics, I think, symbolized a common conception of these misunderstood rascals: They told me us was bad, but we knew he was sad. Get the picture? the crooner asked. Yes, we see, they replied. And, because he was sad, that’s why, she says, she fell for the leader of the pack.

Powerful stuff these scoundrels have, the angst angle. Is there room in our hearts for the guys from the right side of town, the guys who aren't sad and tormented?

Just as little Louie was an automatic threat to the second grade male population—by simply by being Louie—are naughty boys a threat to the real-life guys in white hats?

In one of my favorite films, Crossing Delancey, the heroine apologetically announces to the hero, “You’re such a nice guy.” His response? So pitiful, yet so true-to life—he shudders and says, “Oh, what a thing to say!” Bless his heart! She did not mean it as a compliment, and he knew it. In the film, she preferred the womanizing anti-hero, an arrogant ass of an author with an ego the size of New York City. Of course, in the end, our good guy won out, but it was a continuous, painful, uphill battle for him.

Peter Riegert and Amy Irving, "Crossing Delancey"

Crossing Delancey may be a fictional story, but it personified a true state of many female psyches. Even mine. I related to the heroine. I, too, dig that wicked allure, that I’m going to break your heart and you’re going to beg me for more attraction which is old as time, still alive and well.

Do bad boys really reform for us? Or do we write them because it’s our only way to mold them into the sexy-attentive-obsessively passionate-romantic-good-and-bad-at-the-same-time-always-handsome lovers we want them to be?

Russell Crowe said, and I thought this was very interesting, I like villains because there's something so attractive about a committed person - they have a plan, an ideology, no matter how twisted. They're motivated.

 Is that what it boils down to? Are we attracted to something as simple as their…commitment to their plan? The powerful drive in these bad boys, whether it’s evil, just a little mean or just plain tortured?

 

 

 

 

 

 

DO MEN WHO WEAR GLASSES...?

 

When you look at Clark Kent when he's working at the Daily Planet, he's a reporter. He doesn't fly through the air in his glasses and his suit. ---Gene Simmons

 

What’s the old adage? Do girls make passes at—? No, that’s not it. It’s Do guys make passes at girls who wear glasses? Ah, that age-old question.

 When Dorothy Parker’s famous quote hit print in 1937, Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses, it cemented the concern from spectacle-wearing dames from that day forward. Doomed them to a life void of passes from gents. The poor Janes! Cursed for having four eyes!

 Why didn’t Parker wonder if girls make passes at guys who wear glasses? Why did she single out girls to be the heiresses of that blight? I suppose we’ll never know.

 But what about men who wear glasses?

 Speaking for myself, I can tell you in a heartbeat: I find spectacle-wearing men sexy as hell, very much so. What is the allure?

 I’ll tell you what attracts me to them, but first let tell you this…

 Anyone who knows me knows I’m a big fan of silent films. And right up there with my beloved Rudolph Valentino is Harold Lloyd, the comedic genius of the silent era. His comedic talent is unparalleled. He didn’t need sound to be funny. He didn’t need a voice to jangle my bells, to trip my little ol’ arousal switch. All he needed was that goofy grin, that nice athletic shape and…his spectacles.

 Yes! His glasses! The horn-rimmed spectacles that stand between me and that hidden tiger. The optical paraphernalia that promises mystery just the other side of those two circles of glass.  A terribly handsome, sexy man lurks behind those frames!

 If you don’t count Timothy from my second grade classroom—or a boss from days long past who used to ignite my then-twenty-year-old libido when he’d look at me over the rims of his reading glasses—then Harold Lloyd is the object of my first imaginary love affair with a spectacle-wearing fellow. I fell in love with the silent hunk with the manly charisma and boyish good looks the second I laid eyes on him.

 I know what you’re going to say. It’s the Clark Kent syndrome.  You’re going to tell me that I think there’s a Superman behind those specs. Nah. It’s not that.

Or is it? 

You just might be right.

I stumbled across an interesting piece about my silent film hero, and this information would not only interest Superman lovers, but Harold Lloyd fans as well. Seems that the character, Clark Kent, was based partly on Harold Lloyd. Who knew? And I found it even more interesting that Kent’s name was derived from combining the names of two actors, Clark Gable and Kent Taylor. Go figure. Did you know that? I didn’t!

 So my darling Harold is a super man after all! Well, sort of.

But still.

I couldn’t have known that in second grade, when I daydreamed about Timothy, when I had the most agonizing crush on him. Later, in high school, there was Michael. And Alex. Ricky. And then later, Billy.  Bill. Tom, my husband.

To me, there is something so very sensual about a man stopping to take off his glasses when it’s time to make love. There. Oh, geez, I said it. Yes. I admit it. What an exquisite, wonderfully sexy experience. You’re already excited, he’s done his preliminary work by teasing you, driving you crazy with anticipation. You’re ready for the hungry panther to make the kill—with you as the target.

 But wait.

 He pauses to remove his glasses and, with that careful deliberation (partly not to break them, of course), folds them shut and sets them on the table. He’s ready for business. The aroused panther is ready to consume his prey, and he’s not letting that Pearl Vision Center prescription get in his way.

Come on, can you sit there and tell me that is not intensely sexy?  He’s undressing without undressing. Getting naked without even unfastening his belt. One silent gesture to signal the attack is coming.

 Oh,of course I never entertained sexual thoughts with Timothy in school. It was second grade, for crying out loud! But maybe, just maybe, I sensed—even at that delicate age—the future allure those pieces of metal or plastic and glass would have on me.

 So, yes, in this girl’s book, guys with glasses do get passes. Always have. Always will.

 I can hardly cross paths with a man, any man—tall, short, dark hair, light hair, no hair—wearing glasses and not wonder who is behind them. Is he shy, retiring, like so many mistakenly assume just because he sports spectacles? Is he a Clark Kent, the classic powerhouse-in-frames? Or just a regular Joe with less-than-perfect vision? It’s that luscious mystery that optics-wearing men offer, a teasing door one must look beyond to find out.

To me, glasses lend a man this touch of something...what is it?...that softens without compromising masculinity. Something so touchable, so warm and comfortable which does not forfeit sex appeal, but heightens it.

 So, to my darling Harold. To Timothy, Michael, Alex, Bill, Billy, and Tom—to spectacle-wearing men wherever you are, I salute you! May those who cross your path see your hidden Clark Kent!

A Hard Man is Good to Find....

 

A hard man is good to find. ----Mae West

 

It had come to this.

The squeaky bogus leather cushions of the psychiatrist’s couch. Me, hugging myself—partly in defiance at finding myself here, partly against the arctic blast from the air conditioner.

Antonio was stoic as always, arms stiff at his sides, no expression on his face. Nothing ever seemed to penetrate his solid emotional veneer. But, then, that's one of the things I love so about him.

Dr. Craggly sank into the loud cushions of his own fake leather chair and twisted the dented blue cap of his Bic pen between his teeth, biting on it intermittently. He scanned Antonio and me over the rims of his thick, black-rimmed glasses.

I recognized the doctor’s well-camouflaged mix of puzzlement and humor. Not the kind of humor when one finds something delightful, but the brand induced by bizarre things—you know, a naked man stepping onto a subway or a woman parading through Macy’s wearing only a bra and panties.

Finally, yanking the pen from his mouth, Craggly glanced from the chart on his lap to me and Antonio and pointed the Bic in our general direction. His voice, obviously concealing an attempt not to laugh, was strained and quiet. “And who is your friend?” Tossing another quick look at the chart, he shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ve....introduced…him.”

 “This is Antonio.”

Craggly cocked a eyebrow and nodded. The wheels in his brain turned, I could hear them, as though he charted to build a bridge across the Grand Canyon with nothing but a hammer and a ball of twine. He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to…meet you…Antonio.”

 Antonio didn’t return the greeting.

 The doctor settled his thin frame deeper into the chair, poised the pen over the tablet resting on his crossed legs, and opened the Pandora’s Box so clearly looming in his mind. “And what has brought you and….” After clearing his throat, he continued, “Antonio here to see me?”

 Drawing a deep, resigned breath, I proceeded to explain.

First of all, Antonio must NOT to be confused with his cheap competitors who are mere imitations of who...rather what…he actually is. They are ridiculous blow-up dolls. Antonio is body guard doll, popularly known as Safe-T-Man. Big difference. Huge difference.

So there.

 I know you think I'm crazy. 

Let me tell you what I told Dr. Craggly. Let me list for you the reasons my darling Antonio is a much more suitable companion than a—close your ears, Tony dear—real man.

How many men would actually let you NAME them? You know love Italian men, right? Fine. Safe-T-Man is now Antonio. Why, tomorrow, if I'm in the mood for a Greek fellow, his name can quickly be changed to--let me think--Zorba. Next week he might be Sven.

How many men would let you write, uninterrupted, every evening, and still sit placidly while you did? The freedom to work work and yet the welcome companionship. A seemingly impossible scenario made very possible with Antonio.

How many men can be deflated and discreetly transported about in the trunk of your car, or simply stored away in your closet in their own personal custom-crafted carrying case? To be at your side when you crave companionship, but easily stashed away when you don't?

How many men do YOU know who can double as a life raft? I, for one, am not a good swimmer, and I find this handy feature valuable for trips to the beach. Certainly beats the old boring floats, don’t you think? Ah, the exquisite luxury of being able to ride the waves on my faithful Antonio. Oh, and in case you’re concerned—Antonio is equipped with a repair kit. Punctures (no, I would never intentionally puncture Antonio) are never a problem. A quick patch-up and he’s good as new. And that alone is another priceless feature! Real men squawk and whine when they stub their toes. Not Antonio. The boy can take a run-in with a cat or dog without making noise and never complains when he's being repaired. Oh, talk about your Alpha man!

 Antonio does not snore. Well, unless you count the occasional leak of air. But, as mentioned above, even those rare occasions are a cinch with his repair kit.

Antonio watches chick flicks and soppy historical romances with me, and never, never, never says a word. Never interrupts the film, never makes smart comments while I’m trying to concentrate.

Antonio doesn’t cost much in the way of groceries. He doesn't even eat. 

On that note, he IS the perfect dinner companion. He does not slurp, does not burp or belch and--since he doesn't even eat--does not spill food or drinks on the carpet.

Jealousy is never an issue with Antonio. He never looks at other women. When in public, women may give Antonio curious glances, but never returns the attention. A faithful sort, he is.

Antonio, thanks to his handy size and cushioned comfort, can not only be a companion in bed, but he can also BE the bed when needed. Especially when camping.

There are never disagreements over what Antonio will wear. He wears whatever I want him to. In fact, Antonio and I never have any disagreements at all. He never argues with me.

Antonio listens to me, always giving me his undivided attention. Actually, he never says much at all. He is the strong, silent type. Another one of his Alpha male features.

Antonio has no problems aiming for the toilet. He never leaves the toilet seat up.

Some might complain that Antonio makes his companion do all the cooking. Oh, that doesn’t bother me. Sure, I love a man who cooks, but it’s a small sacrifice for such perfect company.

Antonio’s ONLY disadvantage is that he is highly flammable. No, I don’t mean his temper. He never loses his temper. He is, however, susceptible to go up in flames if too near a fireplace, heater or bar-b-que pit. I must always be careful, but that’s okay.

I could go on and on about Antonio. His benefits are countless. Sure, there are the obvious things that Antonio cannot do, and I forgive him for those, as he makes up for them in many other ways.

But can’t you see? I’m not crazy at all! Antonio and his type really can be quite a sensible solution for companionship while addressing concerns such as space and convenience. And taking into account the fact that Antonio has a life-time warranty, he's actually quite a bargain.

And, of course, you can see why Antonio, aka Safe-T-Man, is not to be confused with his inferior competitors, the standard, overrated blow-up doll.

Dr. Craggly isn't convinced that Antonio isn't a sign that I’m a wing short of an airplane. 

But I think Antonio is beginning to grow on him.

 

 

 

 

 

WHO'S CHARACTER IS THIS, ANYWAY?

 

He’s fleshed out in my head. Perfect. A Gene Krupa look-a-like. Check. A big guy, a thug. Check. Dark hair. Check. Sleepy eyes. Yes. Full lips. Oh, yes. Age? Forty. Good. That’s him. That’s the hero of my story. Ready, set, go.

 Wait.

What’s that? Betty says he needs to be younger. He should be in his thirties. His thirties, she says? Okay, okay. That’s doable. Thirties it is. Once again, hands poised over the keys, I’m ready to begin.

Stop.

What now, Betty? Oh, he should be more refined, not quite so thuggish. A step up from a thug, perhaps just a gentlemanly mobster. Yes, I can see it. Of course. Drop the street talk, let him be more educated. Own a joint, not just work it. Back to work I go.

 Well, hell.

Excuse me? What difference does it make if he has a hairy chest or not? Betty, you are joking, right? What’s wrong with a smooth chest? Ah. Betty thinks hairy chests are sexy. She would never be attracted to a smooth-chested man.

Not being a selfish author, I would never dish up a character to Betty who she wouldn’t be attracted to. After all, Betty is my female eye, my pulse on the sex appeal of my book.

By now, my character has been transformed—only slightly, just minor tweaks here and there—but he’s still recognizable, still looks like Gene Krupa. Hell, though, with Betty’s alterations, he is Gene Krupa. I can pull it off, produce a gangster-type hero who still fits into my original vision. Who knows? The changes may make him even better.

 Hold your horses!

Now Betty disapproves of my character’s girlfriend, says she’s too young for my Gene Krupa look-a-like. I must take Betty’s opinion into serious consideration. Betty is a mature woman, after all, whose age group will encompass a good deal of my reading audience. So now my character’s girlfriend has been changed to be a woman closer to his age.

 But who knew?

 Now Mary, another reader, weighs in. Mary is younger than Betty, and feels passionately that the character should be with a younger woman. Not only that, but she insists that the heroine be a virgin. The hero, Mary is convinced, would never marry a woman who is not virginal. Mary feels so strongly about this that she says she will not read the book if the heroine is not a young virgin, and, furthermore, she will not speak to me anymore it this demand isn’t met.

 Literary blackmail.

Betty and Mary are now mortal enemies. Who wins? Does a coin toss now decide my hero’s fate? Eenie meenie miney mo?

You think I’m joking. I’m not. This scenario actually happened to me during my first book.

What did I decide to do? Who won…Mary or Betty? Neither. The hero won. I decided to rely on the old tried-and-true decision maker: my gut. It took some cleansing, but I managed to sterilize my brain of all suggestions and start from scratch, just let my man evolve from his origin in my imagination. I put him in the driver’s seat, told him, you steer, buster.

A writer has to be careful. Sometimes you feel the need to mold the character to someone else's vision, not your own. Sometimes others have characters in their own heads and want you to bring them to life for them. And that’s when their contributions can be deadly for your writing. You might, like I did, find yourself torn—even to the point of damaging your friendship—if you can’t accommodate their ideas.

One of my current beta readers? We agree, we disagree. Most of the time, I fight his suggestions tooth and nail, just to let him know I’m in charge. More often than not, I incorporate his suggestions into the work. I trust his judgment and, more importantly, his instinct. So far, I've been lucky, because my own instinct has coincided with his. When it doesn’t, it just doesn’t, and we agree those indecisive issues will be an editor’s call.

So far, he hasn’t threatened beta reader blackmail over any of our differences. And, remembering my ordeal with Betty and Mary, I suppose I must be really, really grateful.

Who reads your work while you’re writing? Close friends? Strictly other writers? Actual critique partners?

How far do you allow them to go with their input? How seriously do you take that input? How do they respond when you disagree? When you stand fast to your own idea and have to say no?

 Have you ever had a Betty/Mary situation? And if you did, how did you resolve it?

I’d love to know.

RED ROVER, RED ROVER, LET VASTINE COME OVER....

 

I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody.

-- J. D. Salinger, "Franny and Zooey"

Red Rover, Red Rover, send that kid—any kid but Vastine—right over! Oh, the memories. Do you remember that game from school? Even then, as young as we were, we were being conditioned to try to fit in or be counted out, even if it was just a silly sport.

I wasn't athletic. I was emotionally torn—half of me praying that I wouldn't get chosen on a team because I knew I was lousy at games and the other half of me was sad because I didn't—and I mean never—got picked for the teams. Well, I take that back. I did get picked. Eventually. By whichever poor team got stuck with me. My only hope was to be outed before the game was even under way.

Not much has changed since those days of being afraid of not being picked and scared of being picked because I knew I was going to suck at any game.

But why did I still pitifully have that deep yearning to be picked me for a team? Why, even when I knew I couldn’t perform, when I knew I'd end up running off the playground feeling all this kid-like failure, did I still long to hear my name? Red Rover, Red Rover, send Vastine right over. 

Same reason any kid did and does. They want to be acknowledged. They want to be accepted. As much as many of us—yes, even me—snort that we don't care if we fit in, we don't care if we're popular, I think many of us really, deep down, do want to fit in. We want validation from any sector of life we've chosen.

And acknowledging that to myself is why I cherish the Salinger quote. Because it takes courage to not want or need to fit in. To not want to be somebody is not in most natures. It's not in mine.

 I've been writing for as long as I can remember. I've been seriously writing since 2009. I became a published author in 2011. When I made up my mind to write with a goal of being published, I had big dreams. I had silly, unrealistic dreams. Dreams that my writing would be the ticket. Nothing else would really matter. My pen would be my strength. My writing would be so good it would sell itself.

I can hear you laughing from here!

No, no, no. I’m not saying my writing stinks. I do at least have enough confidence in my craft to think I've some talent.

I've had a hard knock comeuppance in this game. And, like those old days, I've found myself on the playing field, realizing that fitting in just might be crucial.

I once heard some writers being referred to as 'royalty' because of their  popularity status. My heart sank clean down to my feet to find myself back on the field where being 'able’—not as in just decent writing, but strong in personality—was going to make a difference in anything.

 I've yet to put my finger on how this all works.

The bottom line? I see that to pitch me is a necessary part of this writer success thing. And it’s so terrifying that I'm tempted to rush back to the early days when I just wrote and I didn't give a hoot if I sold a book or not. I simply wrote because I adored writing and because I had something to say and I wanted someone—even if it was only one damn person—to read it.

I see something pitiful about myself, something that makes that urge to do a J. D. Salinger and disappear. And that is this: I'm lying if I tell you I do not want to fit in. Come on. Even in the book, Salinger’s character only said he wished he didn't want to fit in. But he did. He did want to be somebody.

So do I. I really do.

And let me tell you. It’s hard to admit that I wish I could be part of the 'in' crowd. Many may not admit it, but more of us than will admit wish we could be “royalty”, too.

No, I’ll never be that author who’s a household name. But I'll keep writing. Because I do love it, I can't live without it. No matter where it takes me.

I will know, with everything in me, that the 'not fitting in' will not have anything to do with my writing. It will not be because my writing isn't good enough. Sometimes writing reminds me of this piano....

It just sits out in this foggy field, not being played. Because it's alone out there and not seen by many, doesn't mean it has no beautiful song inside it to play. And it doesn't mean it doesn't long for someone to hear it. It does.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...Ain't No One-Person Job...

“Every success I have ever had or will have in the future comes not solely from my own ambition and hard work, but also from those that have encouraged, supported and challenged me. Success is never, ever a one person job.”  - T.S. Tate

Last night I had a strange dream, and it's been with me all morning.

What's funny about the dream is that---as much as you know I love the 1940's, as much as I live and breathe it---this was oddly the first dream I can ever recall that took place in the era.
Right, smack in the middle of World War II. If the dream hadn't been so damn scary, I could have relished that beautiful feeling of 'living' so very vividly during this period. 

The scene was---and I recall this with such clarity, the aura, the smells, the touch, the grit of it all---a huge, monstrously huge military airplane hangar which was being used as an impromptu shelter of sorts after some sort of attack. The surreal part of this was that wounded, dazed, mud-caked soldiers wandered among us civilians. Everyone was grimy, sweaty, including me. And everyone was confused and either numb or hysterical. 

I remember walking and walking through this humongous hangar, lost and terrified. I didn't know where to go. I couldn't tell where I belonged. Oh, hell, I didn't belong and that scared me. I cried and I cried and I cried. 

Each time stopped someone to ask for help, I met with nothing but blank stares. One soldier offered to direct me to the place I needed to go but he simply wandered off and left me.
The fear in this dream was so palpable. When I woke, I couldn't shake the feeling of loss and terror. Alone in that cavernous, strange place even though I was surrounded by thousands of people. 

And then, like sun parting thunderous clouds, a woman appeared. Bright, sunny, blonde. She wore a white shirt, white pants and pretty blue espadrilles. She knew me, she'd been looking for me, she said, and was going to accompany me to the wartime stenographer pool where I was supposed to be. 

I breathed deep, relaxed, and stopped at a coffee shop within the complex for donuts and java. Everything was all right. I was still afraid---horribly so---but I wasn't lost. I had direction now, I no longer had to wander in the same daze as the rest of the crowd. 

On my way to the office this morning, the dream still haunted me. And, strangely---out of the blue---I began to think about writing. About my beginnings in writing. How, at first, I knew no one and I knew nothing about the business. All I brought to the author table was a little talent and a bunch of desire. 

Like the dream, my initial entry into the world of writing was scary. And, like the dream, I wandered around in a huge space filled with people----SO many people---but I had no friends among them. No direction, just bumbling along, hoping to connect with someone to direct me.
Like many, I joined a handful of writing groups. 

And then...then...like that beautiful, shiny lady in my dream, the gal with the pretty blue espadrilles, I made some friends. People who had already made their way around the big ol' hangar of all things aurhor-ly. The people who took my hand and led me to the places I was supposed to be. Who helped guide me through the processes, hooked me up with even more friends. 

These people are dear to me, have become bright icons of goodwill in my journey. When I think of them, I'm overcome with this swelling sense of happy gratitude, just as I was in the dream to finally find a beacon in the dark. 

A friend of mine often commented how 'it must be good to have connections.' To me, hearts who pay it forward to help other authors find their way aren't 'connections'. They're wonderful souls, guiding lights like the beautiful woman in my dream. They're sighs of relief in the dark, hands to hold, handkerchiefs to dry tears when something goes wrong, cheerleaders to root for you and to holler when things go right. 

They are, as James Arthur Baldwin says, the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return.
So...thank you, light lady from my dream, and all those in my real life who've taken my hand and helped to lead the way.