Must. Be. Meaningful.

I’ve started several blog posts that I haven’t finished. Percocet took over and I couldn’t think. And everything I write seems ridiculous. Trite. Meaningless.

I don’t have anything to add to the cancer narrative. I can’t add any original observations.

I’ve started reading two breast cancer memoirs. I finished the first chapter of one of them and now I can’t decide if I want to continue reading it. Her story is compelling and she’s honest, and I’m sure it is a worthwhile read (several people highly recommended the book), but I really can’t relate to the beginning of her story.

She went to a strip club when she found out she had breast cancer.

While many women have written about their experience, certain things about the disease are very personal. And how you feel about your body is an issue with this disease. How society feels about your body is part of this disease.

All of this makes certain aspects of the disease hard to talk about. Near impossible for me. Im happy to tell you about drains and medications and tissue expanders and chemo. That’s the easy stuff.

I keep dreaming about strange rooms, houses, apartments, filled with stuff, so much stuff that I keep realizing there is more stuff in them than I thought and someone or people come in and take the stuff away. In the dream, I can’t decide what to do, but I’m surprised at all the stuff and surprised that people want to take it away from me, and half the time I’m not dressed properly so I can’t do anything because I’m trying to find my clothes.

It’s something like that.

A student told me today that in her country if you told people you were afraid of dogs, they would think you were normal. But if you told people you were afraid of spiders, they would think you were crazy.

Well, okay.

I learn something every day.

Have you learned anything surprising lately?

Speaking of mug shots…

a book cover

Do you ever google people from your past?

Hmmm?

Well, okay. So.

I set my novel in 1985 because that’s when I was a teen and because I didn’t want to deal with cell phones and google.

I used my hometown as a starting point for my novel. But then my fictional town of Lake Belle became something more than where I grew up. The connections between the two are now almost nonexistent.

The novel isn’t autobiographical, but writing a particular scene did bring my former step-sister to mind. So, I googled her name. It was late and I haven’t seen her in 25 years. My dad ran into once while she was working as a cashier. He didn’t recognize her. My dad is like that.

Anyway. I google this girl of my past. She is forever that girl in my head. That young teenager who hit be with a baton and protected me from an aggressive boy. She’s the girl who when I found a way out of the crazy house we were living in said, “How can you leave me here?”

Saving myself.

She was such a tough girl. She could fight and shout, while I just sat quietly with my head down. I thought–she is so strong. She’ll take care of herself.

Googling her, I found her mug shot. For battery. It was a random search and I didn’t expect to find anything. But there you go.

I’m not entirely sure how I feel about learning this information. Seems wrong for people’s mug shots to be online, doesn’t it? Feels wrong to search for people too–but also tempting. I’m as curious as anyone else, especially when I’m putting off the really hard work of editing my novel.

She isn’t in my novel, but some of her spirit is in an odd roundabout way.

So. Have you/would you google someone form your past? I don’t know if I’d recommend it.

Crazy Writer Alert

So. Here’s the thing. I’ve decided I’m a famous writer in a parallel universe. If this real world isn’t going to read my work, then my world will.

my parallel universe

Right?

Of course.

Prove me wrong.

So, I’ve got a new blog, Famous in Parallel Universe. You could subscribe or leave my parallel self a comment. Some friends are even writing me letters to use on the site–they are either writing as themselves or as who they are in this parallel universe. And if you’ve got any ideas, let me know.

And if you think I’m crazy, don’t let me know that.

The site is a work-in-progess, so you never know what might be different with each visit. The travel to a parallel universe is volatile after all.

You Are Not Like Other People

The garbage disposal was broken. The maintenance guy and I were sharing stories of growing up without garbage disposals. As a kid I carried my plate outside, walked to the side of the house, and scraped whatever was on my plate into the cow pasture. Mr. Maintenance asked me where I grew up. Florida. And he asked what my parents did.

“My parents divorced when I was little,” I said. “I was raised by my dad–a single dad in the 70s.”

Mr. Maintenance looks thoughtful. “I can see that,” he said. “That really makes sense to me because you carry yourself differently than most people.”

I laughed. Other people have asked me what country I was from, and when I’ve said I’m American, they’ve acted surprised. “You seem like you’re from somewhere else.”

A few times I’ve even had people say, “Your English is really good!”

“Well, it should be. I’m American.”

“Really?”

Once when I worked at Barnes & Noble a customer–who turned out to be French–said, “You don’t seem American to me.”

I’ve tried to figure out why some people say these things to me. Might be my name, which isn’t a typical American name. (Sometimes when people hear my first name, they say, “Funny. You don’t look Mexican.” Which proves to me they don’t know that many Mexicans, but still, I’m not Mexican.) Might be my height, but Americans aren’t known for being short, so that doesn’t seem to be it.

Many times in life I’ve felt I was missing some essential aspect of girlness. Not that I could tell you what that is. But I wasn’t one of those girls who got along better with guys either. I wasn’t a tomboy. I didn’t have mostly guy friends.

So when the maintenance guy said I carried myself differently, I wondered what that meant. When he and I had chatted other times–usually when I was walking the dogs–what was different? Maybe it’s that we are both Doctor Who fans. Or maybe it’s that I always stop to chat with the maintenance guys.

I’m probably never going to know.

But I wonder too, of course, when people read my work, what they will think about me. What assumptions will people make?

Wouldn’t someone like VS Naipul guess I was a woman writer? When you read a story without knowing the author’s name, what do you think you can guess about them? Gender? Politics? Ethnicity? Religion? The parent they were raised by?

Have you ever been startled to learn who a particular writer was? Really? A woman wrote this?

Maybe! Are you surprised?

Surprise may be something you avoid.

Years ago, a friend’s husband asked me to get his wife out of the house on the day of her surprise birthday party.

“It’s your birthday! What do you want to do? My treat!”

“I want to see Life is Beautiful.”

“For your birthday? Won’t it be depressing?”

“Yes! I’ve been dying to see it and if I don’t see it now, I won’t get to. Come on. it’s my birthday.”

“Okay. Sure.”

She started crying about half-way through. She cried through the credits. She cried on the drive home.

And I know that home is filled with people ready to jump out and shout, “Surprise!”

But I’m crying too and trying not to panic.

I believe her husband said something along the lines of, “What the hell have you done to my wife?” Then he laughed. Everyone laughed. Eventually she laughed too.

That’s also when I swore off WWII films. Usually by the end I am crying and I feel like I will never stop. But that’s another post.

Sometimes when I’m writing, I surprise myself. Yes, I know I’m writing it, but as I realize where the story is going to go, I think–hmm. I didn’t see that coming. Because I don’t outline. I don’t plan. I just start with a sentence and build on that. Once in a while I have a general idea, but that’s it.

And there are those moments when I’m driving or in the shower (these seem to be common idea springing places–why is that?), and idea surprises me. A that’s-it moment!

With any luck, the story will surprise the reader—-in a good way. Not in the what-in-the-hell-is-going-on way. More in the oh-my-gosh-I’ve-got-to-keep-reading way. This I have no idea if I manage.

Some people love to spoil surprises. They might open presents Christmas Eve. When I was a teenager, my father’s girlfriend’s family did this. I would refuse, and then be the only person opening presents Christmas morning.

And some other folks say things like, “I know what is about to happen…” “Oh this mystery is easy to figure out…” “I saw that coming a mile away…”

I hate watching movies with these people. “Yes, you are clever. Thanks for ruining the film for me, Clever Clogs.”

Well, I’ve written story number 22. I don’t know if it is a surprise. I tossed in some violence—-it may be surprising or just over the top. Hard to say.

Maybe You’re a Writer?

Maybe this happens to you all the time.

Yesterday, I was introducing myself to another parent at the roller rink. And a friend standing nearby asked if I were skating too. “Yes,” I said. “I’ve been at my computer so much this week, I need to move.”

And this father, who knew nothing about me other than I’m a mom of a speed skater, said, “Why do you spend so much time at the computer? Are you a writer?”

Of all the people who have heard me say something about spending too much time with my laptop, no one has ever asked me if I’m a writer. They’ve asked what company I work for. They’ve asked if I teach. They’ve asked what I did that required so much computer time. Never has someone looked at me seriously and asked, “Are you a writer?”

My first impulse was to say, “Oh! Do I look like one?”

My second impulse was to lie. Well, it wouldn’t be a lie. I am a teacher. But I still thought of just dropping the writing bit of my life for the conversation.

But I said, “Yes. Yes, I am.”

And then I realized he’d probably ask me what I’d published–and inwardly I groaned at my foolishness.

But he didn’t. He asked as if it were the most normal question in the world, “What kinds of stories do you write?”

I find that question—-are you a writer—-difficult to answer. Do you? Or did you ever? And if you used to, but don’t anymore, why did it change?

*

And I’ve got an excerpt of story 21! Ten more stories to go.

“You May Be Right. I May Be Crazy. But I Just May Be the Lunatic You’re Looking for.”

This story may beg the question: is this writer crazy?

Okay. I exaggerate. I’m a writer. It’s what I do.

But be that as it may.

It isn’t as if I don’t know what I’m writing when I write. I do. Sort of. Nonetheless, I get to the end and find myself thinking, “Really? Did I write what I think I did?” This is followed by, “Quit overreacting. Lots of people write way weirder stuff.”

So. Am I pretentious or foolish or arrogant to think I’ve written something different and weird–because everyone has “weird” thoughts; it is just that not everyone puts those thoughts on a page anyone can read. Or am I naive or self-delusional to think I’ve written something ordinary and that no one will have an opinion on what I do either way? Which leads to–why write something ordinary? Which leads to–this entire inner-dialog borders on the hysteric. Maybe inside I’m still 13.

Anyway, I’m still on track for blogging every day with the theme of maybe. And I’ve written a story every day for the month of May. The stories may not work, but at least I’ve done what I said I’d do.

Now, do you have conversations with yourself like this? Or do you never worry that you’ve written something others will judge you by?

The Time to Make up Your Mind about People Is Never

Have you heard this line: The time to make up your mind about people is never. I saw The Philadelphia Story in my early teens, and it is still a favorite.

This works in real life and in fiction. While there are certain groups that I’d like to label with some lovely satisfying insult–and sometimes do in spite of myself–this doesn’t do much to help understand anyone or the world. I want believable characters, don’t you? How do you do that if you can’t get in the head of your hero, your villain, and all the people in-between? Where’s the mystery and the joy of discovery?

Near the end to of the film–without spoiling it too much–the characters have something of a “did they/didn’t they” debate. They don’t spell out what they are talking about, but everyone knows what they mean. I love how they talk around things and still say so much.

They leave the idea to the imagination.

I wish I could write such dialog. If you don’t write it well, you’re being vague and cryptic. I’m an expert at vague and cryptic.

Dialog. Must sound real but not be real. Clever, but not too clever. Convey meaning, but not be info dump.

Of course with film, the right actors can save a lot of dialog–saying a ridiculous thing with the right tone and the right gesture. Words on the page must work for themselves.

Now, if I could get Hepburn, Stewart, and Grant to read for me…

Surprise!

I saw who the email was from and sighed. How will this rejection be? I wonder and click on the message, face slightly turned away, wincing.

We would love to have your story appear in our 13th issue, scheduled for publication in May 2011. It will be another week or so before I can send out the contracts, but this offer is firm. If that is your artwork you’ve sent with the story, I’d love to have that on the site as well. Please let me know if this is acceptable.

What? My sharp intake of breath got my husband’s attention. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

I read the message again. And again.

My husband stepped closer to me. “What is it?”

I half believed that if I told him what I thought I was reading, I would look back and be proven wrong.

The shock of acceptance–here in May!