YOU KNOW YOU'RE A WRITER IF:

In January I posted my personal
"Glossary of terms for writers". I had a blast with that so I thought, a mere six months later why not, you know you're a writer if.
So here goes. Hope you enjoy and if you see yourself, all the better and if you don't, add some in the comments.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE A WRITER IF:

Getting published is more exciting than getting a date.

The last thing you think about before you go to sleep, (the story, the plot, the main character, the secondary characters, the switch, word-count, chapter transitions and title), is the first thing you thought about that morning.

You take better care of computer than you do of your pacemaker.

You forgot your anniversary because you were thinking about the misplaced comma on page four, paragraph three, line two, and you think it’s no big deal because it wasn’t needed anyway, or maybe it was, so you leave it in, then take it out, was that yesterday? How many years?

You believe the overuse of punctuation marks are Band-Aids for sloppy writing.

 

Redundancy helps you remember what you forgot when you wrote it the first time.

You know more about the agent you queried than you know about the prison record of your daughter’s boyfriend.

Your kitchen table looks like your office and your office looks like the empty bedroom it once was.

You resent the time your friends and family demand of you and then write about what a wonderful resource they are, how much you love them and how supportive they are of your efforts.

You can’t remember what you ate for breakfast but can recall how many bullets were in the bad-guy’s gun, and the placement and size of the wart on his ass, in a short story you wrote when you were nineteen.

You hesitate when asked to recite the ages and birthdates of your children but can spiel off the multi-century ancestry of your hero’s companion in book two of your trilogy about six fingered women saving the world.

You speak about the agent you don’t have yet like she’s the successful cousin you haven’t seen in twenty years.

When amidst your latest project the only time you go food shopping is when you’re out of coffee and toilet paper.

When asked about how your husband is, you answer, who?

When asked about how your wife is, you answer, which one?

When asked about you kids, you answer, I have kids?

You believe the best time to write, is on Sundays when the rest of your family goes to church. (You ask them to pray for a publication date).

You need Facebook like runners need a water-station, like boxers need a stool between rounds, like football players need a two minute warning, like toddlers need a nap, like senior citizens need a nap, like teachers need the summer off.

Rejection doesn’t hurt anymore but it does disappoint; it doesn’t cut but you bleed anyway.

Hang-in, hang-on, stay calm/carry on, don’t give up, don’t give in, stay the course, persevere and never ever in any way, shape, form or manner quit, become the clichés of your trade.

Every morning, before you get out of bed, you wonder, is today is the day you get “the call”, followed by, why can’t I wake-up like everybody else and just go pee.

Harley was legend, and the best dog ever

Harley asleep on his bed in the living room.

This is the legend of Harley written as the prologue of my second trunk novel, REFERENCE TO THE UNSPOKEN. Because I felt my main character needed someone with which to share her life, someone to love, and someone to love her back unconditionally, opening with Harley’s story and his difficult beginning, was the perfect addition to the book.

Though the book may never be published, the story of Harley deserves to be told.

 Prologue  

- Spirit -

 

            At the end of Marsh Lane, the short dirt road which leads to the Connecticut River, there’s a small parking lot with a boat launch. The launch isn’t large, the kind where huge SUVs back Whalers down a wide and sturdy cement ramp into the river, it a  narrow slope, a place where kayakers wade in the mud to gently settle their small boats in the water. Secluded and contemplative, the lot by the shore is a place where a person can stare down the peaceful flow to Long Island Sound and seek solace. But, if it is within their nature, some can take advantage of the remote location and perform ineffable acts.

            With no thoughts as to whether anyone was watching, two boys and a puppy splashed in the muddy shallows by the launch. A stick, tossed by one of the boys, landed just beyond the pup’s reach. He bounded after it like it was a T-bone sliding off a picnic-plate. A woman watching from the parking lot was entertained at first, until the game changed.

            The ball of yellow fluff, a golden retriever and yellow lab cross, was energetic and eager to play. Standing at the edge of the water his hind end wagged so hard, he looked as if he’d wag himself right over. When the stick first landed in the water, he didn’t know what to do; one paw wet, and then the other, until finally stepping in to reach the small piece of wood, he brought it back to shore. The boys started throwing the stick further out into the river until the puppy, struggling to swim, reached it. Finally the dog, after the farthest throw, stood firm, as if to say, you’ve thrown it too far boys, I’m not going out for that one.

            “Fetch it!” The older boy yelled.

            Even from the edge of the lot where the woman stood, she could see the red faced livid boy, ‘spit’ the word fetch.

            “Go get it you little shit!” The younger boy screamed.

            Glancing among the few parked cars the woman searched for someone to step in and control the boys. There was no one.

            Tilting his head, the dog looked as if he were reasoning why his friends were mad at him; he was having fun up until that moment. He turned away from the yelling, ears down, head dipped. The puppy was scared. He lay flat as if to make himself disappear.

            Stomping over to the dog and grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, the younger boy yanked him to a stand. Pulling away, the dog yelped, the boy smacked him.

            The older boy grabbed the puppy’s tail; he snapped to get away. With his fingers buried in the scruff, and the dog’s mouth held shut, the first boy stepped further out into the river. The other boy sunk his hands into the muddy fur of the puppy’s back. They struggled forward with the squirming dog farther out into the water. Waist deep the two boys plunged the dog under and held him there.

            Watching from the lot, the woman could not believe what she was seeing. Frantic, she looked for someone to stop the sickening scene.

            She never felt how cold the water, or how strong the current. That the muddy river bottom filled her shoes never entered her mind. Digging her fingers into one kid’s shoulder, she yanked until he let go of the dog. Grabbing a handful of the other kid’s hair, she pulled back, until he raised his hands to fight her off. Both thrashed away as she scooped up the dog and headed for shore.

            Emitting a filthy word-barrage, the boys were pissed that the woman had spoiled their demented game. For an instant she turned and stared them into silence. Slowly backing downstream toward shore, once their feet hit dry dirt, they ran.

            Placing the limp puppy on the hood of her car, muddy rivulets of water wept from the metal onto the ground. His tongue was hanging from the side of his mouth, the puppy was not breathing. Shedding her sweatshirt the woman began to rub the dog chanting over and over again, breathe, little guy, breathe; the shirt, as wet as the dog, became a hug of sorts, massaging and stimulating, as she continued her mantra, breathe, little guy, breathe.

            Shuddering from a spasm, his body squirmed under her tender hands, until he finally settled calmly on the warm hood of the car. The woman spoke kind words to the little dog, telling him he was alright and that no one would hurt him again. Raising his head he looked at the woman and tucked his tongue into his mouth. Tapping out a slow rhythm on the car’s hood, his tail soon became an energetic thank you to her.

            Gently lifting the little pup she set him on the ground. Looking up to her, his tail swiftly sweeping side to side, he stood on his hind legs as if asking to play.

            “You sure have spirit little guy,” she said. His tale wagged so hard she thought he’d tip over.

            “Spirit. What a great name for you, Spirit.”

            The woman took the puppy home. Once his fur was dry she brushed him clean and settled him beside her favorite chair. With all her heart she wanted to keep him but because her landlord would not allow pets she had to quickly find him a home. At work, during a meeting with colleagues, the woman told the story of how she saved a puppy from two boys intent on drowning him.

Professor Dennison stepped forward, “I’ll take him.”

            “He’s yours,” the woman said without a moment’s hesitation, because she knew, of all the people she worked with, of everyone she had ever known, Professor Lillian Dennison was the one most needing Spirit.

*

 The real story:

 

What happened to Harley took place in Virginia. The woman who saved him brought him here, to Connecticut. Because the woman an angel lived in a condo and could not keep him he was given to and loved by a young couple one town over from us. Their house was too small and their family too big. That’s where we come in. Harley came to live with us when he was eleven months old. Lively and lanky he was the perfect fit for our family.

The beautiful golden boy was ours, or should I say we were his, for thirteen years until he died last week. Harley was without a doubt the best dog ever.

Wheels

I have a binder of PVC free, latex free, acid free, archival quality, clear sheet protectors, each shielding at least a single copy of my columns from the ravages of aging. I could use one of those for my body. It is in this binder where my dreams and years of efforts of becoming a columnist have come true, sort of. Syndicated would be nice. This on-going loose-leaf of tear-sheets is a chronical of heart wrenching, funny, opinionated and reminiscent pieces I’ve conjured up in 600 to 1200, scribbled from the heart, word-lots.

I have an older album of cardboard and clear stiff-page sheet protectors which were marketed long before anyone knew what archival quality was. That album holds the tear-sheets of op-eds and articles I wrote when I dreamt of being the writer I am today. That collection, written from a younger heart, is more impassioned by opinion and moved by life’s discoveries.

I have another album, quite huge, made by my mother-in-law years ago, containing a collection of my published pieces she was proud to save. And, I have a colorful folder with dozens of copies of my articles, saved by my mother. These last two are very special because they hold dear the words two of my favorite women sought to include in their personal archives.

On the walls of my office is a collection of columns and op-eds my youngest daughter framed and hung when she and her husband did my office over secretly as a Christmas gift. The real gift that year, of the place I call heaven, is her choice of pieces to hang. Many of those are my favorites.

All of these published pieces, which count in the hundreds by now, are a history of my thoughts from moving to maudlin, from inquisitive asking, to officious answering's. When reviewing these writing achievements I am struck by the course my heart and mind has taken over a couple of decades. In that span, from writing about my baby, to writing about my baby’s baby, it illustrates a lifetime of how-to, have-not and still-want, gathered around many subjects. And just because I’ve been published, does not mean I don’t want more. I unabashedly admit, without embarrassment, to a continued self-centered sense of need for writing achievement because writing is how I define my intellectual-self.

I’m not sure of what someone else’s pinnacle of writing success is but I do know that for me; it is a switch from byline to title page.  The only way I know to do that is within the genre of memoir. But because I have not hiked a mountain range, conquered cancer, been freed from abduction, been challenged by physical limitations, have married a man who became president, am running for president, have eaten, prayed and loved my way around the world, because my life has been just like most everyone else’s, no one in traditional publishing wants to take a chance on me. And why would they? I am a nobody, who is every-woman. And what’s wrong with every-woman? Nothing really, but who, they say, wants to spend $19.99 on one?

By traditional publishing I was told that columnist writing is pedestrian.

My column is an exercise in tenaciousness understanding regarding the importance of life-long learning and achievement in the face of the everyday.

I am told that only after three or four published novels, would someone want to click on one of Amazon's tiny-icons or even pick up the memoir/essay collection from the short stack on a bookstore table, read the jacket copy and decide. As a woman, a wife and a writer I’d sure as shit would want to read about me and how I got here.

So it is, that to my binder, my life-of-writing loose-leaf, my albums and folders of precious  yellowing tear-sheets, that I look to define my writing-life. Have I achieved, yes, have I persevered, yes, will I give up the climb, hell no, will I reach my pinnacle, who knows.

Actors say, you’re only as good as your next movie. Novelists say you’re only as good as your next book. Columnists say, you’re only as good as your editor says you are. I say, because I’ve been around a long time, and I know this to be true, you’re only as good as you are during the moments you're privileged to ponder the question. Right now is all we have. This is not to say we should settle for less than what we want but that we should appreciate that which we have already achieved.

Yes, I have a binder of PVC free, latex free, acid free, archival quality, clear sheet protectors that help remind me of how far I have come, how rich my journey has been, and how long it continues to be, if my wheels keep-a-turnin'.

How far have you come?