Who am I, there at the end of the bar?

When you’ve known someone a long time, or worked with the same people at the same place for years, when you’ve been married to the same person for decades and your children are grown and they have spouses who have been around awhile, every story you tell, they’ve heard before. I hate that.

 

When I pull up a story to back-up a point it’s, “mom we’ve heard all about that”. When my husband pisses me off it’s, “don’t go there,” he says, “I’ve heard that before”. My friends, my co-workers, “you already told us that story”, but they are polite, “go ahead and tell us again”. I hate that too.

It’s happening on blog posts now and in comments and even in my column. I have to recycle stuff because either I’ve lost my sense of observation or my life is just too damn boring.

I’d like to be the new kid in town for a change, the kid everybody is curious to know about. Growing up I lived in twenty-seven different houses and went to nine different schools, (a recycled blog post way back when I was Wry Wryter), so I know what it’s like to be the person people are curious about. Now, not so much; everybody knows just about everything.

What’s it like to be a stranger, to ride into town, slip into the local bar, sit at the end of the booze runway and watch the locals make asses of themselves? What’s it like to be an outsider? Considering how outsiders are treated these days maybe long-lived-local is better.  

Maybe it’s time I start telling folks about the side of me no one knows, problem is I’m not sure what that side is or even if it exists. Do we all have a part about us which remains hidden?

Let’s see, I’m afraid of the dark and I have a great story about why I am. If I’m brave enough I might write about it.

I want Morgan Freeman to narrate my life

Who do you want to narrate your life?

I’m doing a rewrite, a little editing here, a little editing there, and actually enjoying the read because it’s been awhile since I’ve autopsied, resuscitated and resurrected my first attempt at fiction. Because I am a short-form essayist I was once told there is no way I can write fiction. So taking up the sort-of-dare, I wrote this 82,541 word novel in six weeks, it has taken me seven and a half years to finish it.  

After the book was done, the first time, I naively queried, and instantly was convinced the naysayer was correct. As experts often espouse, first novels are autobiographical in that first-timers draw from their own experience because it is all they know. Yes, I did that but the book is not about me. The main character’s early life is peppered with instances which are backboned, but not fleshed out, by my past; her past is unique, it’s not mine. But still, I put it away because shelving your first seems to be the opinion of many in the know, who am I to say the experts are wrong?

So here I am almost eight years later, visiting the story I loved then and love even more now. Holding it in abeyance has been a good thing I think, because after over a year of structured writing, meeting deadlines and dealing with editors I’ve learned a few things. Following agent and writer blogs has helped too. Readers of my novel have helped as well but not so much as critics, as one would imagine, but as unexpected bolsters.

Yesterday I was cooking along, enjoying the read, inserting a little, deleting less and then all of a sudden, (insert sound of screeching brakes locking up here), I ran into some eight year old greenhorn writing that smacked so loudly of prose amateurishly written that I wanted to slam my laptop shut and take up professional lawn darts.  But I did not.

I decided to Shawshank my way through the second half of the book, the made-up part, the part which draws little from my past. If Andy DuFresne can crawl through shit so can I.  And then I realized, it was a speed-bump after all, a glitch written by a tired mind and hurting hands. I’m through it and on my way again and loving it.

Pitching tents

I did it twice, wrote a blog post and then took it down. I was mad. Twelve hours later I deleted it, rewrote and put it back up. Twelve hours after that, just a few minutes ago, I folded up the tent and put it away. I don’t think I’ll be pitching it again anytime soon.

Why?

My tendency to knee-jerk my reactions via ‘enter’ has consequences. The ready availability to rant is remarkable. In relation to instant communication writers-introspection has me realizing that though the power of words is awesome, and the speed of computer-communication is monolithic, sometimes stepping back and thinking first is in order.

Not only mad I was pissed, heartbroken and disappointed in the system. It is up to you to guess the system of which I speak and it has nothing to do with writing. I wanted what I wrote to go viral, to maybe change things or at its very least start a dialog. And then I thought about the consequences of being viewed as an angry person. I’m not angry; I’m disappointed and frankly heartbroken. I’m thankful for what I have, where I’ve been and for what I have achieved. No negative words today, no rant.

When is the last time you wrote what you shouldn’t have written?