Making the Write Decisions

Writing fiction, like life, is in the choices we make. We want to make the "right" decisions and hopefully things will play out in a manner we find pleasing and comfortable, but that isn't always the case. Sometimes we make the "wrong" decisions, but we end up with a better story. Making the decisions is the first step.

If you've been reading this for any amount of time, you'll know I've been working on a novel. I finished the first draft a few years ago now, and I've been working on revising and editing ever since. I've done draft after draft. Cutting characters. Adding characters. Changing timelines. Upping the stakes. More description; less description. More dialogue; less dialogue. I've had beta readers read it. I've solicited feedback and got it. I've done more revising.  I've done everything except finish the damned thing. Why? Because a voice inside my head tells me it's not perfect.

What if I publish it and not everyone loves it?  What if it doesn't become a runaway best seller and outsell The Fifty Shades of Grey, or Harry Potter?  What if a reviewer says, "it's okay for a first novel."  These are all things I'm very likely going to have to face. The odds are not in my favor that I will outsell those hits. Odds are a reviewer won't think it's the next great american novel, but maybe someone will.

The point is, as some of my non-writer friends have pointed out, I'll never know if I don't put it out there. Flaws and all.

I can sit here and continue editing it until I'm dead. There will always be another way of telling the story.  Another author, or even me in three months, will always have an idea how this scene could have gone, or that character should have been. The story will continue changing as the writer's life changes, day by day.  At some point we (I) have to stop procrastinating in the name of perfection, and let it go.

There's always a chance the second novel will be the new great american novel.  I'll never know until I stop tinkering with the first.

The Morning After

So, yeah, I was working through some stuff yesterday, and as usual I broadcast my neuroses to the world, or at least to the eighteen people who read it.

Sometimes I think I should keep this shit to myself, but then I think that's part of the problem. In my head, and unspoken, it festers and it becomes bigger than it really is. When I write about it, I realize it's not as big and scary as I think it is. Maybe that's why I write. I'm working shit out. Should I put it out there for public consumption? I'm not sure. Some people say I write what they're thinking.  If that's true, great.

I really do want to live a more positive life. Some days are wonderful and the stars are in alignment. Other days, I'm a rocket about to go off. We're all surrounded by negativity and struggle with this, I'm sure. Actually, if you're always happy and smiling, I'm suspicious of you anyway. You're either high, in denial, or struggling with something far darker and deeper than I am. My shit is right up front. No offense.

Something I realized last night when I worked with a pretty positive group of people, was that I was also more positive.  I was lighter.  I was the true me.

As I had earlier conversations in the day, I became aware of how heavy I felt. How drained.  Like I was being pushed down and my energy was being sucked out of me.  Ah ha!  Could it be as simple as the company I keep? The stuff I'm absorbing? What a concept!

I just deleted two paragraphs that were right here. I decided maybe I'd keep those thoughts to myself.  After all, you aren't interested in every minute of my journey.  You've got your own.  I'll report back if I learn anything significant.

So long, for now!

Snap, Crackle, POP!

Some days I really don't like me.

I know we're not supposed to say that. We're supposed to love ourselves and all that.  Some days I do.  There are parts of me I adore.  Much of the time.

But some days...

Some days I'm all bound up with anger, worry and fear.  Can I put off an overdue oil change for another week because I can't afford it this week?  Should I pay rent first or the car payment?  If I pay both, I might not have enough money for the water bill.  What's going on with the government this week?  Is there going to be Social Security when I need it?  I can't put anymore money in my 403b without going deeper in debt now.  Will any of it matter with North Korea on the brink of insanity?  Are the terrorists winning?  How in the hell can I get out of bed and face another day at work?

Work!  I spend ninety percent of my work day listening to people bitch to me about something, bitch at me about something, bitch about me.  I'm supposed to have all the answers, make everyone happy, and fix it all with a smile on my face. I do the job of two people since the last round of budget cuts and I'm tired.  Of course I can't say anything or admit I need help or I'll end up a casualty of the next budget cuts.  Been there, done that.

Home. Home is good.  It's my comfort, my oasis, my barricade against the crazy world outside the door. I like home too much. I don't want to leave.  I have anxiety attacks over taking a vacation because it's going to put me out of my home for a week.  That terrifies me.  As much as I need the vacation, I'm stressing over it.  Do I have enough money to really relax?  Will a vacation even help when eventually I'll have to catch up on everything I missed during the week?

Usually, I like myself.  But when all these things are swirling through my brain and getting out of bed seems like a hopeless, and most likely, unnecessary prospect, I long for the happy me.  The one who knows life is short and every day should be cherished.  The one who laughs easily. The one who doesn't yell at the dogs for being dogs.  The one who enjoys his time at home, rather than worrying about everything else.  The one who goes to birthday parties and cookouts.  The one who has dinner with friends. The one who writes and acts in plays.  The one who is kind and believes good will win over evil. The one who isn't so stressed and bent out of shape he's in danger of snapping completely.

Yeah, I really need to learn to let this shit go before the men in white coats come and get me or I end up as the lead story on CNN.  If a reporter calls to interview you about me, please be kind. I had the best intentions.

There is a New Shade of Yellow for Today's Journalism

I never wanted to be an astronaut. Isn't that one of the things little boys say when they're asked what they wanted to be when they grow up?  That one never appealed to me. I wanted to do other things. I wanted to be an actor, a writer, a cop, or a reporter.  Even at a young age, I had an ingrained desire to tell the truth, uncover lies and help bring justice. It's probably why I never had much confidence in authority figures as well. They were the ones who seemed to be doing the most lying. I lived in the Watergate era.

Somewhere around junior high, I decided I would be a journalist, so I took journalism in high school. Yearbook. Newspaper. I even changed schools in the afternoon so I could attend magnet classes in broadcast journalism.  I was never a fan of on camera work, but I loved to write the news, or report it on the local radio station the school ran.  I wanted to be the next Lou Grant or Woodward and Bernstein. I wanted to go undercover and break the news. I'm sure I had a pretty glamorous vision of it, but it was what I wanted to do.  The plan was to attend Ball State University, as they had an excellent Journalism program, and there was no way I could afford Columbia.

And then it all changed. I don't remember if there was a specific incident, or what, but suddenly journalism seemed to be taking an ugly turn. It was becoming less about telling the truth and more about getting the ratings, or readership. That's back in the day when the newspaper was the primary source of news.

Fast forward far too many years later and look at the shape of the media today. We have conservative news outlets selling their slant. Liberal outlets selling theirs. It seems there's no middle of the ground, "just the facts," news anymore. The five W's and H.  Everyone has an agenda, parent companies to protect, or some slant that makes them biased. We might as well be the Soviet Union, circa 1980, when the government controls the news.  Our controllers are corporations and lobbyists 

I'm sure there are still good journalists out there who haven't thrown up their hands in defeat and have taken up writing stereo instructions as a living, but they can't get heard.  The editors push for more blood, more guts, more sensationalism. "Go ask that parent of the child murdered how they feel," is their new assignment. "Get more pictures of the mangled bodies," the photographers are told.

I don't completely blame the media for the downfall of humanity, but it does make for great ratings.

How Marriage Equality Hurts Traditional Marriage

It doesn't!

Suicide: The Taboo Conversation

I've often shared too much information in this forum. I've put myself out there in ways some suggest is too much. I do it because in this high paced, social media world where everything is marketed and branded, we've stopped telling the truth. We tell what looks good.  We talk about the topics that are #trending. We don't talk about how alone so many of us feel.  I share so maybe one other person who might be feeling the same way might feel less alone.

One of the things we don't talk about is suicide. Last week I had a conversation with a stranger. It began as small talk, but then the subject veered towards suicide. Not a subject for small talk with a stranger, mind you, but it came up.  "Have you ever thought about it?" he asked. Talk about being put on the spot.  Before I could censor myself, I nodded.  "Yes, it's cross my mind from time to time," I told him. "Me too," he said.

I stood there listening as he told me how his room mate has a gun and he used to go to where the gun was kept and he would hold it. He would wonder if he had the guts to do it. I didn't stop him to say any of the things a friend or family member might say like, "its a permanent solution to a temporary problem" or "it gets better." I just listened. For some reason, he needed to tell me, or someone, this story. And I needed to hear it.

Before our encounter was over, I told him to hang in there. "You too," he said.

Suicide is one of those things that scare us. I think it's probably a rare person who hasn't had those fleeting thoughts at some point in their lives, although they might not admit it. It's one of those things we can't really discuss with friends or family because they have a stake in our staying alive, staying the course, hanging in there, waiting for it to get better.

About six months ago a friend committed suicide. She made the decision she could no longer "stay the course."  For those of us who survived, we were left with the questions people always have. Why?  What was the last straw? Could I have done something?

The real question I have is "If she couldn't make it through this life, how the fuck am I supposed to?"

We are surrounded by hopelessness. From a government in gridlock to random shootings of children.  The economy sucks. The elderly have to choose between medication and food.  A friend can't afford his HIV meds and wonders why he should even try.

Yesterday I let some of that hopelessness and the hopelessness of another situation take me to that dark place we don't talk about.  I wondered how I really could keep going on. Was there a way out?  But then after a few minutes, I snapped back and put my happy mask back on and forged forth.  "Fake it until you make it," they say.

This is not a suicide note. No intervention is necessary. I just want people to be able to say, "Yes, sometimes life feels kinda hopeless and I'm scared, mad, sad <insert any emotion>." Then we can lift each other up and find the hope that still exists out there and within each of us. It's the loneliness and hopelessness that makes us feel alone.

Don't tell me it gets better. Show me.  Hold my hand and let's find out.

Television Characters as Friends

I grew up in a television generation.  My parents grew up in the infancy of television, so it wasn't yet the way of life  it became with my generation.  We grew up watching The Brady Bunch in first run episodes. We saw Gilligan's Island go from black and white to color. We didn't blink an eye when Bewitched gave us a new Darrin. 

Growing up with the ever present television gave us a cultural common denominator. We shared a common experience with the neighbors across the street, down the block, or across the country.  Television made the world a little bit smaller.

With that ever presence, I grew up with fictional characters who I sometimes wanted to be, have as friends, or at the very least, be like. When Steve Austin (the astronaut, not the wrestler) became bionic, I wanted to be bionic.  My first female television crush was on Lindsay Wagner.  The Bionic Woman.  My first male crush was Mark Shera, from S.W.A.T. and Barnaby Jones.  I was ten years old and already knew something was different about me. I was also a big fan of The Rookies, especially that dreamy Bruce Fairbairn. Television was becoming the way I understood the world and found out who I was in that world. 

Ten days ago, the world lost Bonnie Frankin, Ann Romano from One Day at a Time.  A few days ago, Rhoda's Valerie Harper admitted she has terminal cancer.  Tonight, I watched as J.R. Ewing, played by Larry Hagman, was laid to rest.  I don't know any of those actors personally, but I was there when Ann Romano struggled to raise two daughters on her own.  They were my older sisters.  I learned how to be a friend by watching Mary and Rhoda.  Even as an adult, I loved to hate J.R. Ewing, even if he was the same man who lived with Jeannie.  Television characters become part of our lives.  Yes, I've never lost sight of the fact they're fictional, but they still affect us. 

The power is television is amazing, and I'm a little sad to see the ones I grew up with leaving us.  When Lindsay Wagner goes, I'm sure I'll be in a formal state of mourning for at least a month.  Jaime Sommers was the older sister I always wanted. Steve Austin was the older brother. I used to fantasize they'd come get me and take me away to some exotic adventure.  

I immersed myself in television as a child and wrote to actors and joined fan clubs all the time. It was my escape from the reality of my childhood.  A sissy fat boy who knew he was different and had to find a way out. The people on TV seemed to have the answers.