The Hellish Handbasket Blog

  • Write what you want

    I returned to the scene of my debacle on Friday. The conference room had been upgraded with pink naugahyde cushy office chairs. I don’t think I’ve seen pink conference room chairs before. I applauded the interior designer’s taste, knowing they most likely got a really good deal from City Liquidators. Kudos for having both style and frugality.

    When I got there ten minutes early, just about everyone I’d met so far was there already. I took a seat at the end so I could be near the electrical outlet and plugged in my modem phone. As long as I’m at the library, I can use the library wi-fi to do software updates and backups.

    Before the fun began I interrupted a moment of silence between chit-chat to apologize for bludgeoning them with the chapter I read last week. I said I would not torture them like that again. The organizer was gracious and said it was fine, no need to apologize, that’s what we are here for. I suspect she realizes if she accepted my apology for writing a story no one but me could relate to, she’d have to take a good look at the book she was writing. Maybe it would have helped if I were a better narrator but my erratic tongue-twisted style couldn’t have been any worse than her tedious monotonous drone about life on an asteroid.

    We did the five words exercise, which I’m starting to think is really lame. Here are the five words and after the words is the paragraph I wrote in 20 minutes. In my defense, I didn’t want to do the assignment, but felt obligated to be a good sport in my quest to belong to the group.

    fault

    remorse

    rascal (my contribution)

    raisin

    oblivion

    Five words jumped off the page and ran around the dining room. Those rascals. See, there’s one now, skittering around the corner into the kitchen, too fast for me to catch. I tried and slipped. Something snapped in my leg, but Rascal obviously felt no remorse. Darn it! There’s another one! Remorse was something that word had clearly never felt. I tried to smash remorse into oblivion, but that was a lost cause from the start. Oblivion dashed past me and leaped for the stairs. With my  broken leg, well, going after oblivion was a nonstarter. I wasn’t sure what to do—I could hear little word feet running around the bedrooms. They were taking over the house. In my defense, I have to report it wasn’t my fault. Dang it. There goes another one. Just because fault got away this time wasn’t my fault. Next time, I’ll make sure fault and oblivion meet. They are obviously meant for each other. Anyway, before my femur snapped, I was heading to the kitchen to get raisins for the rabbit, and … what just happened? Did raisin get away too? This is completely out of hand.  Words. What can you do. I’m lucky there were only five of them. I’ve seen entire books filled with words. Let me tell you, that can really get your heart rate going. If you aren’t careful, they will lead you right off a cliff.

    They laughed, which is all I wanted.

    Later, I swiveled in my pink chair and asked what projects people were working on. I knew what the organizer was working on: the endless asteroid mining saga. I was trying to ascertain if the other so-called writers were actually writing. In retrospect, I think asking the question was probably a mistake. The woman sitting across the table from me glared and said something about starting a series of essays and then getting blocked, bogged down, something to that effect. She was not happy to be put on the spot. I didn’t regret asking. She could have chosen not to answer.

    She deflected and asked me if I was working on something.

    “My next book,” I said. “But I’m having a hard time figuring out what the characters want.”

    She proceeded to give me a few words of advice about devleoping characters. Wasn’t that sweet? I know, right? I thanked her in my friendliest tone and looked around the table. No one else besides the sci-fi fan was working on anything. She announced her 190,000-word manuscript was done and it has been out to beta readers for two years. I had assumed the book she was reading to us every week was a work in progress, but no. What she was reading was the finished book.

    In other news, I sold one ebook on my new Book2Read platform. As soon as I sell $10.00 worth, I’ll see some money in my bank account. How cool is that?

    I know what you are thinking. Carol, really? We don’t want to be a Debbie Downer, but isn’t that bordering on pathetic? No, and let me tell you why.

    Everything I write is for me.

    Why not? I’m old. I might have twenty more years to live, if I’m really lucky. Why the hell shouldn’t I write what I want? I never made art to order, which is why I never made it as an artist. Now, as a writer, I don’t write to the reader market, which means I probably will sell very few books. Who cares? My life is richer and fuller because finally, after so many years of stifling my writing voice, I am creating characters who say and do things that crack me up.

    What could be better? And let me ask you, my five blog readers, if that is your dream, how come you aren’t doing it?

  • Letting go

    The most exciting thing that happened to me this week is seeing a half-dozen female turkeys stroll across my patio. Yep. That’s the boring life I lead these days. What’s there to complain about when I have a bathroom and a kitchen? A story without conflict is ho-hum. See previous blogpost about the sci-fi writer.

    Speaking of the writers’ group, I returned on Friday evening. It was a “study hall” night, two hours of working on whatever. I showed up on time and set up my laptop. Eventually Vicki, the leader, arrived. While we chatted, a third person entered the room. I think her name was . . . Lena. Louise. Linda. It doesn’t matter, take your pick. Big white glasses, piled up hair, a wildly colored print blouse! Now here was a real writer!

    We got busy. I don’t know what they were working on—we didn’t talk. I continued an editing project I’d started at home: a dissertation candidate’s proposal. I have only one speed, that’s head down, teeth gritted, and only one mode, bite it and shake it until the candidate cries uncle. I did all that and got it done and sent by the time the study hall ended at 6:30 p.m. Job well done. Vicki warned me next week was “show and tell,” or words to that effect. Even though the idea makes me want to puke, I’ll show up. I’m not a quitter.

    Speaking of dogs with bones, the theme of the week seems to be letting go. Mainly letting go of old friendships. Did something get into the water? Two of my friends said they are purposefully jettisoning friendships they suddenly realize aren’t working anymore.

    I could speculate if I’m one of those friends that will be getting the shove out of the friendship truck, but if you know me, you’ll know I don’t really care that much. If someone doesn’t want to be around me anymore, that’s okay with me. Why suffer? Odds are, I don’t want to be around them either. Win-win.

    Friendships that stop working gradually fade so far into the rear view mirror, they drop off the contact list. I’ve had some of those. Being the introvert that I am, rarely do I feel anything but heartfelt relief. It’s like climbing out of a muddy hole in the sidewalk. Time to walk down a different street.

    Over the course of my life, I have collected a few close friends, people from my childhood, from high school, from L.A., New Mexico, and Arizona. These friends are the ones who love me despite my faults, the ones who will cheer me on, the ones who will share their stories with me and listen to mine. I treasure these friendships and work to keep them alive, even if we only talk once a year. Like old friends do, once we refresh our memories, we pick up where we left off.