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?