BRAVERY

I  did something today that I thought was extremely brave.  I let my daughter read my book.  She read part of it and we were in a hurry and had to leave.  In the car I tried to tell her what was going to happen next in the book and she said not to tell her cuz she wanted to read it to find out.  I actually do not think she was trying to spare my feelings with her other remarks.  She asked a lot of questions and I really have the feeling now that it is what it is, what it's supposed to be, what I want it to be.  And the words printed on  the paper, figuratively, are not the same as the words that come out of my  mouth.  Strange strange feeling, but exactly what I want, I think.  I think.   I think. 

But, more than  that, I am patting myself on the back for my bravery.  Really, it is easier to put the work in front of a stranger than in front of someone who knows you so well.  But it wasn't really brave at all.  It was absolutely an impulse that I acted on with great immediacy.  And that is like the story of my life.  There is so much stuff in my life that makes me unhappy, and I know I am contributing to the unhappiness of some other people, but I totally feel that part is their problem and there is so much stuff in my life that I like.  I have to think about what I want for a change.  After all, so many years of trying to get along with others and not rocking "the boat" has served for nothing.  Granted, I have beautiful surroundings, and not much to complain about, but it could have been so much better for so many people in so many ways, and my way of trying to fix everything and make sure no one got hurt served for nothing.  Nothing.  Everything I feel, right at this moment, is ONLY because of ME.

As I am sure is true of most others, I wish I had not waited so long to do this.  But, then I am able to say that it just happened.  It wasn't planned and I don't know where it came from, and I tend to think it was the meds cuz now it seems like it is gone, but I am already rethinking that part of it, and, for so many reasons, I have to say, that is just the way it is. And I think I am glad.  Anyway, I feel glad right now.  But my biggest flaw is always second guessing myself. 

Change the freaking chapter numbers, Ditty.

FLUFF

For anyone wandering in here that doesn't know ME, that might have linked through that Real Estate Agent in New Zealand or that Bicylce Shop in Holland, or that strange Russian website that loves me--I write FLUFF.

I am tired of the strict definition of "Romance" that it must have "conflict" and the "Happy Ending" which is so standardized it is called the HEA.  Happy Ever After. 

I write FLUFF.  They fall in love, fall in  bed, fight about stupid things, have babies, have tragedies, have fun, get scared, care about stuff.  There is no category.  I have even, thinking perhaps facetiously, or "kidding on the square", sent out queries where I say this is FLUFF with no moral lessons, hidden truths, just entertainment.  You'll laugh.  You'll cry.  You'll pee a little.  WTF.  I NEED escapism, but I cannot get my mind around stuff that has no bearing at all on my life.  I have to be able to identify with these people otherwise I do not give a flying fuck about them.  I remember all the cute, funny, flattering, scary, sad, emotional, angry parts of my life.  I don't necessarily want flashbacks, but maybe a little revisionist history, just for fun.  I swear, I read about a person whose friend has a book on the store shelf and asks her what she thinks of it and she says now they don't speak cuz it was a bunch of disconnected scenarios and she couldn't think of anything good to say about it.  Well, don't get your expectations up here.  If you ever talked to me or listened to me, or heard about me, you know exactly what to expect, and if you never heard of me, you will know me as well as you know your sister or your wife or your husband or yourself when you read me.

Coming soon to a Kindle  near you.  Lots and lots of bang for your buck.

Brag, Brag, Brag

It's usually whine, whine, whine, but maybe it's the weather.  This morning I went out in front of my house and cut branches off a tree.  I enjoyed it a lot.  I will probably feel the results of it tomorrow, but I enjoyed it.  I used to get mad at Louie.  We'd be having people over for whatever and I'd be dusting bookcases and he'd go to the empty field next door and cut down branches, pruning artistically, trees that belonged to no one and were growing wild.  But now I understand.  It is messing around with a kind of huge natural force and it feels so good.  I had one limb that was about four inches thick and half way through it broke and I couldn't get a purchase on the little piece still holding it on the tree.  Elemental problem solved.  Feels so much better than worrying if this chapter break should be a three asterisk break or a four asterisk break. Then, apparently while I was out for lunch, which took six hours and was also fun, Louie did some more.  Well, he always did like it.  And maybe after the spinal surgery he won't be able to do it anymore.  So the stacks of branches in front of and behind the garage kinda look actually bigger than the tree.  This tree, I think it is some kind of ash, and it is not very attractive, but keeps the evening sun from raising the temp in the front bedrooms, so there is no question it must remain, is just kind of annoying, it's growth pattern and ugly bark and all, and while wrestling with it I had the passing thought:  Ash. Emerald Ash Borer.  Maybe the village would pay for its removal, but no.  I took it back, God.  Forget I said that.  It is very necessary to the cultural ambience of my actual residence.  Which brings me back to what started this train of thought that is now looping through abandoned mine tunnels in an unused portion of my brain.  It had to be trimmed because it was growing way over the driveway and Cassie and I park our cars at that end of the driveway and on that side, and there is always an embarrassing amount of bird shit on them.   Plus, when I come around the corner, and I've lived here almost twelve years, I always think, "My house looks so nice."  And lately when I come around the corner I think, "You can hardly see the house anymore for that damned tree."
So, practical and aesthetic reasons, and it was fun and when you come around the corner you will think, "That house looks really nice."  It does.

Blather

I am trying to figure out something that is really bothering me.  I read too many blogs on too many websites.  It uses up way too much of my time.  But I need to fill up the time since it seems my great professional writing career will never get off the ground, and was, apparently, just a reaction to the wrong medication.  This is disappointing to me, needless to say.  And I am not quite throwing in the towel yet.  But I haven't had the courage to look at my manuscripts in quite a while.  And the urge to start another is nonexistent.  The whole time I was writing so prolifically, I was wondering where it all was coming from.  I kept getting these ideas and running with them and asking myself where I got the ideas.  I will probably find out in a few years  that I actually wrote down word for word some story I read thirty years ago that was fermenting in the depths of my brain.

Anyway, the latest thing is that I have no patience with people that I personally feel take themselves too seriously.  Why is that?  Don't I take myself seriously?  You know what?  I don't think I do.  I think I am afraid to.  I think I am way too ready to back down.  Not that I will surrender my principles or beliefs.  I mean, I honestly do not care what you think about that. I go with what I am comfortable with.  But some people tackle a philosophy and they dissect it ad nauseum, and end up with all these semantic distinctions and I counter with an absolutely true, practical, real-life example of what they are talking about and they cannot respond in a realistic way.  They dissect my language or point out a typo.  And I feel like I climbed up the pole and waved  the flag and they all walked away.  And a couple of them stopped and peed on the pole just to accentuate their disdain. I feel like they threw in the towel.  (Maybe so I could wipe up the pee) And I guess I want them to say, "Yeah, Virginia.  You are right.  I was just being an asshole.  I just like to spell long words correctly."  But, seriously, even I don't believe that.  I mean, maybe they have a point.  I am just prepared to shoot them down and show them the errors of their ways, and I back it up with the truth.  I always make sure the gun is loaded and cocked and I have an extra clip handy.  Otherwise, I would not bothering aiming, much less entering into the fray. I do not even start on my theories about how I think God feels about it.  Like recycling, and light bulbs.  What would Jesus do?  I can't even get there.  No one will even say, "No shit.  That really happened?  You must be making it up."  They just blather about lumens should be Lumen and watts should be Watt, like each and every light bulb is actually a tiny biography.  C'mon.  This is reality we are dealing with.  I can't fucking stand it.  We are going down the tubes here and all I've learned is that von Mises took on the economy and bureaucracy but would not address social issues.  How can those things NOT all lean on each other?  If you buy the cheap medicine you don't get well as quickly.  Usually.  A + B = C.  Not A is one side of the coin and Q is the other side of the coin and that constitutes the Tao of knitting, or web surfing or porn addiction.  It's blather.  Stupidity is one side of  the stupidity coin and stupidity is the other side of the stupidity coin and that is the freaking Tao of freaking stupidity. 

And it seems I've been inspired to clean up my language just a little bit.  Fuck that.

The Totally Mental Aspects of Mental Disorders

I had a pretty nice day yesterday.  Spent some time with Francesca and Delaney.  Brought the Taylor family a great dinner and they even shared a little with me.  Bought three boxes of Good and Plenty.  The price has dropped from a dollar to ninety-eight cents, so I snapped those mothers up.  Ben had an amazing ballgame, hit two doubles, his team winning by two after  falling behind twice.  Then, as I prepared to retire for the night, putting all the daily papers into the recycling, (those suckers pile up so fast) deciding on my sleepy time cocktail of pills for the night, I notice a little white circle glowing against the golden fibers of my deceptively clean-looking dining room area rug.  Picked it up to discover it was a Welbutrin!  Guess that one didn't make it into the mouth that morning. 

I have yet to find a doctor, and I have asked at least six, that can explain the time-release effects, or even the specific meaning of the words to me.  It has always turned out to be a discussion in semantics.  I felt pretty good today, got all that EPA and DMV stuff cleared up with out a hitch and bought some peanut butter cookies, but I had to wonder what missing that pill yesterday meant.  I know when I was taking that crumby, crumbling, smelly, yellow generic, I was in a prolonged semi manic state that in actual fact provided many pleasant side effects, a huge weight loss, a million brilliant words carefully stored on memory sticks, a new attitude about partnership and "marriage", a new sense of me.  So I am almost tempted to try skipping a few more of those pearly white puppies and see what happens.  But I know when it happens I am unable to judge what is happening, whether or not I am enjoying it.  So, bummer.  I skipped a pill.  No big deal.  The whole bipolar thing?  No big deal.  I  guess. . .