Fighting On

I'm here! It's been nearly a full year since I've posted on this page--and I'm sure all sorts of friend bloggers have assumed I've given it up for good--but I'm here.

I posted on my Not Writing Anything Anymore blog a few weeks ago, resolving to make blogging on both blogs a priority. But then life threw in the biggest of big wrenches, and I had no choice but to switch to what is more important: my husband's welfare.

My husband, on his way to run an Olympic length triathlon in Arkansas, ended up in an emergency room in Alabama with acute pancreatitis. Three weeks later, after a CT scan, tons of blood tests, and two ultrasounds, doctors concluded its cause was a 3 cm cancer tumor in the pancreas. Filled with anxiety (for the prognosis for pancreatic cancer sufferers is extremely bad), we went to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, FL, where they determined his cancer was operable (thank God!), and where, a little over a week ago, he underwent the Whipple procedure. (It's a BIG surgery--look it up online, and you'll see how serious it is). Through his fight, he's adopted the mantra of his favorite college football team: Fight On! I've even ordered shirts and hats with the saying on them, for him, his friends, and our relatives to wear.

A week later, we were heading home from Jacksonville when the doctors called, and the news is now much more positive. The cancer was caught far earlier than it usually is, and after six months of chemotherapy, Richard will most likely live a long life without pancreatic cancer ever returning. Yay!

Our lives have been turned upside-down, though, and I found that even reading was impossible while I watched over him in the hospital. It was only when tests of the tumor were complete and we were given the great news that I could even concentrate on reading a book again. Now it's time to put my focus back on writing.

Richard was told by a friend who had beaten ovarian cancer that he had to concentrate on more than the cancer, and she told me the same--I had to have more to do than support him and rehash the cancer stories over and over. So that is what I am doing. I'm getting back to my mermaid novel, back to painting (I have accumulated several castles I want to paint), and back to playing piano. All three will soothe my soul through this, making it easier for me to soothe Richard's.

If you've read through this whole thing, thanks for visiting! Hopefully I'll have worthwhile stuff to share with you in the future!

Absence Makes the Fingers Fearful

Halloween is the perfect time to face my fears. But what could I possibly be afraid of? What have I been most afraid of lately?

It isn't wrinkles. I have plenty of those, and they don't bother me. It isn't really any physical feature. I'm pretty content with all that, and even if I weren't, what am I supposed to do about it? Go under the knife. Please.

Courtesy of Freepik.com

I'm not afraid of teaching. I've been doing that all over my house lately, teaching my kids Latin and other stuff, working them hard, lecturing, writing lesson plans, creating projects for my kids to tackle. It's time-consuming, but still worth it.

No, what I've feared lately is writing. That thing I once loved to do passionately, but which, for a variety of reasons, I haven't done in months. I've considered it millions of times. I've even briefly felt my heart pitter patter with excitement at the thought of starting a new project. But my fear has always overcome me. I would have gone absolutely mad except I threw myself into reading with the same level of passion.

But reading can only tide me over so long. And its effectiveness has passed. I've stopped reading at least a dozen books over the last few weeks, dissatisfied with the characters, the plot development, or even the narrative voice of them. I've suddenly become a listless reader. And that can mean only one thing: Fearful or not, I need to return to my writing, or I will go off the deep end, so to speak. (You see, it's been so long since I've written that I'm using all sorts of bad cliches. AAK!)

It's fear-facing time. Time to face the scary blank white Microsoft Word screen and type something into it. Time to make blogging, playwriting, noveling, and poetry writing one of my four big priorities (FINALLY it will take precedence over "cleaning"!) Time to venture into the web-covered old haunted house that was my writing life. Time to sweep out the cobwebs, the spiders, the red-eyed rats, and clean up the place so that I can fill its walls with some new artwork.

Time to write, write, write every day. Without fail.

And no more cliches! (Okay, maybe a couple. I'm sure you'll see them here and there when you come back.)

Shadows

Shadows follow me
Gliding with soft whispers
Along the walls

I hear their calling
When they reach out
But I pull back

I float through the months
Fearing to touch
What I do not understand

But
Then
I
Choose
To
Embrace
Shadow

And the world opens to me
As I open to it
To the shadow of it
Of me

I see everything
Vividly
And it is more beautiful
Than I imagined.

The Stupids

They are everywhere
Their thick brains
Firing off
Thicker thoughts

They wander everywhere
Onto TV screens
Spouting inanity
In an inane world

They hurt everything
Killing without any reason but hate
Hating without any reason but fear
Fearing for no reason

They follow us everywhere
Pushing their nonsense on us
Expecting us to act upon
Their nonsense

Yes, we are right
They are everywhere
Zombies out to make the world their own
We are right to be afraid

Yet we are so, so wrong
For we are not more than they
We, too, are stupid in the world
We, too, rationalize our own thinking
We, too, believe that only we are right
We, too, want everyone to act as we do
Where we all go wrong is in
Thinking we know everything.

Unholy War

digitaljournal.com

War is never holy
Holy is the warmth of held hands
Of a blanket given in cold weather
Of shelter found in a nightmare storm

Hatred isn't holy
Holy is the understanding nod
The freedom found in other points of view
Mercy and forgiveness of both enemy and friend

Fear is never holy
Holy is the sweet embrace
The touch of love bridging across time and space
The moving of one's self beyond one's prejudices

Killing isn't holy
Holy is the body beautiful
The clean, unbruised, un-holed, uncut skin
Of peaceful people

The hate and fear we feel cannot be holy
It is the barrier that separates us from our brothers
From the enemy we refuse to understand
From the friends who would be, if we would only let go of our assumptions

These feelings we call "righteous"
Are the indignations of petty selfishness and envy
The workings of the lowest, meanest thoughts
The thickened wall that separates us from our God

Writing Wednesday: Why I Don't Need an Agent (Yet)

I don't need an agent.

I don't.

No, I really don't.

I know what an agent can get me. I know that I can only send out my manuscript to a handful of publishing houses without one. I also know that even if I'm allowed to submit my stuff to a publisher, an agent's recommendation will carry more weight. I know that the agent will help me get a good contract, that I'll have a much better chance of making it as an author if I have one.

I know all of this. But I still don't need an agent.

Why? Because none of my books are ready. Not a single one. Because, even if I manage to write the best pitch letter EVER, the book it describes isn't good enough to be published.

Right now all my stuff sucks.

I don't need an editor, either. I don't need anyone to tell me my stuff sucks, mainly because I know it does already. I even know what's wrong with most of the plots/characters/etc. I just can't figure out whether fixing these problems is worth it. Will the novel, if repaired, be any more worth reading?

I don't know. I'm at that awful stage in so many things--painting, writing, piano playing--when I'm good enough to realize how completely awful I am. It's a hard peak to reach, but it's even harder to face when I've done so much work only to realize that most of it's a waste.

So I don't need an agent.

I need a good book to read, a good night's sleep, and a little perspective. Then I'll return to the computer and start editing (again), return to the piano to work on Pachebel's damn Canon in D, and return to my paints to try something new. I do realize this is all practice. I just wish I could see my practicing getting me somewhere.

Perhaps I need a little courage, too. Anybody got some extra courage they can spare?

The Peace of Morning

Only quiet sounds

The brush of sheets

The softest tap of

Bare toes

A sniff

A sigh

Invade the silence of

Morning

The stillness

Rests heavily

Over all

Too heavy

For anger

Argument

Fights and hate

Hearts beat

Steady and strong

Without the stress and pain

Of conflict

Oh, if we could hold onto

This

Peace

And see the world with such

Clarity

And recognize

And halt

Our own words

When they shatter it into shards of sharp glass

And spread the blood of

Fear

Anger

War

Treachery

Hate

I cannot stop others

But I can vow

To keep this silence

Intact

Not just for this morning hour

But all my life.

Time

Anger wanes

With time

Unless we grasp onto it

With hate in our fingers

Bitterness pounding in our forehead

Resentment oozing from our skin

Like sweat

Selfish to prove others wrong

To be right instead of at peace.

Sorrow leaves us

As years pass

Unless we decide

We need to understand

The reason for it

Unless we need to find

That we have caused it in some way

That we can blame someone

For the tears

Let go of time

Release your pain and hate

Forgive

For while you seek the

Answers

That do not exist

You lose

The time you have

For nothing

Night Dreaming

My little one screams

The same terror I have heard

From her

Night after night

Since she was two

"Stay away!"

"But that is mine!"

Or simply the blood-chilling

Screeching fright of being chased by a lion

Or a dark, brooding unseen thing

With a growl

I, too, have had my dreams

But when I was young

They were dreams of flight

Of escape from the ground

A gentle lifting off from rooftops

A soft, not-too-sad goodbye before I floated away

To a kinder place

On my own

Listening to my daughter

When I reach for her

And whisper words to end the dream

I wonder why

Her dreams are not like mine

Why she can't fly,

But why she runs instead from unseen fears

Have I made her life that fearful

When I'd hoped to make her happy?

Not like me when I was young,

Afraid of everything around me

When my dreams were ended, my eyes opened.

Perhaps I had no need

For more fear

Perhaps my dreams allowed me to escape

The fears I knew too well.

Perhaps my daughter

To be human

Must fear something

Even something she cannot see, or name,

But she does not wish

To escape her life, her fearsome life,

As I once did.

What are You Afraid of?

A recent incident of paranoia left me shaken. I was at the YMCA, doing my hours of Zumba, and I came across a person who looked remarkably like someone I knew--and mistrusted. Within moments I had constructed a scenario whereby this person and others had checked my kids out from the childcare area and taken them away. At the end of my exercise class, I would find my children gone, and I would never see them again.

Frightening stuff. Paranoid, yes, but frightening enough that I left the class and had a long discussion with the childcare staff about other people trying to check my kids out. I found out that my own husband would not be allowed to check them out without prior notification by me.

I felt relieved. I also felt stupid. And paranoid. But I just couldn't help it. I have one huge fear in my life, and that is losing my children.

When my oldest was an infant, I drove two hours a day with her to work, dropping her off in a daycare right across the street from where I taught (so that I could nurse her in between classes). I'd wake up from nightmares about trucks slamming into my car and killing her, and I drove stiff with tension, certain that if I lost my concentration for a second, my daughter would suffer for it.

Once I became pregnant with my second, the nightmares turned to drowning, where I would put my daughter in a floatation device, only to have someone steal it from her, and find her body drowned under the water. I cannot tell you how many times I woke up screaming from that one.

Now the nightmares mostly consist of losing my kids in public places, or having someone come into my house to take them. Each one makes it impossible to go back to sleep, for I know of nothing in the world so horrible as losing one of my kids.

I am not sure how to turn that fear into writing, but looking back at what I have written, much of my plays and novels deal with lesser fears, and fictionalizing them has helped me handle the fear more effectively. Fear provides a serious risk for the characters, one that readers will find compelling.

But are some fears too hard to face? I read a YA book about a month ago that shivered me to my bones, a book told from the POV of a girl who had been kidnapped, raped, and dominated by a man for nearly six years. It was too painful, too scary, and for the first time in my life I skipped to its end, just to make sure she got out of the situation. Had I not been a mother, I might have been able to read the book in its entirety. My children--and my greatest fear--made that impossible.

What minor fears work on you? What major fears are too much for you to handle? When do books go too far, or not far enough for you to care?

Worst Case Scenario

I woke with a quote from a movie in my head: "What's the worst that could happen?" -- a line spoken by a spiritual leader in a sort of fluffy movie called The Jewel of the Nile. Why the line? Perhaps it's because I have shifted towards my doomsayer's mentality again. When my life is in limbo--when I am unsure of the future, whether job prospects, financial situations, schooling, etc.--I tend to imagine all sorts of awful possibilities. And yesterday was no exception. 

I have several possible job prospects right now, but none are guaranteed except a single class in the fall. If that is all I teach, I will have lots of free time but very little income. However, if all the other job possibilities come through, I may be teaching upwards of seven classes (or even more!), work for FOUR different schools, and be too busy to pee more than twice a day (and for me, with my tiny bladder, that would be a frightening prospect). 

So, now the spiritual guide within me speaks: "What is the worst that could happen?" And I immediately settle down. The worst? I would be very busy. So busy I'd have to hire a housekeeper (hurray!). But this busy pattern would last, at most, a semester. By mid-December I would have planned out which schools I would keep, which I would drop, and I and my life would return to balance (and more frequent bathroom breaks). 

My kids would not have as much fun, and Richard would find himself having to make up for my deficiencies (something that would do him a lot of good). He'd have to make a few dinners a week, watch a little less football, and otherwise remain more attentive to the kids than usual. Then again, if I take the kids to the YMCA (a place they LOVE) I can still grade papers in the lobby... and they can still have fun while being safely monitored. All of us would enjoy that break.

My kids would have to become more independent. Crystal could put lunches together in the morning. Brandon would need to get himself dressed without nagging or he'd miss the bus entirely. They'd have more time for homework, with us all sitting at the dinner table working for a few hours (me included). 

Honestly, when I think it through and put it into precise images, it doesn't sound as bad as my nightmares. And that is what helps. If the worst isn't so bad, I think I can handle it. I have used this before with my writing. I consider what happens if I never become a published writer, if all this work I do on plays, novels, and other writings never brings in any money, or never reaches a wider audience. What's the worst that can happen? 

In fifty years, when I am old and bent over, I'll look back and see that I spent decades upon decades doing something I loved, and even if it never brought in much, it was fulfilling work nonetheless. I cherish the time I have spent writing. It has brought me joy, no matter whether it brings me anything else. The rest would only be gravy.

So, what do you fear? What's the worst that could happen?