I Confess

The Las Vegas Cathedral

I killed my prologue.  And I’ve hidden the body.

There.  I’ve admitted my guilt.   Wait–you want contrition, too?  Fine.  I’m heartily sorry for my sins, committed knowingly and unknowingly.  I’m sorry for my relentless fidgeting, dying dialogue, needless gestures, redundant redundancies,  talking heads, poisonous predictability, and my bloody backstory. 

Why yes, I had recently attended a Writers Workshop.  Why do you ask?  (Oh, and I’m sorry for using past perfect tense and the adverb in the middle of my response.)

Today I am back at my desk recharged, refocused, and brimming with ideas for my story.  Special thanks to human dynamos/authors Randall Platt and Dianna Love who generously shared their knowledge, their secrets for success and their encouragement.

Detective Mark McNett, from the Las Vegas Metro Police Department, gave a fascinating presentation on homocide investigation.  And I enjoyed the Crime Panel and their advice for realistic portrayal of crime scene investigation, forensic techniques and the interaction between law enforcement agencies. 

Chris Roerden,  author of Don’t Murder Your Mystery:  24 Fiction-Writing Techniques To Save Your Manuscript From Turning Up D.O.A., graciously offered to critique a few pages of my draft manuscript.  Ten minutes with her was worth the price of admission to the conference.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart!

The most painful, yet informative event of the conference was the anonymous first page read with the literary agents.  Brave souls submitted the first page of their manuscript to be read aloud by a moderator at Friday night’s dinner.  Six agents sat on the stage to demonstrate how they evaluated submissions.  As they listened to the moderator reading each submission, each agent raised their had at the point where they would personally stop reading and toss the manuscript in the reject pile.  When all six hands were in the air, the moderator stopped and each agent explained why they would reject the story.  Twelve manuscripts were read and only one made it to the end of the first page.  Some were rejected within four or five words.  I can only imagine how painful it was to have your darling shredded in front of a crowd of your peers.  God bless those writers for their courage.  I hope they bounce back and learn as much as I did from the exercise.

 As this was my third year attending the Las Vegas Writers Conference, I was not afraid to introduce myself to other writers, agents or publishers.  I even screwed up my courage to sit at the “cool kids” table at the banquet on Saturday night.  And my reward was being offered a piece of Jim McCarthy’s personal cheesecake. (Who brings their own cheesecake to a banquet?)

Best of all, I made another new writing friend, Chara: a sparkly, intelligent, witty full-time Mom and part-time lawyer who lives about two miles from my house.   I can’t wait to visit with her this week to plot where we’re going from here.

Guardian Angel

And if all that’s not enough, I spent several wonderful hours with my lovely friend Angel and her family who were in Vegas for a different conference.  Angel and I attended mass at the Cathedral in Las Vegas.  We arrived near the end of the 9:30 mass and waited in the side foyer until the church emptied before joining the parade of tourists taking snapshots and exploring the nooks and crannies.  As Angel and I were discussing the theme depicted of one of the stained glass windows, she pointed out a priest standing near the altar facing a man and woman.  Smack dab in the middle of  the sea of tourists, this couple was exchanging their marriage vows in a ceremony that lasted no more than five minutes.  Only in Vegas…

  Later, Angel and her family trekked across town to my house to have a quick drink before I took them to my favorite pizza place for dinner.   Safe miles on your long drive tonight, Angel.

 

 

Stained Glass Windows in the Las Vegas Cathedral

Honesty – It’s a struggle

Of  course I’m an honest person!  I mean I’ve always thought of myself as being an honest person. I will give back the extra dime if the cashier miscounts my change.  And every April 14th,  I agonize over my calculation of the value of the cast off clothing/household goods I donated to Good Will throughout the year.  How much is a used spatula worth anyway?   

Earlier this week I was listening to a motivational speaker who said something to the effect that if you’re not honest with yourself about the real reasons why you want to accomplish something, and why you’ve failed to accomplish something in the past, you’re cheating yourself.  

Hmmmmmmm….  Am I as honest as I think I am?

I keep a journal.  I scribble away several days a week (in a good week – since I’m being honest).  Sometimes I write about where I am, describing what I see or hear, the people around me.  Sometimes I write about how angry I got at that idiot woman who toodled along at 15 mph below the posted speed in the left lane as if it were her own private expressway. Occasionally, I dump my rage, sorrow, pettiness, selfishness, whininess, loneliness, wishes, hopes and dreams in the pages in between sketches of dialog or setting for a story I’m writing.  Sometimes I write grocery lists and DO NOT FORGET lists in the middle of a paragraph about how it felt to be strapped inside a machine that measured the irregularity of my heart rhythm while some sort of tracer chemical mingled with my blood.  I thought that my journal captured a reasonably accurate snapshot of a few minutes of life in my head.

I lied.

I realized I write with an eye over my shoulder, editing each thought before it has a chance to become fully-realized.  And not just in my journal.  I think with my internal eye constantly watching, criticizing, censoring.  I stop thoughts and change channels to avoid discomfort, to avoid facing reality, to avoid facing the truth about some things I’d rather not face.

I find myself making decisions and doing things based on what other people might think, and suffer along in a cloud of resentment because I couldn’t bring myself to be honest.  It’s an ingrained pattern of behavior that I choose because it’s familiar, not because it works for me.

The result of all this lying is that I’ve become disconnected and I never even knew it.  I don’t know what the truth is, what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, what I want and what I need.  So this morning I sat with my journal open and wrote:  ”What do you think?  What do you want?”

And I waited.

When a rush of superficial thoughts streamed in to fill the void, I refused to write them down because I wanted to find what was past that stuff.  The truth.  I thought I should have something BIG to think/want.  Then I realized that was censoring, too.  So I started to scribble the little thoughts (more coffee, world peace, another madeline) and when the little stuff petered out, I just sat quietly and anxiously and waited for IT.  At the end of my writing session I was still waiting.  I don’t have IT yet.  

But I’m asking the questions.

I don’t expect to solve the world’s problems, or hope to make a dent in the problem of Somalia.  All I am looking for is a way to keep my heart and my mind open and not squelch my truth before I even know what it might be.

Time To Quit Effing Around

My e-friend, Lisa Kenney, posted about writing/not writing and said that she needs to quit effing around.  I think that sums up where I am on my novel.  I’ve been mulling over ideas and writing sketches and snippets for two short stories, but my novel lies gathering dust on the corner of the kitchen table.

Since I went down to half-time at work last week, I’ve caught up on my sleep, soaked in the tub, walked the dog (miles and miles), done loads and loads of laundry and dishes, read a few novels, vacuumed, and worked an auction.  I’m well-rested, well-fed, exercised, quite clean and . . . not writing much.

We’re headed to California for a family wedding this weekend.  I’ll spend quality time with my grandson, and probably drink too much wine with my lovely sisters-in-law, avoid my mother-in-law, and wear shoes that HURT!  I don’t plan on writing much (but that’s when I usually do my best work.)  I’ll bring my notebook and my speedy pens and do my best.

Come next week, it’s definitely time to quit effing around!

A Disaster . . . An Opportunity

My boss came back from lunch this afternoon and called me into his office.  Due to the lack of work, we’re adopting a half-time schedule.  So I’ll be working afternoons, four days per week, and being paid one half of my salary.

After the panic subsided, I decided to be thankful for this opportunity and time to write.  I may have to find another part-time job to pick up some hours in the evenings to help ends meet.  But I’m not going to fall apart.  I’m not going to worry.  I’ll just pay closer attention to our expenses and made better decisions.  And use the extra time to write.

I can handle this.

Three thousand, six hundred and ten

I had three full days, seventy two hours to write this weekend, while my husband spent some time doing chores at his parent’s house in California. 

Friday:  Got up early (for a non-work day), made coffee, put on the stereo, did laundry, did my roots, wrote in my journal about how much writing I’d accomplish this weekend.  Went to bed at midnight.

Saturday: Got up, went to chiropractor (let me back up a bit and mention that I’m wearing a neck brace/cervical collar due to a recent aggravation of an old injury), took my neighbor to lunch, took a bath, journaled about how much writing I’d get done that night, attended a sound healing/concert (Tibetial Singing Bowls?) with my chiropractor/friend.  Stayed up til past 3:00 am watching cocky NBA superstars show off in China, and a few really great track events.

Sunday:  Got up early (despite staying up so late), stripped the bed, did laundry, washed dishes, vacuumed, made coffee, booted up the computer, watered plants, made labels for new files, pinched dead leaves, applied new labels to new files, sat down and wrote three thousand, six hundred and ten words.  I got that darn character out of the muddy river and back to the barracks already.  I finished the chapter I’d started on 19 March.  Five long months.

My hands hurt.

My butt hurts.

I’m hungry.

I’m going to bed.