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April 04, 2005 2:16 PM- fixation, la troisieme

fixation, part one

fixation, part the second

Before I go any further (and in case you're wondering when this fixation will end-- I don't know. I may be testing my knowledge of roman numerals before this has run its course), you must know how helpful your comments and emails are to me. The emails, my god. I cannot believe anyone would sit down to share their own stories and perspective and offer me such kindness and encouragement?I?m truly amazed. And inspired.

As a result, I?m committed to stay the course with this despite the fact that it has already pulled me into embarrassing territory and promises to humiliate me further. The beast is between my legs, so to speak, and I am going to fucking ride it out.

Why embarrassed? Why humiliated? Because people I know (I KNOW!) I have nothing to whine about. I know this is all of my own creation. I?ve read me some Louise Hay. I could quote to you from Eva Pierrakos. Hell, if you tickled me I?d admit to having a Wayne Dwyer book on my shelf (although I never bought it, it was given to me?I swear). But this knowledge is the booby prize.

The booby prize, my friends.

Brain and heart. They do not run from the same motor. Or, if they have the same motor it?s not run by the same firmware, or something like that. Don?t you remember how Woody Allen explained this all? The heart wants what it wants, reason be damned. You don?t remember, or you hate Woody Allen? Whatever. My point is simple. Changing behavior, ripping out the old wiring and replacing it with the new?it?s not a matter of clicking my heels together three times.

I read a book this weekend (sorry, did I not tell you to sit first to prepare for the shock? I. Read. A. Book. All the way through without tossing it aside).

Odd isn?t it how books land in our hands just when we need them? My brother-in-law gave this to T for Christmas two years ago. Neither of us read it. Then, somehow when T was digging around in our boxes of stuff in the basement it surfaced. I picked it up, intrigued. The Last American Man, by Elizabeth Gilbert.

Eustace Conway, the so called last American man, is an amazing person. He is also, whether or not he is conscious of it, driven by demons. I am not driven by demons. You would be hard-pressed to say that I?m driven at all. Possessed or obsessed seem to be the better adjectives. As I wrote back to one of those incredibly kind emails-- I feel like Cronos with a bellyful. I have to get these stories out and I think it is true I have been misguided in my attempts by venturing into genres that are not a fit for me, such as short stories--- or screenplays, a particularly pointless activity for a woman living in bumfuckville. If nothing else, maybe I am just finally going to settle in to writing long prose pieces and not freak out about it.

You see, the writing thing?I get it. I?m writing to you right now. (But please understand when I say-- journal writing or blogging is just not where it's at for me-- I enjoy it, I've always kept a journal, but it's not the same thing as creating works that stand on their own). I can write after my day job as most creatives (writers, et al) do. AND, most importantly, nobody (by nobody I exclude Dan Brown, Grisham, et al) makes a good living as a writer which I should know since I was the senior contributing editor for a magazine for five years which meant I produced 3500 word count articles plus smaller pieces, month in month out, which meant I was writing constantly. For peanuts.

That?s when I slid into this gig. The business thing. Compared to my ?working at home? (for the uninitiated all that means is that you are never at home but always at the office) where I took calls from the west coast at 9pm on Friday nights and wrote copy Sunday afternoons, etc, business was CAKE. Fucking cake.

You walk in. Flip on your computer. Drink a coffee. Check the New York Times. Answer the phone. Sit in a meeting. Go out to lunch. Leave at 5 pm. And they PAY you for this. Way more than I ever made slapping verbs onto nouns.

Perhaps all I am going through right now is a garden variety midlife crisis. It seems possible to me that?s what is happening here. It isn?t easy for me to take pride in the day job since the world surely doesn?t need more advertising and if I had to describe what I am creating it would be the world illuminated in Blade Runner. Hardly, what I wanted to grow up to do. Au contraire.

You know how there are all these development books for children? At 3 months they should be able to spit up and at 18 months they should be able to flag a taxi and at 5 years old they should be able to convince the neighborhood kids to give them all their lunch money? Why do these books stop in adolescence? Why?

Surely these developmental phases continue until we die. Surely I should be able to pick up a book that tells me I am in the questioning my life purpose phase of life that I should have wrapped up oh, about, 16 years ago.

*Sigh*

I am going to keep writing. (It?s not like I have a choice). And I am going to keep working this job until our house is done and then I can review our finances and see if I can shift into a more creative, less well-paid gig. But this illusion of living like Thoreau at Soliden must be dismantled. (Not that I'm a nature writer or an environmentalist or anything remotely like that).

Oh, damn-- I still owe you the publishing saga . . . see? The never-ending post.

And did I thank you for your sweet support? Did I? THANK YOU.

got 2 cents?



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meg says:
Maybe YOU can write that mid-life crisis developmental phase book? Perhaps that is your true calling? *giggling madly*
posted on: April 04

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bp says:
hmm, Meg-- that is an excellent idea. Only problem is then I'd have to deal with those fucking publisher people again. Grrrr. But still, I like the way your mind works.
posted on: April 04

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bellabelly says:
I just love you, BP-- I laughed so hard at your comment about the boys that I had to call sam and read it to her. Oh? and stop by my place, please-- there is an announcement that you might be interested in.
posted on: April 04

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lizardek says:
Meg's comment made me laugh and laugh! :D Mid-life crisis...hmmm...that does sound kinda familiar...
posted on: April 04

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stephanie says:
Why didn't I think of this before. You need a nap and a good martini. That'll fix you right up. Works every time for me. ;)
posted on: April 04

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Margaret says:
All of us have a book in us, but have no control over when it will come out. Je suis impatiente, comme toi.
posted on: April 04

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river selkie says:
two things: one: shit. i forgot what i was going to say. the good news is that in the blogging medium, i can take three hours to remember and then it's as if no time has passed at all. cause here i am remembering... one: have you thought of self-publishing? it's getting easier to do that these days. and you have many loyal fans that would pimp their hearts out for you. :) two: one of the things i brilliantly told a client (and myself) the other day. the [good] fairy tale endings always come AFTER the hero/heroine faces great self-doubt and hardship....just when they think they will never suceed, just when they lose hope or about to. the difference between heros and most people is that the heroes hang on for just a little longer until they reach their goal. hang on to your goals and dreams, for just a little longer. you don't know how close you might be!
posted on: April 04

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gatsby says:
exactly what river selkie said. you've got to fall way farther into the well-- you've got to be standing in the gun line at k-mart scribbling names on a spiral snoopy notepad. you've got to get up everyday sobbing, continue feverishly bawling your eyes out and replenishing fluids throughout your workday, on the car ride home, and right up to the moment before bed when you finally seem ready to stop, until you begin to wind your hated alarm clock and bam! waterworks for another fifteen minutes. you got to be awkwardly interrupting friends at dinner parties to ask if they'd take your dogs, should something happen- and to say something now if there's any of your stuff they would really like. you've got to get really outwardly weird and do things like bury your mail and talk to dead people. --- and once you get right up against the point of no return- the intersection where you can see the crossing lane's light turning from green to yellow- then it's all going to work out. -- maybe this is where you're at, in which case you're poised to dream of a cure for cancer or be knocked off your bicycle by donald trump's bentley, (his fault); possibly you'll be asked to prima ballerina with the joffery ballet of chicago. --- so... i got nothing.
posted on: April 05

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samantha says:
Good - all I can whisper to myself is that , good, my fairyblogmother is not giving up! What keeps running through my mind is those amazing authors who slogged away and wrote through all the years of getting rejected and so totally NOT published (I'm thinking of my St. Madeleine L'Engle especially) and look, just look what happened. Also? I've read The Last American Man book, and it was so great. I felt a little sorry for him at the end of it, but I definitely admired someone with so much...vision. One of the sweetest things an old man I know says to me is this: Do you know that you are loved? And obviously you are loved, bluepoppy, by all of us.
posted on: April 05

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Coquette says:
"I am going to keep writing. (It?s not like I have a choice)." You're a writer. You can't *not* write. Proof. Pudding.
posted on: April 05

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Sheryl says:
Have you read Sellevision by Augusten Burroughs? If not, I can't decide whether it would comfort you or make things worse. Anyway, there are good ads. Well done, entertaining, pretty ads. I mean, it ain't Tolstoy, but it butters your bread. It may be far reaching, but some advertising could be considered art...? Anyway, so glad you're not giving up your writing. I'm also very glad that you have ideas. Ideas are a beautiful gift. Even if you wish you could spend more time getting them down on paper, at least they are there in your belly. There are some of us who would like to be writers, but we have no ideas.
posted on: April 05

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