My brain is working a bit strange these days, under the influence of cold medication and general exhaustion and stuffiness. I feel I must blog and so I do, with no rhyme or reason, or feelings of responsibility to/for what comes out.
I'm going to a super sweet sixteen this weekend for my cousin Gabby. I received an invitation in the mail that was sent in a little blue box and I was told that it is a 'Tiffany-inspired' birthday party. Well then. She's only inviting 80 of her closest friends so I feel privileged to even get an invite. I've also been told there is a special surprise in store for the birthday girl. I really hope it's Justin Beiber.
Yesterday, I stayed home from work to nurse my cold and I saw the episode of "Little House On Prairie" in which Mary goes blind. Wow. I mean...just...wow. That's all I can say. Those were some very serious times on the prairie. I'm not sure how I survived it, never mind the Ingalls'. I mean seriously, one day your eyes hurt and the next day you're blind? Is that how it works?
Speaking of blindness, I once thought Mandy Patinkin was blind because he had to wear these really big glasses whenever he performed. But it turned out that he had a corneal transplant because he was legally blind in his left eye.
And does anyone remember Nancy Kerrigan's mother? She was legally blind and she used to watch Nancy perform from the stands watching this television that always looked very fuzzy to me. I never understood it. Do you look at fuzzy things but it looks clear?
Guess what? On May 20th, I'm going to see Linda Eder at the Town Hall. I'm obsessed with her beautiful singing voice and I've been waiting for the dates and times and places to all line up so I can finally see her. And they finally did. I am so excited, I can barely stand it. You should watch this video of her singing 'Man of La Mancha' (below). Because you can be a woman and be Don Quixote if you're Linda Eder. That's just how it works.
Please feel free to share your feelings on any subject what-so-ever in the comments.
Showing posts with label But I digress.... Show all posts
Showing posts with label But I digress.... Show all posts
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
A Singer
There comes a point in time, at most elementary schools, when you have to choose what instrument you'd like to play in music class. Somewhere along the line, my parents came into possession of an old upright piano and, so, the instrument was chosen for me. I began playing when I was seven years old. When it came time to choose an instrument in school, I felt pretty good about myself, Well, I'm sure I put my hand on my hips, as eight year olds do, I already play piano, so I don't need to choose an instrument.
My teachers didn't really agree with this, but I stuck to my guns and refused to lug any ridiculous cellos back and forth to school or play the dainty, girl instruments like the clarinet or the flute. I remember that my arch nemesis, who was my arch nemesis because she and I battled for 1st place in the 100 yard dash at field day and because she and I shared the same name, which forever made me known as Melissa S., when I just wanted to be Melissa for goodness sakes, and I didn't want to have to take all that extra effort to put my last initial on every school assignment I ever turned in ever, was very smug and proud of herself because she was the only child who chose to play the oboe.
It was decided that everybody had to play an instrument whether they played piano at home or not and if I wasn't going to play a physical instrument, then I had to be in chorus. So, for four years in elementary school, I had to stand up in front of audiences and sing things like Whitney Houston's "Greatest Love Of All" which made everyone cry at assemblies and talent shows and annual concerts, because there is apparently nothing more moving than 50 out-of-tune children singing about "learning to love themselves". When I got to middle school, I was required to take music classes and, still, no one considered classical piano training worth the credit, so I had to take two more years of chorus. And when I got to high school, I was required to stay in chorus for one more year of music credit and, before I knew it, I was going on seven years of chorus so I figured: why not finish up the next three years of high school in the choir, and while I'm at it, sing at Christmas concerts and graduation too?
When it was all said and done, I spent ten years playing an "instrument" (But your voice is an instrument! my chorus teachers would exclaim) I never intended to play. And, to be honest, I never once considered myself a singer. Chorus had been chosen for me and, for years, I blended into the soprano section, quietly singing my required part as if it were simply my duty. I remember having to go to small practices where I would barely sing above a whisper with 5 or 6 other girls, and my chorus teacher, who had known me for years, became quite startled, one day, and said, "Melissa, that's almost perfect. Now, if only we could hear you." Of course, I had no intention of being heard.
But towards the end of my senior year, something came over me. Perhaps it was the shock of being almost perfect that made me feel I could audition for a solo. You had to do it in front of the entire class and I remember impulsively raising my hand and jumping out of my seat, my heart racing, and I listened for the piano, and somehow, no matter how many times I had practiced the part in my head, I could not keep track of the rhythm. So that, when I sang, my voice was completely ahead of the music and it sounded totally thrown off. It was a train wreck. It remains, to this day, one of the most embarrassing moments of my life and it confirmed what I had known for a very long time: I was not a singer.
Now, at thirty years old, I find myself in a strange place. My job does not require me to sing, but I have found myself in a position where I can sing if I so choose. And I do. I often go into our little media room and sing music demos for songs that will go into our toys. And, oddly enough, Vice Presidents and CEO's of major corporations listen to recordings of my voice in many pitches and presentations. I have prefaced nearly every presentation with "I'm singing the demo, so you can't laugh" and have been surprised when no one does. In fact, I have been told I sound more than okay and one person, God bless her soul, told me I sounded like Belle from Beauty and the Beast (a comment that nearly made me cry of happiness).
As it turns out, I am a "singer". And it took me a long time to figure it out. I don't regret the years that I sang quietly in the background, but it does make me wonder, what if I had auditioned for a solo when I was 8 instead of 18? Why didn't I want to be heard? What was I afraid of?
You're probably asking me, why are you telling me this long (I'm sorry it's so long) story? Well, only you can know. Whatever it is you don't believe you are, I urge you to rethink it. Don't waste your time being afraid.
My teachers didn't really agree with this, but I stuck to my guns and refused to lug any ridiculous cellos back and forth to school or play the dainty, girl instruments like the clarinet or the flute. I remember that my arch nemesis, who was my arch nemesis because she and I battled for 1st place in the 100 yard dash at field day and because she and I shared the same name, which forever made me known as Melissa S., when I just wanted to be Melissa for goodness sakes, and I didn't want to have to take all that extra effort to put my last initial on every school assignment I ever turned in ever, was very smug and proud of herself because she was the only child who chose to play the oboe.
It was decided that everybody had to play an instrument whether they played piano at home or not and if I wasn't going to play a physical instrument, then I had to be in chorus. So, for four years in elementary school, I had to stand up in front of audiences and sing things like Whitney Houston's "Greatest Love Of All" which made everyone cry at assemblies and talent shows and annual concerts, because there is apparently nothing more moving than 50 out-of-tune children singing about "learning to love themselves". When I got to middle school, I was required to take music classes and, still, no one considered classical piano training worth the credit, so I had to take two more years of chorus. And when I got to high school, I was required to stay in chorus for one more year of music credit and, before I knew it, I was going on seven years of chorus so I figured: why not finish up the next three years of high school in the choir, and while I'm at it, sing at Christmas concerts and graduation too?
When it was all said and done, I spent ten years playing an "instrument" (But your voice is an instrument! my chorus teachers would exclaim) I never intended to play. And, to be honest, I never once considered myself a singer. Chorus had been chosen for me and, for years, I blended into the soprano section, quietly singing my required part as if it were simply my duty. I remember having to go to small practices where I would barely sing above a whisper with 5 or 6 other girls, and my chorus teacher, who had known me for years, became quite startled, one day, and said, "Melissa, that's almost perfect. Now, if only we could hear you." Of course, I had no intention of being heard.
But towards the end of my senior year, something came over me. Perhaps it was the shock of being almost perfect that made me feel I could audition for a solo. You had to do it in front of the entire class and I remember impulsively raising my hand and jumping out of my seat, my heart racing, and I listened for the piano, and somehow, no matter how many times I had practiced the part in my head, I could not keep track of the rhythm. So that, when I sang, my voice was completely ahead of the music and it sounded totally thrown off. It was a train wreck. It remains, to this day, one of the most embarrassing moments of my life and it confirmed what I had known for a very long time: I was not a singer.
Now, at thirty years old, I find myself in a strange place. My job does not require me to sing, but I have found myself in a position where I can sing if I so choose. And I do. I often go into our little media room and sing music demos for songs that will go into our toys. And, oddly enough, Vice Presidents and CEO's of major corporations listen to recordings of my voice in many pitches and presentations. I have prefaced nearly every presentation with "I'm singing the demo, so you can't laugh" and have been surprised when no one does. In fact, I have been told I sound more than okay and one person, God bless her soul, told me I sounded like Belle from Beauty and the Beast (a comment that nearly made me cry of happiness).
As it turns out, I am a "singer". And it took me a long time to figure it out. I don't regret the years that I sang quietly in the background, but it does make me wonder, what if I had auditioned for a solo when I was 8 instead of 18? Why didn't I want to be heard? What was I afraid of?
You're probably asking me, why are you telling me this long (I'm sorry it's so long) story? Well, only you can know. Whatever it is you don't believe you are, I urge you to rethink it. Don't waste your time being afraid.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
It Only Takes One 'Yes'
And now we stop our regularly scheduled blogging to share some exciting news!
No...I do not have a literary agent (yet). I have something much better.
I have this guy! Who will kill me for posting this picture...
In other words, Tyler and I are engaged! We are really excited and it's a wonderful reminder that it truly does take one 'yes'. ;-) What a wonderful way to kick off the holidays and finish 2010. I feel so lucky and blessed.
No...I do not have a literary agent (yet). I have something much better.
I have this guy! Who will kill me for posting this picture...
In other words, Tyler and I are engaged! We are really excited and it's a wonderful reminder that it truly does take one 'yes'. ;-) What a wonderful way to kick off the holidays and finish 2010. I feel so lucky and blessed.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The Recruiter
The other day, Tyler was talking about how his coworker's son is being recruited by college football coaches for his prowess on the field. We thought it was so exciting for him to be sought after for doing something that he loves.This led to a discussion about how much fun it would be to be a recruiter! At first, I was thinking about this purely in terms of high school sports. And I wondered, what sport would I recruit for? Since I played tennis in high school, I thought this would be the natural choice for me (yes, I love to put myself in 'what if' situations...) but then I thought it would be fun to get a little creative.
What if you could recruit aspiring writers to be on your 'team'? How would you do it?
For me, it would not be in any typical fashion, like reading a writing sample or something boring like that. No, no, no. I would line up unsuspecting writers and hold up blank pages before them, not allowing them to write, in order see how long they lasted before they had a nervous breakdown. Longest time wins.
Soon after, I would test their ability to handle caffeine by force feeding them jolt and red bulls and see which loser throws up first. I might also test their typing skills in diverse weather conditions and varying levels of darkness. Blizzard. At dusk. GO!
The audio test would be a good one. See how much they could write while playing sound effects of screaming children, crowded coffee shops, highways and sirens.
Then. The ultimate test. I would scream, "Write 250 words. Stat!" While they furiously wrote, I would egg them on, shouting "What's your hook?! Hook me, b***es! Hook me in 250 words or less!" If they failed to hook me, this would result in paddling.
I also considered playing a broken record that said, "I'm sorry, I just didn't connect to the material as much as I had hoped" to see which sorry soul cracked first. But I thought that was pretty cruel.
Hey...wait a minute...
Photo credit: Brit
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The Lost Stories
About a year and a half ago, my dear computer was on the fritz (is that a real expression? I've heard my mother use it). It had strange start-ups, often went into safe-mode, and it froze a lot. While I could still get on, I frantically took everything I had ever written in the past five years and put it on a flash drive. Just in time, because a few days later the computer officially died. I asked the IT guru at work and he told me I needed a new hard drive which, to my surprise, was not very expensive. He was also nice enough to install it and update it and everything. I basically had a brand new computer and it works to this day.
Flash forward to about six months ago. I had been knee deep in my novel for two years by that point and I was not working on anything else. Suddenly, I realized that I had never taken all of the backup files from the flash drive to put them back on to my computer. Imagine my surprise when I plugged in the little key and it said: ERROR. This can't be, I said to myself, You can't lose the backup. Who backs up a backup? That's what the backup is for.
For the past 6 months, I have enjoyed living in denial. I have plugged it back in several times since then and received the same error. I nervously giggled and politely said to my little flash drive: Oh my little flash drive, you're so silly. Your errors must be erroneous.
About two weeks ago, I decided that the flash drive's behavior was unacceptable. I downloaded a host of programs to 'reformat' the drive. And they were all unsuccessful. I took it to the geek squad and was laughed at: Sorry lady, that thing is completely toasted.
And so, I very slowly let it sink in. I have officially lost about 5 years worth of writing. Which includes three full length screenplays and at least a dozen short stories. As well as a lot of false starts that I always planned to come back to.
Alas, it is not meant to be.
I will miss the screenplays. They were not very good, but there were some good ideas there and I would very much like to read them. And I will miss the short stories. Because, my goodness, they've sat alone long enough. I thought I might like to edit them and work to get them published. But most of all, I will miss the false starts. Because I do believe they deserved a second chance.
And so, I'd like to honor some of lost stories here and now:
Baz and Andy. I hope you are well on the north shore of Long Island.
The girl who stole the piece of the old fountain. What will you do with it now?
The boy who lost the water fight who later ended up in jail. Sometimes it's hard to change true stories, even when you pretend they are fiction.
Susan who lives upstairs, who was always looking down.
The woman in France. I'm sorry that you are frozen in an unwelcome reunion with your gluttonous sister.
Leyna and the professor. My goodness I've left you two in quite a mess, haven't I?
And, mother and daughter, Anna and Claire. Two people who will forever haunt me. You're very persistent, more so than all the others. I know your story will get told.
Thank you all for getting me where I am today. Wherever that may be...
Please feel free to honor any lost stories in the comments below.
Flash forward to about six months ago. I had been knee deep in my novel for two years by that point and I was not working on anything else. Suddenly, I realized that I had never taken all of the backup files from the flash drive to put them back on to my computer. Imagine my surprise when I plugged in the little key and it said: ERROR. This can't be, I said to myself, You can't lose the backup. Who backs up a backup? That's what the backup is for.
For the past 6 months, I have enjoyed living in denial. I have plugged it back in several times since then and received the same error. I nervously giggled and politely said to my little flash drive: Oh my little flash drive, you're so silly. Your errors must be erroneous.
About two weeks ago, I decided that the flash drive's behavior was unacceptable. I downloaded a host of programs to 'reformat' the drive. And they were all unsuccessful. I took it to the geek squad and was laughed at: Sorry lady, that thing is completely toasted.
And so, I very slowly let it sink in. I have officially lost about 5 years worth of writing. Which includes three full length screenplays and at least a dozen short stories. As well as a lot of false starts that I always planned to come back to.
Alas, it is not meant to be.
I will miss the screenplays. They were not very good, but there were some good ideas there and I would very much like to read them. And I will miss the short stories. Because, my goodness, they've sat alone long enough. I thought I might like to edit them and work to get them published. But most of all, I will miss the false starts. Because I do believe they deserved a second chance.
And so, I'd like to honor some of lost stories here and now:
Baz and Andy. I hope you are well on the north shore of Long Island.
The girl who stole the piece of the old fountain. What will you do with it now?
The boy who lost the water fight who later ended up in jail. Sometimes it's hard to change true stories, even when you pretend they are fiction.
Susan who lives upstairs, who was always looking down.
The woman in France. I'm sorry that you are frozen in an unwelcome reunion with your gluttonous sister.
Leyna and the professor. My goodness I've left you two in quite a mess, haven't I?
And, mother and daughter, Anna and Claire. Two people who will forever haunt me. You're very persistent, more so than all the others. I know your story will get told.
Thank you all for getting me where I am today. Wherever that may be...
Please feel free to honor any lost stories in the comments below.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Confessions
I have a few things to confess today:
1. Lately, I can't write more than 5oo words a sitting and, even that, is slowly killing me.
2. I had ice cream for lunch on Saturday. Yup. Just ice cream.
3. When my bicycle tire popped once, two male cyclists stopped to help. Even though they called me a 'damsel in distress' and made some other quips about my inability to change a bicycle tire due to my gender, I gritted my teeth, batted my eyelashes and let them do it.
4. I don't actually know how to change a bicycle tire.
5. I really hate answering the phone. If you called me right now, I probably wouldn't pick it up. So don't try.
6. I get really angry about people's insane use of plastic bags. Did you get a plastic bag at all today? If so, I judge you.
7. Still, I use at least 100 paper towels in a 24 hour period.
8. I check my e-mail about every 30 sec. to see the fate of my stupid writing.
9. My writing is 'stupid' 50% of time. And a 'heartbreaking work of staggering genius' 50% of the time.
10. When I do get an e-mail, 100% of the time it is Delta airlines telling me a way to get new miles.
What are your confessions for today?
1. Lately, I can't write more than 5oo words a sitting and, even that, is slowly killing me.
2. I had ice cream for lunch on Saturday. Yup. Just ice cream.
3. When my bicycle tire popped once, two male cyclists stopped to help. Even though they called me a 'damsel in distress' and made some other quips about my inability to change a bicycle tire due to my gender, I gritted my teeth, batted my eyelashes and let them do it.
4. I don't actually know how to change a bicycle tire.
5. I really hate answering the phone. If you called me right now, I probably wouldn't pick it up. So don't try.
6. I get really angry about people's insane use of plastic bags. Did you get a plastic bag at all today? If so, I judge you.
7. Still, I use at least 100 paper towels in a 24 hour period.
8. I check my e-mail about every 30 sec. to see the fate of my stupid writing.
9. My writing is 'stupid' 50% of time. And a 'heartbreaking work of staggering genius' 50% of the time.
10. When I do get an e-mail, 100% of the time it is Delta airlines telling me a way to get new miles.
What are your confessions for today?
Monday, August 23, 2010
Unfinished
I have had this strange feeling in the past few weeks of being left behind. I watch lives unfold and realize that I’m the little girl who has been sent to bed, wondering what all the adults are doing just outside my bedroom.
I suppose it is okay to feel a little unfinished while everyone else forges ahead. But I wonder if patience will ever find me. If I’ll ever be able to close my eyes and be content. Sometimes it’s difficult to ignore everything that’s happening just outside the door.
I suppose it is okay to feel a little unfinished while everyone else forges ahead. But I wonder if patience will ever find me. If I’ll ever be able to close my eyes and be content. Sometimes it’s difficult to ignore everything that’s happening just outside the door.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Discoveries
It's been an interesting month. Trying to get back into a writing routine. It's awkward and exciting to meet new characters and learn about the places they live, the things they do. I've been trying, and failing, to keep the agent search alive during the slow summer months. I did not know that the publishing industry hid themselves away for the summer. Especially because this is the time when the toy industry is cranking. A time in which I'm faced with new challenges at work. Creating a kind of toy I've never made before, witnessing the children interact with it in ways I never thought they would. All of this, made all the more exhausting by the severe heat in the northeast.
So, I thought I would share a few random summer discoveries...
1. $20 can get you a lobster, corn, potato salad or cole-slaw, and a whoopie pie in Red Hook, Brooklyn. And the lobster is brought in from Maine daily.
2. Writing in 1st person/present tense is fun. I love the urgency. It is insistent. It says: what is now is now. It is less of a sigh...well, this happened once.
3. Still...1st person/present tense allows you to say, well, this happened once, this is happening now, this is what I wish would happen. It allows a lot of freedom and I'm intrigued...
4. There is never, ever one opinion...about anything.
5. It is possible to show a child a toy and have them:
a. Shield their eyes
b. Cry
6. Three and four year olds take things very literally.
7. Five and six year olds take things less literally.
8. When you begin to think too hard, too long, too deeply about the things you create, remember this: silly bandz are a national phenomenom.
9. Some books are meant to be read quickly.
10. Sometimes...no matter how wide you open the windows, how high you turn on the air conditioning, which direction you face the fan, which doors you close or leave open, which parts of the stove you don't use...sometimes...the heat does not want to go away.
What things are you discovering this summer?
So, I thought I would share a few random summer discoveries...
1. $20 can get you a lobster, corn, potato salad or cole-slaw, and a whoopie pie in Red Hook, Brooklyn. And the lobster is brought in from Maine daily.
2. Writing in 1st person/present tense is fun. I love the urgency. It is insistent. It says: what is now is now. It is less of a sigh...well, this happened once.
3. Still...1st person/present tense allows you to say, well, this happened once, this is happening now, this is what I wish would happen. It allows a lot of freedom and I'm intrigued...
4. There is never, ever one opinion...about anything.
5. It is possible to show a child a toy and have them:
a. Shield their eyes
b. Cry
6. Three and four year olds take things very literally.
7. Five and six year olds take things less literally.
8. When you begin to think too hard, too long, too deeply about the things you create, remember this: silly bandz are a national phenomenom.
9. Some books are meant to be read quickly.
10. Sometimes...no matter how wide you open the windows, how high you turn on the air conditioning, which direction you face the fan, which doors you close or leave open, which parts of the stove you don't use...sometimes...the heat does not want to go away.
What things are you discovering this summer?
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sorry Jane
By posting this, I'm pretty sure I've just jinxed myself. But it seems there's no point in living if you can't tempt fate.
Last night I had a dream that an agent I met at a conference sent a package to my home with a post-it that said: "Secret for you. Meet me at the shop." I was very confused about who the sender might be, where the shop might be and what the secret might be. Fortunately, there was a follow-up phone call that clarified things.
"I'm looking for Jane Merkin," the strange voice spoke urgently.
"Jane Merkin? I don't know who she is."
"I need her to meet me at the shop."
"You have the wrong place. I don't know who she is."
"You can't find her?"
"Nope."
"Well, then...give me a call. We need to talk futher."
"Ok."
I find it pretty hilarious that I hung up the phone and immediately called back to speak to the very same person. I was offered representation from the agent since Jane Merkin was not available.
Sorry Jane! Right place, right time...
Last night I had a dream that an agent I met at a conference sent a package to my home with a post-it that said: "Secret for you. Meet me at the shop." I was very confused about who the sender might be, where the shop might be and what the secret might be. Fortunately, there was a follow-up phone call that clarified things.
"I'm looking for Jane Merkin," the strange voice spoke urgently.
"Jane Merkin? I don't know who she is."
"I need her to meet me at the shop."
"You have the wrong place. I don't know who she is."
"You can't find her?"
"Nope."
"Well, then...give me a call. We need to talk futher."
"Ok."
I find it pretty hilarious that I hung up the phone and immediately called back to speak to the very same person. I was offered representation from the agent since Jane Merkin was not available.
Sorry Jane! Right place, right time...
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Fix Me
On Sunday I had the privilege of seeing the Alvin Ailey Dance Ensemble do a performance of "Revelations". There was one section that I found so beautiful, I thought if there was a way I could bottle it up forever and keep it with me, I would. Fortunately, You Tube did it for me.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
True Writer
I had a strange experience today which left me a little lost. Someone in the corporate world (completely outside of publishing) told me that they were looking for a 'true writer'. It was not that they were looking for a good writer. Or even an honest one. What they meant by 'true' was tried and true. A real writer. What they wanted was a published writer.
Their request made me sit back. It gnawed at me. Despite the fact that it had nothing to do with me at all, despite the fact that when they chose those words, they probably did not place much significance on the word ‘true’, I folded my arms and things hung limp all around me. The thought that a majority of people in the world believe that a true writer is a published one is hard for me to swallow.
Maybe the truest writer is the one who writes despite the fact that they are not published. Maybe it is the writer who is told they never will be, but who sighs and takes their pen to paper and writes the beginning of something no one will ever see.
What do you think a true writer is?
Their request made me sit back. It gnawed at me. Despite the fact that it had nothing to do with me at all, despite the fact that when they chose those words, they probably did not place much significance on the word ‘true’, I folded my arms and things hung limp all around me. The thought that a majority of people in the world believe that a true writer is a published one is hard for me to swallow.
Maybe the truest writer is the one who writes despite the fact that they are not published. Maybe it is the writer who is told they never will be, but who sighs and takes their pen to paper and writes the beginning of something no one will ever see.
What do you think a true writer is?
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Begin to begin
I once wrote something a long time ago and I used the line "She was desirous of everything and, yet, nothing at all." It's kind of a clunky line, but I think of it every now and then. Because it's a line that applies to most of my characters. They are often quite restless and they want so many things they find themselves standing still.
Maybe most of my characters feel that way because I feel that way a lot of the time.
Right now, I want a lot of things out of life. Most of them have to do with my writing. I want a literary agent. And I want a book deal. And I want to see the book I worked on for so many years mean something to somebody. I want to finish another novel. And I want to re-focus my career so that I will always sit at a desk with a wide open window and lots of blue sky. A desk where I define the time of day that I sit at it. A desk that's really mine. And I don't want my work to sit in a drawer anymore. There are too many stories, too many plays, too many scenes, too many characters that are tired of being tucked away.
But I am also afraid that nobody wants to see any of it. That by putting myself out there I've actually set myself up for failure. I'm afraid that there is no desk to call my own. Because how do you even begin to begin again?
It seems that if you are someone who wants a lot of things, you run the risk of walking away empty. That the more you ask for, the more you may not receive. It can be scary to want things because, well, what happens if you don't get them? Do you just find new things to want? Or do these desires linger? Do they stay?
My experience has told me that they stay. That they stay whether you move forward or you stand still. But the more I make room for them and allow them to grow, the more I wish they would just go away.
Have you ever wanted a lot of things in your life?
Have you ever wanted so many things you don't even know where to begin?
Maybe most of my characters feel that way because I feel that way a lot of the time.
Right now, I want a lot of things out of life. Most of them have to do with my writing. I want a literary agent. And I want a book deal. And I want to see the book I worked on for so many years mean something to somebody. I want to finish another novel. And I want to re-focus my career so that I will always sit at a desk with a wide open window and lots of blue sky. A desk where I define the time of day that I sit at it. A desk that's really mine. And I don't want my work to sit in a drawer anymore. There are too many stories, too many plays, too many scenes, too many characters that are tired of being tucked away.
But I am also afraid that nobody wants to see any of it. That by putting myself out there I've actually set myself up for failure. I'm afraid that there is no desk to call my own. Because how do you even begin to begin again?
It seems that if you are someone who wants a lot of things, you run the risk of walking away empty. That the more you ask for, the more you may not receive. It can be scary to want things because, well, what happens if you don't get them? Do you just find new things to want? Or do these desires linger? Do they stay?
My experience has told me that they stay. That they stay whether you move forward or you stand still. But the more I make room for them and allow them to grow, the more I wish they would just go away.
Have you ever wanted a lot of things in your life?
Have you ever wanted so many things you don't even know where to begin?
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