The Anti-Interview

The problem with me is that I'm too picky about everything I read. There was a point as a child when I liked just about everything. Then I grew up. Now I'm too discriminating, or critical, depending on how you look at it.

I don't even like my own books. What am I supposed to do if interviewed?

Q. How did you come up with the idea for your first book?'
A. I started writing and it happened.
Q. Which is your favorite book?
A. I don't have a favorite. I hate them all.
Q. Why don't you like them?
A. Clearly, you haven't read my blog, or you would know.
Q. Why do you pursue writing if you don't like what you write?
A. I ask myself that all the time.

The truth is, there comes a point in my creative process where a sordid sort of absolute detestation takes place toward the offspring of my imagination. That's how I know it's finished.
Because, really, if I look at it one more time, I'm going to delete it and start something else that's just plain awful.

It's like Degas who was always redoing his paintings. He'd take them off his friend's walls, spirit them home and work them over again, sometimes ruining them completely. This bears eerie resemblance to myself.

Except Degas was good.

He had one friend who got tired of having the paintings swiped and decided to chain them to the wall.

I don't have anyone who can swipe my computer and lock up my novels and tell me enough is enough though.

Rats.

When Life Gets Rough, Do Chores

There is a point to mundane tasks.

My children act like anything, including dying an excruciatingly horrific death is preferable to everyday boring tasks.

But when life gets really rotten, there's nothing like a stupid chore I've done a million times to keep me going. There is comfort in doing these things.

I know in fiction it's popular to illustrate the trauma people are going through by having them vomit or go into shock or a catatonic state or some metaphoric flight of fancy in an effort to show the depth of their pain.

I'm not saying those are not legitimate reactions to traumatic events, but I am saying I'm feeling under-represented. What about those of us who keep going no matter what because we don't know how to not go on?

What about the Samwise Gamgees in life that move forward one step at a time by doing simple everyday tasks? In doing the small, the insurmountable becomes possible.

We're fully aware that these little jobs won't save the world. We know they aren't going to fix anything, but they are baby steps toward action, toward doing something that will make a difference.

They are positive action rather than negative no matter how small they are.

In the midst of crisis and trauma and pain we must continue to move forward however small that movement might be. The mountain of hurt must be climbed and gotten over but the beginning steps are small and almost insignificant.

We are not able to laugh yet. We are in deeper depths of sorrow than we are able to express, but we move forward doing tiny things because that's all we can manage, but we do something.

We do what is neccesary. We are the Elinor Dashwoods. We are the Melanie Hamiltons. We are the Matthew Cuthberts.

Staring at walls and withdrawing within ourselves and ignoring a world that keeps turning is not our option. It's not what we're made of.

We are just as real and just as hurt as those who can't find it in themselves to go on. But whether it is a blessing or a curse, go on we must.

Phillip or Phillipina?

My son and his friends found an abandoned duckling down a sewer drain.

What is it about kids who think mom can fix everything including motherless ducklings?

So it's eight o'clock at night, I've already called animal control and gotten the after hours dispatcher, the police station called to let me know the best chance for the little thing was to keep him at least overnight.

We looked online to see how to take care of him and learned returning it to a water front meant almost certain death. We put him in a bucket with some hay underfoot and a water crock with clean rocks in the bottom so he wouldn't drown and made a cornmeal mush for food and set up a heat lamp that was purchased years ago for a science project.

And then I prayed. A lot.  A long sleepless night ensued.

Next day was full of doctor appointments. Because going to doctors all the time is the unpleasant reality of our lives. In between, I've got to figure out what to do with this little duck.

He's not looking so good. He's so lonely I don't know if he's going to make it.  He keeps languishing and wants someone's hand by him constantly.

I set my son the task of calling all over to see if there was an organization somewhere who takes in baby ducks while I'm dealing with doctors.

Animal Control did not, everywhere he called did not. Is this little creature going to die on my watch?

My children are so sure we'll find a solution. I love that about them.

We own bunnies. When they have problems we take them to an exotic vet. As I look at this little fluffy one who is cuddling up to my son's hand it occurs to me to call our vet.

They take ducks. They have a duck rehabilitater! Suddenly I love my vet! They are the most wonderful people on the planet. I can't believe they haven't achieved sainthood.

We pack him up and my son comforts him on the ride there. If he moves his hand away the little guy peeps at him to come back.

We get to the vet and they welcome him. They tell us it's a good thing he is there because they have another little duck who needs a friend. I love the vet even more. They have a friend for our little guy.

They share an incubator cuddled together.

With this ordeal behind us my kids finally decide he needs a name. We won't have him anymore, but I realize by naming him, they know he will live. We can all feel that. So they name him Phillip. After a moment's thought I say, 'Or Phillipina.'

Wherein One Gets Confused

Okay, so I guess I need to make something clear. I have a very common name.

There are famous people who have the same name I do.

There are other authors with my same name.

If you google 'Rebecca Blake', it's highly unlikely I'll be on the list.

Currently, I have no books of any kind for sale. If you see a book to buy and it says 'Rebecca Blake' is the author, I didn't write it.

If I finally decide to publish or republish I'll dedicate some space to it on this website. That will avoid confusion, one can only hope. I know I talk about writing a lot, after all, it is my hobby and it's not anything fantastically farfetched to like to talk about one's hobbies.

Online identity crisis happens all the time. In this day and age of internet pellapallooza people get crossed signals and mix up who is who. No one is to blame for it, it just is.

I gave a great deal of thought as to whether to do something to make my name slightly more distinctive. But is there any such thing? I'd have to rename myself something like 'Wild Flower of the Ocean', but I'm just not feeling it.

I've tossed around the idea of using 'Rebecca W. Blake' to avoid some bewilderment. I haven't decided just yet.

I am who I am and what I am is one of the masses. Regular person about town doing regular stuff. So if I have a regular name, I guess that fits.

Edit: there are now books I have published. Look at the published works page to see which ones are actually written by me.