Oops!

Ahem...cough... heh, heh....

Due to technological fumbling, yesterday's post did not happen.

Nor will it happen today, because some of us struggle to navigate modern enigmas.

So instead, I will be posting about once a month for a while, since time is short and so is intelligence, apparently.

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.