A Back Burner for the Book

It’s been a while since I've had that whole “What am I doing with my life? Will my time on this earth have meant anything at all?” meltdown. I found myself in that miserable mental state a great deal during the last year or two in my previous job. I felt unsatisfied and unfulfilled and spent a lot of time wondering what I was supposed to do with whatever gifts I’d been given. Of course, being me, I also spent a good amount of time whining and feeling sorry for myself, which was considerably easier than actually putting on my big girl panties and dealing with it.

Miraculously, despite breaking every rule of job searching, two years ago I found myself in a new position at Villanova University and I haven’t had that empty feeling since. Until now.  It’s not the job, which I truly love, it’s more about the rest of my life, which somehow feels increasingly hollow.

Rob wants to know why I go to bed so damn early? It's so I can avoid the void. A woman can only watch so many episodes of The Gilmore Girls in one sitting before she realizes she’s pathetic. You know it’s time to make a change when you beg your daughter to put down her homework so you can watch television together.

I have some sense of what has caused this rather sudden mental and emotional nosedive: 

1. The season. I tend to retreat into my head as the days grow shorter and darker. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll drown given how much swimming is going on in my brain.
2. My three-year sentence commitment as a church elder has come to an end, and I resigned from my committee work at the same time. What I failed to realize is that, while I bitched about it ad nauseam, serving actually gave me a sense of purpose.
3. I lost my 10-hour a week consulting job. It wasn't much, but it was just enough to keep me busy in the evenings.
4. My kids need me less and less, which I always thought would be heavenly, but now I’m discovering is actually kinda sad. The only things they want from me are dinner and rides to friends’ houses, neither which I’m particularly excited to offer.

I have determined that the main cause of my current funk, however, is book related. Nothing I've read, but rather the book I haven’t written. I've been down this road before, but at this very moment I know three friends/acquaintances who are enjoying publishing success. One has published his second children’s book and recently had a signing at a local store. A second is looking forward to the release of her first book in December. And a third is publishing her third book!

It goes without saying that my childishly competitive nature demands that I figuratively put pen to paper and write my own damn book. Not because I have a book burning inside of me, but rather because I hate when others succeed at something I always hoped I would do. Well, let me be the first to tell you that this is not the best approach to becoming a writer. Envy does not lead to success. Truth is, years ago I wrote the first paragraph of my novel. Trouble is, that’s all I've got. I have no idea where to go with it or how it would end. And I don’t want to write a mediocre book. I want to write a critically acclaimed book. 

I know what you're thinking: "Here comes the whining and excuses. All the reasons why Kim doesn't have the energy or the self-discipline to make it happen." But you're wrong! In fact, I have a solution for what ails me. Ready? 

Instead of writing a book, I'm going to become an actress!

Stay tuned...

My Down Time is Bringing Me Down

When I woke from my two-hour nap on Saturday, I engaged in a bit of self-psychoanalysis. The sheer fact that I reflect on the state of my mental and emotional health as often as I do, is probably a sign that I'm worse off than I think. Or I'm just completely self-absorbed. But that's beside the point. The important thing is that these self-examinations provide me with blog material.

Speaking of blog material, you may be thinking that the reason I don't write as often anymore is because I have less to say. Nah. It's this new job. It's cutting in to my writing time. When I get to the office I actually need to hunker down and get right to work. No easing into my day with a period of self-discovery. You might argue that I could write when I get home from work, but anyone who has a full-time job and kids at home who expect a meal and a ride to soccer practice, and a church or synagogue that needs you at weekly meetings, clothes that demand to be washed, and a body sorely in need of a workout recognizes that writing probably isn't high on my list of things to do in the evenings. No, when I have down time, I want it to mean something. That's why I play Words with Friends or 7 Little Words, or I watch the TV shows on my DVR, or try to get caught up on Scandal before the new season starts. If my head's in the right place I might actually read, but writing? Well that requires entirely too much thought.

For the most part I'm okay with the way I choose to spend my down time. Or I was until Rob pointed out that someday I'm going to die. He pointed this out after I woke from my nap. He suggested perhaps I sleep too much and noted that there will be plenty of time to sleep when I'm dead. Well, damn. When you look at life through that lens, spending my time playing word games or watching television seems pretty ridiculous. When I'm gone, what will I have contributed to this world? Will someone go back and read my WWF scores? Will my TV viewing habits warm the cockles of someone's heart? I think not.

My blog on the other hand, well this sucker is leaving its mark. It will live forever. I know this because I've tried to delete posts that I later regret, and it's true what they say about things in cyberspace never truly disappearing. This means my uber-honest, somewhat snarky, frequently funkapotomusized, periodically painful and gladly grace-filled random thoughts will live on in perpetuity. Woo hoo!

SIDE NOTE: There's something to be said for the old fashioned written journal. The one you could burn before your parents, sister, boyfriend, best friend, husband or children read it. Those were the good old days. I think I have about 13 of those embarrassing tell-alls hiding in the back of my closet. Does anyone have a match? Perhaps I should do my own Freakin' Angel version of Throwback Thursday. I'll share an old journal entry and we can laugh together over how I've grown and matured stayed pathetically the same since I was 13. I won't make it more painful by adding an old photo to go with it. Some things really should remain private.

Back to the issue of my poor use of time. As is the American way, I refuse to take responsibility for my choices in this regard. Al Gore, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs and that Zuckerberg kid are to blame. If they hadn't gone and created the computer, the internet, social media, e-books, on-demand video, etc., I would probably be a published author by now. And my son, whose technology addiction makes me look like a Luddite, well who knows what he would be doing with his life. He probably would have discovered some kind of new insect (he wanted to be an entomologist until he discovered the computer), written a comedy sketch for Saturday Night Live or made his mark in community theater. Yes indeed, we are being controlled by forces greater than ourselves. In fact, I think computer technology is the new Darwinism.

Think about it. Thousands of years ago "man" lived with the constant threat of being eaten alive by dinosaurs (I know this because I watched Land of the Lost). Natural selection meant that only the strong survived. Survival of the fittest, if you will. Today, we no longer are being chased by dinosaurs. Instead, we are chased by technology that wants to pin us down - mind, body and soul - and trap us in a  never-ending web (pun intended) of useless information. Those who are not strong enough to rage against the machine are destined for chunky thighs and a big butt, distorted thumbs and wrists, and a future spent in their parents' basement. Our "natural" selection has been replaced by man-made selection. Only those who break free from this technological tyranny have a chance to survive and live as the actual human beings we were created to be. I feel a doctoral dissertation coming on.

In conclusion, between the demands of my new job (how long can I consider it "new?"), my need for sleep and the distraction of technology, I'm lucky if I can write one blog post a week. I promise that once the kids leave home and I'm off these committees at church, and I've given up on trying to keep in shape, I'll resume my more prolific output. In the meantime, I'm sure you can find something to amuse you on the web or my DVR.

"Laughter is Carbonated Holiness"

One reason I haven't sat down to write a book is that I'm lazy. The way I justify my laziness is by acknowledging that I'm really not a great writer. I know my parents strongly disagree with that statement but 1) they aren't reading really great stuff so they don't have a benchmark from which to judge, and 2) they're my parents.

Last night I attended a book reading with Anne Lamott. Anne is a great writer. Not classic literature great, but turn of phrase, rich and relateable great. If you're not familiar with her, Anne is a Christian writer. Sort of. I think she only "came out" as a Christian about 20 years ago, but she was on the path for quite a while before that. Before that, she was also an alcoholic, drug user, hippy enclave-living, dreadlock-wearing college-dropout in California. She's still wearing the dreads and living in California, but she's clean and sober now and considerably older and wiser.

What I love about Anne's writing is the purity of it. The complete honesty and lack of pretense. And her remarkable sense of humor. What she puts on paper most of us can respond to with "Oh yeah, been there." Well before it was fashionable to do so, she was confessing that sometimes we moms hate being moms. Oh yeah, been there. My friend Andria explained that Anne's book Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year helped her tremendously as a new mom. As she put it, "If Anne's child survived all the mistakes she made, I should be fine." Basically, this woman makes you feel better about yourself--all your weaknesses, fears, failings, doubts, etc. When you read her books you realize you're not quite as messed up as you thought you were. Or, if you are, you're not alone. It's probably the same reaction you have when reading my blog. A sense of relief that someone out there is crazier than you.

In her slightly absent-minded, stream-of-consciousness talk last night, Anne endeared herself to a sold-out audience who laughed heartily and nodded their heads in agreement with this woman whom the Christian Right, the Evangelicals, and the Born-Agains would likely find offensive.While Anne calls herself a Christian and believes in God and the resurrected Jesus, she doesn't try to sell it. She doesn't claim an understanding of theology (in fact, some might find hers "loose" at best) or any book smarts when it comes to "religion." She doesn't preach and doesn't appreciate many of those who do, particularly those on a stage with an 800-member chorus. She doesn't care whether you call yourself a Christian or if you pray to Harold, as in "Our Father, who art in heaven, Harold be thy name," or Phil (her personal preference). For Anne it's about recognizing there's someone whose love for us is greater than we can ever imagine. That there's someone for whom we are perfect exactly as we are. That the grace we have been given is what saves us. This quote from her last night really resonated with me: "All we can know is who holds the future, not what the future holds."

Anne spent a good bit of time last evening explaining the blessings of age. She's 58 now and she accepts that her arms will not improve and that her reflection from the iPad screen may actually frighten her from time to time  And she finds amusement in us 40-somethings who still think we can fix ourselves. She explains "The grace of getting older is getting you back." You start savoring time because you realize how vulnerable you are. She confirms that we must indeed "be present to win" in this life, and that everything we need, we already have.

Anne's newest book, Help, Thanks, Wow, does not appear to be a particularly meaty book or one that more "seasoned" Christians may need for their spiritual development, but whether you call yourself a person of faith or not, I highly recommend checking out her earlier titles:

• Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith
• Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith
• Grace Eventually: Thoughts on Faith

I can practically guarantee that within the first five pages she'll have you hooked by her raw honesty, her sense of humor, and her spirit. Give her a read and let me know what you think.

 

 

Read 'Em and Weep?

I work in publishing. I know how difficult it is to get published. I know it's even more difficult to actually sell significant copies of your book if you do get published. With more than 250,000 new titles being released every year (in the U.S. alone), standing out from the crowd is no easy task. That's partly why I have made no real attempt to write my own. That, and my friend Emily never set a time for me to work on it. (You'll recall I require external motivation.)

Right now I find myself in the interesting--and new--position of being asked to review someone's book. Not someone who is publishing with us (Judson Press). Not a friend. Not even a no-name author self-publishing his literary masterpiece. I have been sent an advance reader copy of a Christian fiction book from FaithWords, the Christian imprint of Hachette Book Group USA, a major U.S. publisher. The author is a blogger whose posts I really enjoy. This will be his second book. His first, also Christian fiction, did very well. 

Frankly, I was a little surprised to receive a review copy of his upcoming book. I did offer to participate in his blog tour, but figured with a blog titled "Freakin' Angels" and my let-it-all hang-out content, a Christian writer might stay away from a not-always-appropriate Christian like me. But they're gutsy at those big NYC publishing houses, so I received the book with a letter asking me for a review.

I have now spent a couple weeks reading this book and I'm about one-third of the way into it. And I don't love it. But I don't hate it either. Frankly, I don't care about it, and the opposite of love isn't hate but indifference. When your writing doesn't move readers in some way, they're not going to discuss it with others and word of mouth is the very best way to sell books.

I am frustrated and disappointed in this, my first book review experience. Here's an author whose blog posts never fail to inspire me and engage me emotionally and spiritually. But his book has left me cold. I don't particularly care for the characters. The writing is pretty average. The setting in no way appeals to me. It appears that his blog writing skills don't translate into equally compelling fiction.


Right now I'm sure some kind, considerate, and less critical soul is saying, "Maybe it's just not your style." "Maybe you're not the target audience." "Do you even like Christian fiction as a genre?" "Perhaps you'll like this book by the end so you shouldn't judge it so harshly now." Those are all legitimate points.

So here's my dilemma. Assuming I don't care for the book if/when I finish it. Do I:

• Write an honest and objective review, highlighting the good, noting the weaknesses, acknowledging my biases?
• Write a positive review only focusing on what was good about the book and who it will appeal to?
• Not write a review at all?

No pressure, but I'm eagerly awaiting your advice...

Note: I purposely have not shared the name of the author or the title of the book. I want to first decide if I'm willing to be public about my feelings for it.

Aw, Crap. You Mean I'm 'Sposed to Have Personal Goals?

Thanks to my so-called friend Emily (who is fast becoming a recurring character in this blog and apparently my life), I have discovered yet another personality flaw...in me, not her. Last week, on my birthday, Emily asked me if I have any goals for the year ahead. That was when I realized that, other than trying to have the house to myself by 2020, I have no goals. No personal mission statement. No long-term or even short-term objectives.

I lack intrinsic motivation.

In other words, I do practically nothing unless there's an external motivator. These outside forces generally include money, approval, or recognition. Rarely if ever do I strive for something just for the sense of personal accomplishment.

Here are just a few sad examples:

• Getting good grades in school - From elementary school until college graduation, I aimed for A's. First to make mom and dad happy, and eventually because they were paying tuition. And I wanted them to be proud of me.
• My job - Yes, I work really hard and try to excel in my position, basically because I have an overwhelming need to be patted on the back and told how great I am.
• Going to the gym - I'm paying for it. It's expensive. To get my money's worth I have to go.
• Obtaining my black belt - Again, money was part of the equation. And then there was the fact that I had already invested about 8 years of my life in training so I had damn well better come out of it with a black belt or two.
• Being nice to my husband - Do unto others...
• Taking care of my home - So the kids' friends think I'm not only exceptionally young and attractive, but also one hell of a housekeeper.
• Losing weight - On the rare occasions that I've tried to reduce my soda, wine, beer, cheesesteak, Fritos, donuts, soft pretzel and movie theater popcorn intake, I've failed miserably. Until someone pays me to lose weight, or gaining weight starts to cost me money, I will probably never succeed.

This lack of intrinsic motivation is also the reason I have not pursued writing outside of posting on this blog for you easily amused clowns friends and family. And seriously, if you don't start appreciating me telling me how great it is commenting more, I'm not going to do this either. Anyway, as I was saying, I haven't pursued writing for a larger audience because the external drivers aren't there for me. There's no money or recognition involved unless I'm super successful, and working in publishing, I know how difficult it is to be one of those few who really hit it big.

But there's that damn Emily again with her taunting, "What do you hope to achieve in the coming year?" So to shut her up I told her about this book idea I have. Of course she said she thought it was great (just because she wanted a buddy to write with at the coffee shop a couple nights a week), and now I have to figure out how I'm going to motivate myself to do this. Maybe if I pay in advance for a year's worth of hot tea or cocoa at the coffee shop? Or I could pay Emily to pat me on the back and tell me how great I am and how wonderful my material is. That would provide both the financial incentive and the recognition I need.

All I really know is that I'm getting rather tired of these personal "A HA!" moments in which I identify something else that's wrong with me. There should be a limit to these self-discoveries...