Where Ladybugs Roar

Confessions and Passions of a Compulsive Writer

Monday, September 14, 2009

This is a post about something filthy....

Lucre. That's right. I said it. I'm not ashamed.

So, my SASE didn't come from DAW today. Their website states it could be four months or more, so this is well within what is to be expected. This is good... don't get me wrong. I don't want to get a big ugly rejection back. I might still receive something saying it's gone on to the next reader, so an envelope might not be horrific to see in the mailbox. A phone call, email, or envelope full of money would be better.

So... back to the discussion of that filthy word.

The husband and I have talked about me now that T is in first grade. Bills must be paid, and there are no kids at home. I put him off saying that I wanted to try actually earning money as a writer. So, I've got a deadline of October. If I hear nothing before October, writing gets the smaller burner and I work on getting a job. I'm thinking of going back into the optical profession (which would require some serious study, and I'd have to go in as an apprentice due to the state's requirements.) I'm also considering going into childcare or assisting at a preschool. This might help with the blow to my self-esteem that some aspects of being B & T's mother has been. (They're not affectionate, and it's not their fault. Most days... it's okay. Also, parenting a SN child is different and the husband has decided not to roll the dice with another child. Dealing with children that aren't on the spectrum might be nice. B just gagged and threw up on the floor. Sigh.)

The unfortunate side effect to not earning my share as a writer is the fact that I'd still need to write in order to sleep. I'm on the big mighty nasty beast of sleeping pills, but I can't take it for more than a few days in a row. My doctor isn't keen on me taking it at all to be honest, but it was taking Lunesta three or four hours to kick in... and even then... was it really the meds or was I just finally tired? All other sissy sleeping pills met the same effect.

So, I hoped that picking up running again would help with my insomnia. I've been on a long break from running. It hasn't helped yet, but it may take a little longer for exhaustion to kick in. I might also need to ramp up to six miles a day again before it helps. I accidentally fell asleep for around a half an hour earlier today. Napping is taboo among true insomniacs. When I only get a couple hours of sleep tonight, it'll be the wrist slap I deserve for getting horizontal. I know better.

So... this is all to say that I need to get some direction going soon if I'm to avoid the workhouse and not drive my insomnia to a higher plane. I'm planning out what to do about my current YA project. It has potential and it's the first time I've really thought that about something I've written. It seems like a much clearer audience and positive summation potential. Seriously, there is no hope for summing up the book I'm working on called, "Tables Turned." Every time I try to describe it, it sounds like gibberish. Of course, summation sometimes takes a back seat to hilarity anyway... which is why one of my books has the nickname "Cannibals are for kids."

I really ought to reapply myself to getting an agent. It just sounds so miserable. Besides, I want an agent that I can actually get along with and it seems like a lot of agents take life fairly seriously... which is something I avoid at all costs. Besides, I'm not trying to write the next great American novel. I have no aspirations to be the next Upton Sinclair or Edith Wharton... or whoever. I just like to tell stories. I like working on dialogue more than creating a masterpiece of social signifcance. Anyway, I have the feeling that tackling this agent business again might kill my soul. I never tried the Honor books, though, and that might make all the difference. It's hard to decide what should be my priority if I'm going to enforce this October deadline. If I cut out sleep entirely... than I can get it all done and possibly have a psychotic episode. I hate the details of the business. I feel as if getting an agent might require an agent. As if the dirty professional side to writing wasn't enough, I have a few other ideas beating around my brain for books but I'm forcing myself not to concentrate on them until its their turn. Okay... well... I did write down a fairly clever title for a book, but I'm really pushing it to the back of my mind.

How do writers only write a couple books a year? Don't they feel rushed and driven to find out what is going to happen to their characters? It's difficult for me to take a week off from writing and not to pull near all-nighters as I get near the end of a book. Plus, my characters insist, and I'm a puppet to their whims. Some writers must have lives... it's all I can guess, or maybe they like to get a little filthy something-something on the side (which is to say that they have money-earning professions that aren't writing.)

So, I was listening to my "The Ruins" audiobook while walking earlier, and it isn't looking good for one of the chicks. She got them into the mess they're in... unintentionally. Her intentions don't matter, though. She's toast. It's a strange sort of effect on our psyche that occurs while reading in the horror genre, isn't it? The violence needs to shock you and yet not be disatisfying. We're creepy little creatures in that a few qualifications to a character make their deaths seem a lot less upsetting. I don't know if everyone has the immediate justification take place after someone dies in fiction. First there is this gasp of "whoa... Person A is dead." It's followed by "I'm somewhat entertained and fascinated... that makes me a psychopath." Quickly, justification sets in, though, and I think, "Yeah... but this is fiction and besides Person A: got them into this, was whoring around, keeps kicking puppies, is old and lived a good life, is miserable and getting a divorce, doesn't have a full name, can't speak English, is sexist, is stupid, is impulsive...." There are a million different reasons that I can be okay with someone dying. Perhaps that's just me, though, and there will be awkward silence after this post among all my family.

Speaking of which, does anyone have that short story I wrote about the woman who kills her husband over the 2 % milk?

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