Reason #3023 Why I Detest Connecticut

Here I sit in the waiting room at Yale-New Haven Hospital. Here have I been since nine-twenty this evening. Why am I here? Chest pains...and hemoglobin and hematocrit readings which have probably sunk below sea level.

As my arm, face, and legs go numb, I listen in fascination as I am told by uncaring nurses in the infuriating sing-song voices reserved for the very young (or the very stupid) , "It's because you're getting anxious there,ma'am. It's your breathing."

My breathing.

Foolish me.

I thought it was the dizziness, lack of blood, and erratic heart beat.

This is what comes of touting the benefits of the medical profession (of any profession) based upon prestige, primarily upon pay packets. In a hospital bearing the name of supposedly one of the most famous and "prestigious" universities in the nation, not even the basic vestiges of human decency, compassion, or professionalism are present. Stone-faced security guards joke with one another, flirt with female registrars, and exchange jovial pleasantries with familiar passersby with seemingly no regard for the suffering of those left to wait hours to be seen.

(And people ask me why I choose to suffer in "isolation" in my apartment, ya'll.)

Though it has taken everything in me not to shout out in pain, in frustration, in outrage, I have succeeded. Though obviously, we who await care are less than human, I will neither forego nor deny my own, basic human dignity. The mind may be a bit fuzzy ("anxiety," don't you know); nevertheless, regardless of the callous, condescending, often dehumanizing treatment (one of my main reasons for deciding to move to Colorado), I know that I am still a human being; that my pain and suffering have merit; that my voice is one which deserves to be heard.

In the mundane ritual of day-to-day living, perhaps we take for granted that simple truth of having not only worth as human beings but also having the right to be seen as such, to be treated as such. As I pound away, using the gentle ebb and flow of written words to bring peace, solace, succor into the midst of such insanity (not to mention agony people), I am reminded of the power of an opinion expressed, an outrage noted, a stand taken. I might not be quite able to fight the good fight at this moment, people: yet, in this situation resides yet another story to be told, another truth to be explored. This issue of dehumanization--in the refusal to recognize the pain of others, in causing harm when the creed reportedly ascribed to is "first do no harm"--is one which can be explored in depth another day.

For the moment, however...

The question is:

WHY!?!?!?!?!?!?

"Write From the Heart"

I just returned from a panel discussion entitled Breaking In: How To Get an Agent and a Publisher, which I found very encouraging. It featured non-fiction author Lucy Hedrick, young adult author Nina Nelson, literary agent Denise Marcil, and novelist Prill Boyle. To be honest, having been caught up in the whole writing/publishing/marketing whirlwind for approximately two decades now, much of what was said was not new to me; nevertheless, there were really helpful bits of information regarding the changes in the literary market--especially non-fiction--in recent years. Mostly, however, it was a plain, old-fashioned motivator. Time and time again the panelists stressed three points:

1. Remaining devoted to your writing
2. Not allowing yourself to be discouraged
3. Writing from the heart

I suppose we all need to be reminded of this. There are many options out there, from traditional publishing to self-publishing, winning contests, the Hybrid Alternative (of which I had never heard), and printing on demand; nevertheless, one thing remains true, and this is that one has to be motivated by the hunger to write, the love of writing, and the desire to write well.

Also, I found myself having to admit that as the years have elapsed, I have indeed found it difficult to actually "write from the heart". As I have accumulated more and more experiences--some positive, some negative, all life-altering--the tendency to distance myself from those emotions, sensations, reactions, and responses has become more commonplace. Perhaps with age, our self-protective instincts kick in, making it more difficult to so enthusiastically and regardless of inhibitions delve into our deepest selves, dredge up pain and regret, then slap it into print for all to read. Further, maybe my time as a freelance editor (who constantly lectures her clients not to separate themselves from their characters, from that narrative voice) has conditioned me to remain dispassionate and detached in a way that I, in my youth, did not.

All I know is that I did not realize how much I need refreshment until the thirst was quenched.

The moral, people:

Do not forsake the gathering of yourselves to write, discuss writing, encourage, critique, and share experiences. No writer is alone, and even in this uncertain market with publishing companies losing money, cutting budgets, reducing titles, there are success stories...and they all begin with individuals who love to write, make the decision to write as best they can, and refuse to give up or be dissuaded in their writing.

So start typing, ya'll!

By the way, has anybody else out there attended any good (informative, useful, interesting) forums, lectures, or workshops? If so, I would love to hear about them!

Making Plans!

Alright. It's official. The time has come to leave New Haven once and for all. For the third time in less than two months (not to mention about the tenth time this year, bearing in mind that it is only May, ya'll) one of my beloved clients has decided the time to renegotiate an agreement is after my work has been satisfactorily completed and is in his (or her) hot little hands! Life in Connecticut has not exactly been stress-free without these frustrations; nevertheless, between health issues, insane family members, political chaos, non-existent community , and socio-economic dynamics which make life nightmarish for all but the most devoted (or the most charmed) the ability, the opportunity to actually--like-- write is nonexistent. More and more have I noted the difficulty in identifying with my characters, remaining focused on my plots, or even keeping track of story lines. Dialog--my long time foe--eludes me completely. Moreover, the constant worries and distractions, I now accept despite past obstinacy, leave me in a mindset of wanting nothing less at the end (or the beginning of the day) than to bang out one-thousand words. I find myself walking into fascinating settings without even the most niggling desire to whip out paper and pen (unheard of!) Note taking has dwindled to nil, as have daily contributions to journals, "sketch" books, and my daily impressions. Mostly, though, I have noted a change in my entire attitude towards my craft, viewing writing as a job--even a chore--rather than the love it once was. Why? Because of arrogant, insensitive so-and-sos who, even as they enhance their own livelihoods as a result of my "talent", consistently minimize not only its worth but the time, the effort, the heart, the thought, and the discipline it takes. I woke up Saturday morning glowering at my journal. The lovely, navy blue, exquisitely bound, leather journal with its lovely, high-quality, gold embossed pages, and beautiful rendition of an old-fashioned quill pen, a single cadet blue cursive "u" stretched out in a bold flourish behind it (a gift from my daughter Dauriauna from February 9th of last year to ease the sting of the second "anniversary" of my mother's death) sat firmly shut on my coffee table--an over-stretched rubber band keeping both Mickey Mouse and Wite-Out Correction pen conveniently accessible--causing no harm to me or anyone else; yet, as it lay there, I detested it as though it might be worst enemy. Why? Because the last entry committed to it had been on Easter morning; because were I to take up the pen I would have nothing positive to add; because the mere thought of entering all my frustrations and aspirations--yet again--proved utterly exhausting; because I did not want to rant and rage on paper about the latest paycheck to go MIA... Because... Because I hated even the thought of writing another, single word. I had too many projects to complete in an atmosphere in no way conducive to creative thought. To put aside the activities of the day in order to delve into myself and my impressions--in order to lay open emotion, sensation, and thought--grows increasingly more difficult. To visit any of my "prized" personal projects requires reaching a "place," a state unreachable from my current physical location--a place I despise, in which no part of me finds fulfillment, security, comfort or peace, even if I am able to (fortunately) maintain the same within myself despite the surrounding environment. I was feeling overwhelmed, the sensation of hopelessness, of actually drowning actually suffocating the creative impulses within me. (It did not help that the last e-mail--or "missive," as he calls them--from my dearest friend in the whole wide world consisted of a single line which read: "All well and good, but when are you going to put this prodigious writing talent to work: ie, the story of your father's family?")

In essence: It's time to get out of here, people!
This admitted, I decided the time had come to take action; thus, this week will be spent putting out "feelers" in an effort to make a fresh start. While the children are safely ensconced in their respective schools feels like the best time to pack and bag and get away fast. Already, my friends from both high school and college have been supportive, rather than listing for me all the reasons why I--even in all my stubbornness-- cannot make this happen. It's time to move on. It truly is. So, Here goes nothin'!