When girls and I first moved in with K., it seemed as though our every prayer had been answered.
Artistic ourselves, we found a strong sense of having slipped into the proper niche from the moment we crossed the threshold. The arrangement promised to be a good fit for all, flexible enough--in a time of upheaval--to allow us to figure out just where we planned to go from here. Truly, the opportunity might have been Heaven-sent.
Little did I recognize just a week go how completely that hackneyed, age-old term would encapsulate this rather remarkable new experience.
Living here, sharing a house with other highly creative people, editing K.'s book, and even learning a bit about the creative processes of an actual artist: herein lie the seeds of renewed fulfillment...and unexpected joy.
When my mother died in February of 2006, I spent many a night asking myself if all that she was--all that she had the potential to be--had died with her. A few months later, I found myself discussing a similar topic with someone who would later become a very dear friend indeed. He and I spoke about our individual longings, pondering the question of whether one truly could "follow his [or her] heart. Of late, I have found myself lying in bed tormented by the question of whether my mother, Ms. Katie, was aware of the impact she made upon this world in her brief seventy-four year occupation upon it...and if my own four decades have by any means impacted upon this same world in any positive way.
This past week, I have been fortunate enough to have had the encouragement of someone I both admire and trust. And, he has assured me that my presence--as a person and a writer--made some small difference in his life. Realistically, it is more than feasible that he would only say as much to bring succor to me during this time, when my fate is uncertain and my future, ultimately, bleak. (After all, I have had the sinking suspicion on more than one occasion that this particular "friend" is more than capable of telling a whopper of a tall tale when it suits his purposes!) Even so, the fact that I now sit furiously scribbling the words forming in my hazy recesses of my oxygen-starved brain tells me that I have been given at least the hope that if I do depart from this Earth in the near future, my time here was not completely wasted.
My mother may not have had that assurance.
For that very reason, I am all the more grateful that someone took the time to make sure that I have.
Well, I officially moved into my new apartment last Saturday. Despite a few unforeseen detours, familial diversions, and utter exhaustion (yesterday, the activity, the stress, the excitement, and all the running about finally caught up to me, leaving me curled up on my lonely little borrowed mattress, struggling to breathe and popping aspirin to relieve the dizzying pain of my over-taxed heart), I must admit that I am far happier, far more contented, far more optimistic than I have been in years.
Hmmmmm...
Renewals....
In less than half-an-hour, I will find myself face-to-face with a friend from Middlebury (a fellow freelance writer) whom I have not seen in over twenty years.
Where has the time gone?
As daunting as the prospect of such a reunion is in so many ways, I find myself too excited to even sit still. New beginnings, new prospects, new adventures: these are all so compelling, so enchanting...so intriguing. I can't wait to learn what will happen next...and learn about myself in the process.
(Ah! Grist for the mill...or in this case, ideas for the word processor, ya'll!)
Renewals:
They present themselves in so many strange and wonderful forms, don't they?
My friend's response to yesterday's well-meaning but admittedly unsolicited advice was, "Thanks all the same, but it works for me." Though alarmed and somewhat dismayed, I know that my reaction to editorial input is often less than...gracious; therefore, I can only move on--comforted somewhat by the knowledge that I at least attempted to honestly and constructively be of help--in the hopes that all will go well for him in his self-publishing endeavor.
In the meantime, this autumnally cool Saturday morning in July finds me resolutely recording another rejection letter, even as I mentally cheer on the creative process. My health slowly but surely improves. The constant press-and-pull of the upcoming move to Colorado adds significantly to the sense of impending change; nevertheless, it is change to which I look eagerly forward.
The time has come to move on.
(But first, I need to get my rear in gear and work on my fairy tales!)
One of the most difficult aspects of what I do--at least to my way of thinking--is the waiting. I wait for my computer to boot up, wait for inspiration, wait for rejection or acceptance letters, wait for clients to either call me or return my calls, wait for responses to my comments or corrections (when editing), and then...wait for my paycheck!
Grrrrrrrr!!!!
This day finds me waiting a response to an e-mail I quite hesitantly posted earlier this afternoon. A very dear friend is making his first foray into the world of published writing after years in the public eye. When I took on (or,more accurately: wheedled, cajoled,pestered, and demanded) the wondrous and fulfilling task of completing an "unofficial" pre-edit (my term for a process--my personal specialty--I often implement when dealing with many clients, by which the content of the work itself goes untouched while the grammatical, syntactical, and other structural aspects of the writing are corrected, after which, the client to opt for the next stage of the editorial process), I found myself absolutely enchanted by not only the manuscripts themselves but his unique style of writing: so much so, in fact, that I threw myself into the project, adding advice and services that I had not before intended to offer. As life would have it,unfortunately, circumstances led to a long silence between us, and I held no place in his life for several months. Only yesterday did he present me with the "final -final" edit of his young adult manuscript...
And I was faced with a moral, personal and professional dilemma.
As always, the writing itself was breathtaking, as were the ideas and imagery conveyed within this imaginative and unique story he had woven.
The grammar, in places was horrible.
Having gone into this matter with my eyes open--convinced that my personal feelings would indubitably diminish my objectivity with regards to the work--I had always accepted (and, indeed, preferred) to view the project as a favor for a friend, encouraging him--as such--at every juncture to consult (but not sacrifice his creative voice to) his own editor or literary agent. Because of this "hands off" approach, I have no idea who is assisting him in this venture...or to what degree. My concern, however,is that he might, by those without his best interests at heart, be steered into very troubling directions.
Then again, what right do I have--having kept a decided and deliberate distance from the creative process--to bulldoze my way into it now?
(On the other hand, as a friend and fellow writer, under what obligation am I to do everything in my power to make sure his project is the best it can be, the he has the best chance for success possible?)
It's all too much for this little Louisiana/Cherokee girl to handle.
So here I sit...
Waiting...
To see what course of action he will or not take, if my advice will wreck an already precarious relationship, to hear his response, for that bolt from the blue which will impart upon me some great--and before unknown--wisdom and discernment...
Waiting, essentially, for his response to my response....
Where does friendship end and professionalism begin?
And, for once in my life, should I simply keep my big mouth shut?
The last month has seen me struggling with health issues once again, which I found--naturally--quite disheartening. Not only have I found myself unable to attend many of the functions or indulge in the activities which bring me the most pleasure but I have not written much of anything in the past month. Oh, to keep my mind nimble (not to mention geared towards creating) I have spent much of my convalescence attempting to read; nevertheless, it is so very frustrating to find myself too tired, too listless, to drained to actually write.
"...Life sucks...and you are a warrior...."
This is what my "best" friend in California had to say on the subject. And, as usual, the levity cheered me up just long enough to give me no choice but to put things into perspective. Despite my moaning and groaning--not to mention my spiels of very creative lamentations--given the severity of things, the situation could have easily been far worse. Thus and therefore, the time has come to push myself back into the "swing of things," albeit the very prospect of having to unravel nearly six weeks of untouched manuscripts, missed appointments, unanswered e-mails, and piles of correspondence leaves me cringing.
When girls and I first moved in with K., it seemed as though our every prayer had been answered.
age-old term would encapsulate this rather remarkable new experience.
