Yesterday, I accessed my voice mail to be greeted by this message from a relative in Denver:
"I just called to see if your fat butt got a job!"
It is odd to me that there are those who do not consider freelance projects to be actual work. (Then again, I have a sibling who swears I have "never done a day's work" in my life, which calls into question, I guess, the judge rather than the one being judged.) to work from home amid the daily distractions of everyday living requires a special kind of discipline. It is imperative to enjoy the work being done, to find fulfillment in it--otherwise, the insidious beckoning of those dishes piled up in the dishwasher, the three loads of laundry waiting to be tackled, or that favorite rerun of Masterpiece Theatre or The Gilmore Girls prove impossible to ignore.
Truly, this is not the best option for everyone. Many need the structure of a "typical nine-to-five". I have one long-time acquaintance who actually rents office space on a busy downtown street because, "I just can't spend all that time alone in front of the computer. I need to be able to see and hear that rat race as I type."
To each his own....
Still, the selling point for choosing the freelance option (at least for me) is the flexibility it affords. The truth is, I am probably a more grueling (and critical) taskmaster than any boss or supervisor ever could be. The constant reminders of the mundane projects baked up behind me provide the incentive necessary to keep me on track and progressing at a brisk pace. Being, furthermore, one of those irksome perfectionists who needs to get everything done ahead of time, working independently does not pose a problem for me.
Knowing when to call it a day, however, does.
As much as I love Colorado, my body has yet to bounce back from the transition. This last week, I must say, has been--as a result--an absolute killer! If one can picture a near-forty woman huddled beneath a coverlet banging away at her laptop as she all but convulses with chills, he (or she) has a pretty doggone good mental image of me. In some ways, much was accomplished: in other ways, I feel as though I am falling steadily behind. All the same, I have adored every minute of it. Working on such a wide range of different projects (spanning so many different literary forms and disciplines) is never boring. In fact, it thrills me. And, being at the mercy of no one's schedule but one's own (for the most part) is to me a beautiful thing.
Even if it means that others think my "fat butt" (all the better to sit at my computer with, my dear) isn't holding down an actual "job."
So, for all you freelance writers, editors, and ghostwriters out there, never let anyone compel you to feel as though your work, your time, your efforts are of any less value than anyone else's just because you chose to meet your deadlines in a baby-doll nightie and fuzzy Eeyore slippers. The quality of written work stands, regardless of the conditions under which that work was completed; thus and therefore, my friends... Just keep writing, ya'll.
My children--having had no contact with my estranged husband in over three years and, unfortunately, preferring it that way--have declared today "National Fatherhood Crisis Day". I myself would prefer to think of it as my own personal Writer's Crisis Sunday.
Not a thought, not an idea, not the slightest inclination to put words to "paper." This is becoming alarming. Even though my journal serves as the last refuge from complete and utter literary exile, I am determined this day to awaken my brain, stimulate my senses, and have a bit of fun with my writing today.
Once again,
To quote the title of the movie (and didn't you just love the ex-husband in that one!):
It takes very little to bring the luminiferous quality of faith into someone's day: faith in goodness; faith in the underlying goodness of man kind; faith that the sun will return after days of darkness and drizzle; that inspiration--though lost--can again be located; that the course of one's life, even as circumstances alter it, can drift towards new hope, peace, and the renewal of one's spirit.Pretty lofty notions for a Tuesday afternoon, huh?Today began with a great deal of pain. There are many "unknowns" to chronic anemia as well as g6pd and MDS. Every illness, every disease results from the body's attempt to rectify some internal flaw or problem; thus, unless one has an idea what it is that set off the series of rectifications or symptoms from which the "illness" resulted, there is not a great deal that can be done to "cure" it (i.e.assist the body in curing itself...without killing itself). One of the great unexplained mysteries in my case is why my body, when at its most red-blood-cell deficient, insists (upon other odd and inexplicable malfunctions) upon draining calcium and protein from my right leg. I won't go into the numerous theories by numerous medical professionals from numerous fields. I will only say this:The end result is a whooole lot of pain.(So much so, I would gnaw the sucker off if I could stand the taste of it!)In any event, pain came, rain came, work needed to be done, sleep had been elusive after yesterday's rant, yet our intrepid grammarian was determined not to let these small worries daunt her. Having made up my mind to move, I planned to get to work, surfing the internet as I clicked away at my daily research. Though it was not until ten that I could convince myself to get out of bed, once I had, I worked at the apartment for a while (still sans electricity, heat, and hot water) then headed out for the library. This being one of the few nights on which I volunteer, I made up my mind to push through the rather...excruciating...mind numbing...nasty...nasty pain in order to get a bit of research done (for my move as well as my writing projects) while simultaneously positioning myself to head out to the soup kitchen (only one door down) later on.
First of all, the number of encouraging messages regarding my decision to move were staggering. I had voiced an impulsive, rather implausible plan of action...and been met with warmth and support. As I read through the e-mails and Facebook messages, I recalled that "prodigious talent" remark from my best friend. I found myself actually accessing notes on that very topic and organizing them into some semblance of order. It was a process which not only reawakened my interest in the project (a "young adult" manuscript--O Mother! My Father..."-- which examines the dysfunctional rather unhealthy marriage between two people as seen through the eyes of their teenage daughter) itself but proved cathartic in dealing with the rage (directed at the relative who escapades have made my life a nightmare and who shall remain nameless but will be hereafter known as either KWH or my family's Dub-Yah) which contributed greatly to the decision to "get out of Dodge" (along with that slight complication of going unpaid!)
While in the library, I met all the familiar faces of the staff members, many of whom rarely fail to inquire as to the progress of my children, encourage me in my long hours huddled over the computer, ask about my health. or simply stop and chat. Those small, random offerings of unaffected kindness were invaluable in helping me plow through the discomfort (no, pain) and other emotional "stuff" in order to do what needed to be done. Not only did one of the security guards take the time to cheer me on; yet, as I was away from my book-covered station, the second noticed (via the surveillance cameras) suspicious-looking individuals circling the desk. Noting that although I had taken my computer, bag, and mobile phone with me to the ladies room my umbrella and adapter had been left behind (and after I had been away from the table for more than the usual five-to-ten minutes) the darling made a point of retrieving the items and locking them in his office. When I returned, noticing the same suspicious couple in passing before coming upon my notably less-cluttered table, I rushed to the check-out desk to tell of my dilemma (philsophically thinking Ha,ha, are they in for a shock! That charger is on its last legs anyway!) I was told, "See Jose!"
And, when I rushed back to the table to grab the computer and bag (which I had very unwisely left behind in my haste to catch the departing couple) three other patrons called out to let me know "the security guard" had walked off with my umbrella.
Apparently, he saw them, ascertained that they seemed a little too interested in my collection of books and notes, and stepped in immediately. "You can't be too safe, honey." He said. How comforting that the "honey" was actually a welcoming, sincerely affectionate term of kindness...and felt as such!
"We take care of our people!" one librarian told me five minutes later with a smile.
There is goodness in the world, even amidst the chaos.
To what better topic to devote a few hundred of my thousand words that that?
Here I sit at my usual table in the New Haven Public Library on Main Street, having completed my usual "Just Say NO to Being Hit On" ritual. I have moved two of the four chairs surrounding my table to another then placed my cumbersome Tinkerbell bag and jacket strategically upon the second. Next, I have plugged in my already fully-charged cell phone, tucking it between said bag and jacket lest some smooth Lothario again corner me with the "do you mind if I move these" line. (The inconvenience of disentangling the cord is a viable excuse for not freeing up this particular chair since the entire Reading Room is quite undeniably empty.) My reference books are spread out about the table, my computer centrally positioned to discourage the bold from squeezing in beside me. And, to top it all off, my best, no-nonsense "no, I am not interested in a 'friend'"demeanor is firmly in place--like well-polished armor--to turn away even the most persistent of the bold.Seems a lot to do simply to work in the library?Yes, I would say so. Still, somehow, this ritual has become a necessary part of my morning research routine. Why, I could not say. After all, I am no raving beauty, In my over-sized t-shirt and leggings, I have not dressed to impress. In truth, it never ceases to take me off-guard when males of varying ages, ethnicity, and socio-economic positions seek me out in the all but empty library in order to sit at my table making very trite, very annoying, very blatant "chit-chat" while I struggle to simply write! I have my "regulars," who pointedly seek me out, making a great production of passing my table, selecting reading materials, or placing their bundles upon my table while loudly or pointedly making their presence known. My popularity has, in fact, become something of a running joke among myself and certain members of the library staff.Before moving to New Haven, I did not realize that daily stalkings were an occupational habit of the serious writer. Naive though I may be, I had no idea that libraries were "notorious pick-up stations." Call me stupid, but I actually thought people came here to, um, read. Still, two minutes into my library routine, a man very casually (too casually, in fact) approached my pointedly isolated table. "'S supposed to rain today?" he asked, as though something in my dress, manner, or demeanor indicated identifiable meteorological abilities."I'm not sure," I replied off-handedly, careful to be neither rude nor receptive."You Jamaican?" he asked.The motivation behind the question--as I have no accent, am wearing a Phillips Exeter Academy t-shirt, and have never even been in the general vicinity of that particular island in my entire life--baffled me into making momentary eye-contact. "No," I replied, again erecting my chilly, impregnable walls of distance and resistance."You're pretty though. My name is Miguel. And yours."Usually, my response to that question is an icy glare, a menacing twisting of the lips, and a distinct, no-nonsense, "My own!" complete with disdainfully arched eye-brow. The Jamaican line having momentarily distracted me, however, I muttered, "Chance." (Not that it matters, as the name is invariably repeated back to me as "Janice," for some completely incomprehensible reason.)"I'll see you around!" he announced with the supreme confidence of one who has made a definite conquest. There was even a bit of a bounce in his step as he exited, never so much as casting a glance at the periodicals offered in this quiet corner section of the building.Thus, here I sit, sighing and shaking my head to clear my mind of its fog of incredulity. One would think I could slip easily and unobtrusively into the background. After all, Tyra Banks, people, I ain't. In fact, I consider myself actually quite plain, leading me to wonder what fascination, what blaring magnetism draws this kind of attention throughout the day every day no matter what steps I take to discourage it. My conclusion: an electromagnetic field surrounds my ancient ibook, sending out periodic signals which subconsciously hone in on desperate or lonely Lotharios, drawing them inexorably to my table. And, as I must invariably utilize this particular tool (as well as the irremovable reference materials necessary for this particular project), such interruptions must be accepted as par for the course. But geezsh!
All I want to do here is write, people.(Hmmm. The twenty-pound dictionary on its fiberglass pedestal! Albeit I usually just cross the room when the need to flip through it arises, it is quite movable. ...And it would take up quite a bit of space at my table as well. Convenience, utility, and versatility! Odd that I never though of it before!)
I shall gather up this sunshine, And with it fill my pockets. In that way, I can carry it with me always... Always, and wherever i go. When the storms of life rage at me, Casting darkly gloomed shadows; When the winds of change funnel into gray cyclones-- Of confusion there present And of the debris of the past; If trouble rains acidic droplets-- Bitter tears born of fulfillment denied; Beneath cold and clouded sorrow; In fear; in doubt; in heartache; Even in the bleak "winters of my discontent," I will pull it out in fistfuls And sprinkle it about me To watch it in all its golden splendor-- The sweet nectar that is this present happiness-- Burst into ribbons of color (Underneath a canopy of vibrant blue), Then say to myself, "Ah! This is contentment!"
