Christmas and the holidays have proven indescribably horrendous this year; however, the determination to continue writing through it all--despite it all--has remained (for the most part) undiminished. Having entered a few very bad poetry "chapbooks" in various contests, the objective is to work as long, as diligently, and as consistently now that my laptop has been repaired and restored. Though progress is hard to measure at this point,  my hope centers on that well-used adage "even a broken clock is right twice a day."

Something has to turn up.

In the meantime, tomorrow is gone and cannot be changed. The future is beyond my present comprehension. All that is left for me--indeed, for any of us--to do is learn from the former, strive for the most favorable results with regards to the later...and keep doing the best that can be done with that which is known at the time.

But, y'know what?

'Tain't always easy, ya'll!!!!

(Keep writing, everyone.)

By the way,

If you are ever in Colorado Springs and in need of a little TLC for your Mac,  top in the Macstore and ask for "Phil." He's really a great guy!

Taking a Long, Deep, Cleansing Breath

When my beleaguered iBook died last month (probably from over-use and exhaustion), my initial reaction was to take this momentous event as yet another sign from God and the Heavens above that this little black duck was simply not meant to write. How, after all, could I make the money to repair or replace the thing when I did not have it as a means to make the money?


At times, it was a dark, dark place.

All the same, a wonderful group of individuals stepped in and bolstered my dwindling reserves of optimism at a time when such support was--well--vital. Now, "new" laptop in hand (with, I might add, the majority of my information in tact) I am forcing myself to take just a moment to relax and "reset". Even though I have been virtually out-of-work for a month, despite the bills piling up on my tables and floors, even with the holidays peeking over the fence into my back yard (not to mention my middle daughter's eighteenth birthday the day after Christmas), I have convinced myself to stop, take a long, deep, cleansing breath, then again grasp hold of the fervid belief that I can, will, and must retain my faith in myself, my dream, my "talents," and my love for my "craft" in order to continue on...

And on...

And on...

And on...

Until my work is "done."


Keep writin' ya'll!

A Christmas Essay

At this time of year, many people quote the line, Jesus is the reason for the season: yet this is not entirely accurate. The "Savior" featured in the New Testament was not evident that Earth-changing day long ago: only a tiny newborn baby. Upon Its birth, that baby spouted no profound parables , preached no sermons, uttered no great truths. Further, He had saved no lives, performed no miracles...known no suffering, or made any sacrificed on this Earth--great or small; and in truth, there was no guarantee--at the time--that It would. Those choices, as listed in the Bible and recorded in the annals of collective spiritual history, came much later--the operative word being choices.

At that time, at the time of birth, nevertheless, none of this had taken place. Moreover, none of the oft-remembered attendants of this celebration had any inkling that it would. They gathered together in anticipation of what would be, not what was.

It seems to me that individuals become so engrossed in forcing their beliefs upon others that they, in doing so, lose sight of the basics of those ideals themselves. At Christmastime, it is not His future which we commemorate but the simple, glorious promise inherent in that single, quiet miracle of birth. We, like those animals, those shepherds, kings and wise men gathered around the manger, celebrate hope and faith; limitless joy: the innocence of trust; that childlike awe experienced when encountering that which is new and breathtaking--never before seen, of which we had never before conceived. We are reminded of the incontrovertible values of selfless giving, of embracing hope of peace...and of that purest form of goodwill which both transcends the boundaries of nationality, social status, and economic standing in order to draw us--as human beings--across those meaningless divides so that we might share in what is truly important, not to mention infinitely more magnificent than anything we have or had in our lives before imagined:

Promise.

The Promise of (indeed, the birth of) a limitless Love.

...So, I suppose it is my hope that during this season of lights and marvels, of beauty and majesty, of childhood and optimism, of exultant spirits and joyous giving none of us forget that in truth, for not only the believers in the Divinity of Christ but for every human being--young or old, of every race, creed, color, nationality, or religion--the True "reason for the season" is Love. It is Love which should be, is, and always has been the basis for honoring this magnificent day we call Christmas. How wrong it is, therefore, to accuse "the powers that be" of diminishing that message when it is those who attach to it self-righteous, often sanctimonious qualifications who are most often guilty of forgetting this fact!

The only differentiation between the "believer" and the "non-believer" is that one faction maintains that Jesus is Love. And, in all candor, if the objective is honestly to illustrate to others that this is the case, the means to accomplish this can never be anything less than offering love to others...rather than criticism and condemnation.

If one truly "believes," then the expectation should be that--having done this--Someone Greater can and will easily step in to do the rest!

My wish for this and every other Christmas is that every single human being who comes into contact with its concept remembers--in fact revels in the recollection--that the one thing we must never forget at this time of year

Is to love one another.

Another Day

As usual, finding significant work (in term of size, responsibility, and the ever-present pay) during the holidays is proving something of a challenge. Still in all, despite the invariable setbacks which typify "writing" as a career, there is nothing I would rather do with my time, no other way in which I would ever chose to make my living.

Still, a nice, big fascinating assignment would make my holidays a little happier, ya'll!

Redefining a Love Affair

When months ago I made the decision to again viewing my writing as--instead of a commercial endeavor--an enduring passion, I did so with the same drive and determination as I have faced most important decision in my life. In the beginning, the enthusiasm was as potent as any drug, I suppose. Nothing was more thrilling to me than pouring over my research, playing those sly little love gaames with words and punctuation, and delving into the cobweb-filled corridors of my long-unused imagination.

And I loved it.

When it happened that my body could not keep up with the frantic pace of my frenetically racing mind, my love affair with the written word was soured by my constant exhaustion. There is so much one wanted to give: in time, in care, in terms of quality and simple, basic respect. And "art," I was reminded, is any form, a demanding "lover." It settles for nothing less than complete and concentrated devotion, its expectations deeming unimportant the practical constraints of time. (Did I mention that at the time, I loved it?)

Now.

I sit at a loss.

What next?

How, exactly, do I progress, now that there is not doubt in my mind (or any one else's) that I am no longer up to giving to this relationship all that it asks...

And deserves?

Freelance Heartaches

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.

Solitude, Attitude, Fortitude

Who would have thought that this simple business of freelance work could become so very frustrating--not to mention complicated?!?!?



















When I first mentioned the intention to "work from home," the response was usually, "You'll never get anything done: too many distractions." According to the general consensus, I would find myself--rather than knuckling under and focusing on the task at hand--flipping on the television, meandering to the kitchen for tea, finishing up that never-ending list of household chores (which always seems much easier to tackle in solitude). I would never, I was warned, get any real work accomplished.





Little did I suspect that the opposite would be the case! All too often, I find myself up at three p.m. still tapping away at the keys, certain that were I to put even the simplest thing off, it would somehow fail to get done. Perhaps this would not be so bad, if one does not happen to be one of those infuriatingly perfection-driven souls who cannot settle for a good job...or even a great job...but must always strive to surpass even The Best.


(For the record, compulsive people don't have any sense of moderation, ya'll.)

Yes, the freedom to earn my daily bread barefoot, stretched out on the carpet in a tank top in shorts is definite thrill. Alright: to be blunt, it is downright additive. At this point when a client suggest Skype, addtional face-to-face meetings, or other scenarios which require putting an actual brush to my hair and donning adult attire, every cell within my body has a tendency to actually CRINGE.

Yes, I'm utterly spoiled, people.

Even so, the casual environment tends to urge me to be more fastidious rather than less so. With the work staring at me constantly, the temptation to "just push through" is nearly impossible to escape; thus, I finding myself working longer hours, obsessing over finer details than I would were I putting in the traditional 9 to 5 in someone else's office.

This is my name on the line, after all!

My reputation is at stake.

And, there is no one to take the blame for that un-dotted "i" or uncrossed "t" but ME!

Additionally, with the children away, there are few (if any) diversions from the lure of the computer screen. Left on my own, it is easy to forgo such inconveniences as...say...eating, sleeping, or taking a breather in the interest of "just getting this one LAST paragraph edited."

Even now, as I find myself taking on the task of "writing coach" (or, as somewhat facetiously retitled by the client) "developmental editor" to an individual whose solemn belief is that the "more the merrier" (as opposed to my staunch, heartfelt position that "too many cooks spoil the soup) with regards to the number of editors, coaches, and contributors invited "on board," I catch myself putting in more work, more effort, more time than the project (and pay for the project) should entail.

The writer in me is so fiercely protective of the artist's "voice" that I find myself examining then re-examining elements of style in order to make sure--in my corrections, suggestions, and general notations--that I am not imposing my own will upon the client, injecting my own literary preferences and tendencies into another person's work.

Even when taking a project I dislike...




.















Such as this one.

It isn't that I lack faith in the manuscript itself. The individual has taken a timely, undeniably pertinent topic and examined it in such a way that would be (and will be) of particular interest, given the times. The problem, unfortunately, is that I am not, when it comes to writing and/or editing, a team player, by any means; nor do I like the constant contradiction of my work by others. In my mind, I'm pretty doggone good at what I do; as such, the repeated interjection of seemingly less qualified influences--quite frankly--sets my blood t'boilin'!

I can't work that way.

Better to make my contributions then step away as the finished piece is reformed, refinished, and re-evaluated by some unknown entity I shall never meet offering opinions I shall never hear!

Why, then, am I working so diligently on a project from which I have already disassociated myself.

Yes, even after explaining to the writer my position--making it clear that after the agreed-upon trial read-through, it seemed advantageous to all concerned if we parted company--I cannot, somehow, let the whole thing go. Having signed on, even if under false notions of the capacity in which my services would be required, the perfectionist in me just can't leave a task--any task--undone.

Ergo, the only course of action is to--in my solitude--adopt a no-nonsense attitude summon up the fortitude to strike that ever-elusive balance between a job well-done...and a job overdone.

Any suggestions??????????????????