The Scribble Pad
The mental meanderings of a slightly loose screw.
JUNE 08
Sunday June 29 - Identity
Well, the long, hideous, agonizing wait is over, and today I finally got word: my publishing contract will not be renewed. Happens all the time, in the writing world. There isn't a published author alive who has never been rejected at one time or other during their career. But, you see, in the nine years since I've been published, it hasn't happened to me.
Needless to say, I am not taking it well. I opened the email from my agent quite by accident, unthinkingly; I don't think she's ever written me on a Sunday. And sat, stunned, as her email blew me away. And then I cried at my desk like a fool.
Several hours later, I'm still a basket case. I fed the dog...cried. Packed the kids' lunches...cried. I'm blogging blurry-eyed. It's not just the implications for my career, which I'm sure I'll sort out eventually, once I can think clearly again. It's the feeling that in the past two months, life has managed to knock me to the ground and is standing over me, whacking the stuffing out of me with a baseball bat.
Whack, I lose my dad. Whack, whack, my grandmother. Whack, whack, whack, no book deal, just when I needed it most. I guess three times is the charm.
And I feel my identity unravel...my sense of self erodes. A huge part of my psyche was built around being Trevor Carrington's daughter. Now that he's gone, who am I? I chunk of my identity is all abut being a writer. If my books don't get published...what am I?
Friday June 20 - Say goodbye to childhood
I just can't seem to get Billy Joel's "Say Goodbye to Hollywood" out of my head. This Tuesday I walked into my office and handed in my letter of resignation. It was the kind of day most writers dream of, coming to the point in your life when you say, "It's okay. I'll take it from here." It was to be my Independence Day.
I'd barely got the words out of my mouth, though, not even finished saying my goodbyes, when I got a call from my cousin saying that my grandmother was dying. This less than 2 months after my father.
The Carringtons converged on the hospital en masse (the security guard at the entrance logged us in as the Carrington Posse), and waited. We popped in in our twos and threes to touch her lightly and to say our goodbyes, and by 8:30 that night she was gone.
Now I'm sitting here, knowing that my charmed, extended childhood is over. At 42 I had two living parents and 3 grandparents. That's saying something. Now, the solid ground on which I had smugly stood is being eroded. And, given that my two remaining grandparents are 93, I can hardly have expectations that the charm will hold out.
So here I am, feeling as though I'm standing at the beach, looking up at a huge, dark wave poised above me, threatening to collapse at any time and engulf me with grief once again. And I feel old. And I know that my childhood is gone.
Tuesday June 10 - Before and after
I've just about finished the first draft of my latest romance, and I'm now in the process of editing it. Somewhere in the middle of the thing, round about Chapter 12 or 13, my father was killed. My mind gets a little blurry round about then. I remember plodding on after the funeral, writing every day as I always did, glad for the distraction.
But now that I'm editing the thing, I've become obsessed with the question of exactly where in the novel I lost him. It's almost as if I expect to see a thick black line drawn across the page, with the annotation "this is where my life changed".
Did my writing change? Did some kind of switch flip in me when I became a fatherless person, when my life swerved down a One Way street that I'll never be able to turn back from? I know there's a scene late in the novel, where the hero receives bad shock and reacts pretty much how I reacted the night after Daddy died. I wrote it consciously, trying to put my own feelings on paper, to impose them on someone else for change. But before that...I don't know. everything gets blurry and a curtain falls.
I know I should have written about it, logged my thoughts, so that maybe years from now I'd be able to read and retrace what I lived through, but I couldn't. I still can't. So much for writing what you know.
Thursday June 5 - Don't give up your day job
Know the saying "Don't give up your day job"? It's usually applied to artists, musicians and writers who for some reason fancy themselves capable of living off their abundance of talent. Just before they do exactly that...and then find themselves unshaven, bitter and bleary-eyed, lining up at the soup kitchen.
Well, today I gave notice at my job, the best-paying and most prestigious I've ever had, and probably ever will.
Here's why: My father wanted to be a musician. He played several instruments but loved the trumpet best. From time to time he played nightclubs, operettas and Carnival bands, and when we were children, he talked about making his first million with his trumpet. We thought he was kidding. He had an enduring fantasy about packing it all in, I know, and playing brassy blues in a nightclub. And yet he sold insurance for a living. That's the way it is when you have a family to support.
Losing him has made me think about that. Me, I've always wanted to be a writer. And the more I think about his longing, the more I realise that I have no time to lose. If I want to write, I should write. If I want to write all day, well, that's what I'm going to do.
Because when things happen, they happen fast. Life slips you by. And the last thing I want is for one of my children, some time in the future, to start a recounting of my life with the words: "My mother wanted to be a writer." The time is now.
Tuesday June 3 - On the other hand
On the other hand, full-grown centipedes and cockroaches are fair game.
Who's with me? High five!
