Decision Time

My wife, my sister, my father-in-law, and several close friends, keep asking me how the writing is going on Resuscitation, the sequel to They Never Die Quietly. My answer: “Um. Geez. Hmm.” The fact is, other than a loosely written outline, I haven’t written a damn word. There’s a lot at stake here. Even if They Never Die Quietly doesn’t meet its sales expectations, I still made a contractual commitment to write a sequel for a foreign publisher, and if I don’t deliver, I get squat. And I’m not talking about chump-change. The advance is . . . well . . . let’s just say that it’s not enough to buy that villa in Tuscany, but it could be a modest down payment. 

So, why haven’t I started writing you ask? When I get home from work my brain is pretty much sucked dry, so any possibility of writing significant prose is remote. If I try to write on the weekends, I think I’d be preoccupied and feel like I was ignoring my wife. I admit it; they’re lame excuses. But nevertheless, my perception is my reality. Besides, like most authors, I have a specific writing technique that works for me and this method requires that I write every-single-day for several hours. 

I cannot effectively write a few paragraphs on Monday, a few on Thursday, and two pages on Saturday. If I tried this process, the writing would be absolute crap. When I write, I have to be completely engaged in the story and intimately associated with the characters. Anything less and my writing will be impotent. And no wise cracks, please. 

When I’m writing fiction, I actually depart from real-time life. I literally live in the novel and bond with the characters. It’s almost as if I’m suspended in another dimension. I know it sounds strange, but believe me, that’s the way I write. Furthermore, unlike most authors, when I begin a novel I start with a very basic idea and a shell of a story. But once I start writing, my brain explodes with interesting ideas and plot twists and quirky characters.  I’m so flooded with creative ideas that I have to constantly make notes for fear they will vanish before I’ve had a chance to record them. 

Here’s the challenge: for me to write words worth reading, I have to write every day, non-stop, until I’ve earned the right to write, THE END. But I can’t write every day while managing a very stressful and demanding full-time job. So the obvious solution is for me to retire. However, all things considered, when I crunch the numbers they just don’t pencil out. I don’t have enough money to comfortably retire and I certainly don’t want to eat beans and potatoes every day. (Although I actually like beans and potatoes!) 

So, here is my crucible: the variable in this whole scenario is the success or failure of my novel and subsequent novels. If I truly believe in myself and my writing, I should tempt fate, throw caution to the wind, submit my retirement notice, and write like there’s no tomorrow. You can’t even imagine how desperately I want to do exactly that. I guess it all comes down to one defining verdict: am I secure enough to make a risky decision, or am I held hostage by fear and a lack of confidence in my writing ability and its commercial potential?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Restored Faith in Human Nature

If you haven’t yet figured it out by reading my posts, I can be a bit cynical. Okay, truth be known, I can be painfully cynical. My rather dim view of politics, human behavior and the corporate culture resulted from years of exposure to dozens of situations that have forever colored my thinking. I did not merely draw my conclusions from circumstantial evidence or a singular event; my cynicism stems from the school of hard knocks—from being repeatedly kicked in the chops. It’s one thing to turn the other cheek, but how many cheeks do you have? And for all of you smart alecks, the answer is two, not four. 

But, once in a while someone extraordinary comes along and renews my tainted spirit and reminds me that there are a few saints still walking the Earth. Not to embarrass her, I’ll call her Candy. 

A few weeks ago, my wife and I met Candy and her husband through several church-related functions. We talked a bit, exchanged very brief autobiographies and got to know one another. My wife and I mentioned that we had a 16 year old cat that was suffering from chronic renal failure and went on to say that we encountered several unpleasant situations with charlatan veterinarians. We also mentioned that we spoke to several cat lovers who had prior experience with kidney failure and gave us an alarming prognosis. 

As luck would have it (is there really such a thing as luck?), Candy told us that she had had four years experience dealing with a cat who also suffered from renal failure. She went on to explain how she had administered a treatment called subcutaneous injections which helped greatly to manage the disease. We told her the horror stories we had heard about this treatment and said that we did not want to put out cat through this torture. 

Candy had been administering this treatment for years, and she convinced us that properly done, our cat Alex would easily tolerate the treatment and benefit greatly from it. Friday evening, Candy, with a bag full of medical paraphernalia, came over to our apartment to show us how to administer this treatment. Now bear in mind that this isn’t just popping a pill down Alex’s throat or massaging her kidneys. This is an invasive treatment where you hook up an IV bag to a 20-gauge needle and stick it in the scruff of the cat’s neck and let 150 milliliters of fluid flow into her body. Once absorbed, the fluid hydrates her organs and helps detoxify her kidneys. 

When Candy arrived, she wasn’t in a hurry to leave. She spent more than an hour trying to get to know Alex, relaxing her and making her feel comfortable. She not only delivered a detailed narrative of how to administer this treatment, but step by step she showed us exactly what had to be done, how to do it, what not to do, and she stressed the importance of sterilization and how to be sure that the needle could be inserted without causing the slightest discomfort. 

I sat on the bathroom floor and held Alex while Candy gently yet authoritatively inserted the needle into Alex’s skin. Alex didn’t even flinch. She sat quietly and let Candy and I stroke her silky fur. Five minutes later, Alex walked out of the bathroom 150 milliliters heavier than when she entered. She was perfectly content. 

Candy came over Saturday and did the same thing. And then came over Sunday and watched my wife administer the procedure. She compromised her entire weekend to help little more than strangers. 

Where do people like Candy come from? Why aren’t there more Candy’s in the world? Here is a woman we barely know and she went out of her way to help our sick cat and help us find a way to extend her life and improve her quality of life. It’s people like Candy that renew my faith in the human condition. Without people like her there would be no hope for the world or humanity. Nor would there be a prayer that a cynical guy like me could ever find redemption. Love you, Candy. Alex loves you too.

 

 

Not Enough Hours in the Day

Okay, I admit it. My time management skills are terrible. Although I really try to prioritize, at the end of the day my To-Do list only grows but never decreases. Although I can blame my lack of productivity on several factors, the main problem is my addiction to TV. I can sit in front of that damn big screen 12 maybe 14 hours a day and click through the 350 channels over and over and over, many times never even watching anything in its entirety.

You may not consider TV an addiction, but believe me when I tell you; it is just as insidious as alcohol and drugs. The consequences may not be the same, but make no mistake about it, TV addiction is very real and just as difficult to quit as smoking cigarettes. Add to this addiction my propensity to procrastinate and you have all the ingredients for time-management-hell.

They say that the initial step in overcoming an addiction is to first acknowledge that you actually have one. So, the fact that I am publically admitting I’m a TV-aholic should be my first step towards slaying this dragon, no? If so, how come I know that in spite of my confession and all the important tasks I have before me I will likely watch the Charger’s game this afternoon, burn three hours, and afterwards, look at the list of programs recorded on my two DVR’s (yes, this is not a typo; I have two DVR’s), and spend the rest of the evening watching nothing in particular but enjoying every click of the remote control?

Many years ago when I was a general manager in the retail automotive business, I was pretty darn good at strategically prioritizing and managing my time. At the end of the day, I actually felt as though I accomplished something. Of course, back then a “big screen TV” was 27 inches; there were no DVR’s; and 6-speaker surround sound systems didn’t exist. Not to mention that cable TV hadn’t been invented yet and the selection of stations was in single digits.

I guess that I can justifiably attribute my addition to 21st century technology, right? I take no responsibility. I’m merely a victim of the entertainment industry, a helpless casualty caught in a web. I can blame my addition on that damn remote control, and HD, and vivid color, and Blue Ray DVD’s.  So when Amazon Encore knocks on my door asking for the sequel to They Never Die Quietly, I can say, “Shh, I’m watching MASH reruns.”