An Anna Karenina kind of day
Feb. 17th, 2005 05:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pjthompsonYou know the kind, where laying your head on the railroad track actually seems attractive. Off with her head—that's where all the trouble starts, so off with it! Too much thinking is a deadly thing. And that's what I was doing yesterday. Nearly killed me. I'm better now.
The thing is, when it's a too much thinking kind of day, the least thing can send the train careening down the wrong track. And sweet reason gets pulverized by the fast moving freight of worry and paranoia; no consolation is strong enough to stand against that rushing onslaught. "Run fast! Jump off the train!" Or lie down and let it roll over you.
But I've learned a thing or two in this process of living, and a day's derailment rarely turns into a downward spiral anymore. The train was back on track this morning and I didn't feel like laying my head on the track ahead of it.
An editor said she liked the world I'd created and wanted to see more; someone else who rejected the same novel spoke disparagingly of its "type." I didn't take that personally. I really didn't think she meant me personally, just the type of fiction I was writing. But it made me wonder why I'm writing what I'm writing. Those are only two opinions, no matter what position these people occupy in the publishing world. But I tortured myself with thinking, "Is it a trend? And which way is the trend trending? Am I obsolete before I've even finished the journey?" The wheels go round and round; the high, lonesome whistle sounds; clickity clack clickity clack.
I've been doing a storm of writing lately. Usually that's enough to ward off the whangdoodles of uncertainty. After so not wanting to write a few weeks back at the beginning of my chapter 14, it came barreling through me and practically wrote itself—a blessed feeling, rich and rare. Chapter 15 has been much the same. I've now passed the 56,000 word mark (SMF), really in the zone, feeling pretty durned good about things. But it's another one of those "types" of novels and I'm well aware of the prejudice against them out there in certain quarters. Why am I writing it? Because it needs to be written. And the momentum is such that we should be arriving in Kankakee, ladies and gentleman, by morning. If that makes some editors happy—good on me. If it makes others unhappy—such is the price of your ticket, ladies and gentleman. Don't blame the conductor.
And to put things in a completely different perspective, I was almost run down in the parking lot of Costco the other day. In fact, I was run down in the parking lot of Costco. The inattentive woman in the Mercedes who was wheeling around a car waiting for a parking space hit my purse rather than my hip and sent the purse careening rather than my body—but it was a matter of inches. She refused to roll down her window, but that's okay. I enunciated very carefully. I'm sure she read my lips quite well before stepping on the gas and high-tailing it out of there.
I'm really glad I'm not really the Anna Karenina type. I'm really glad my last moments on the planet were not spent in the parking lot of Costco. Although who knows what the future holds? A friend of mine always used to say, "Irony is the leading cause of death in this country." I never quite understood what he meant, but I understood it well in that Costco parking lot the other night. I'd envisioned a somewhat more picturesque ending: perhaps reclining on a divan, coughing demurely between bouts of belting out a Puccini aria.
But life rarely gives you what you want in exactly the form you want it. Even your death.
Sometimes the scenery out the window is nice, though.
The thing is, when it's a too much thinking kind of day, the least thing can send the train careening down the wrong track. And sweet reason gets pulverized by the fast moving freight of worry and paranoia; no consolation is strong enough to stand against that rushing onslaught. "Run fast! Jump off the train!" Or lie down and let it roll over you.
But I've learned a thing or two in this process of living, and a day's derailment rarely turns into a downward spiral anymore. The train was back on track this morning and I didn't feel like laying my head on the track ahead of it.
An editor said she liked the world I'd created and wanted to see more; someone else who rejected the same novel spoke disparagingly of its "type." I didn't take that personally. I really didn't think she meant me personally, just the type of fiction I was writing. But it made me wonder why I'm writing what I'm writing. Those are only two opinions, no matter what position these people occupy in the publishing world. But I tortured myself with thinking, "Is it a trend? And which way is the trend trending? Am I obsolete before I've even finished the journey?" The wheels go round and round; the high, lonesome whistle sounds; clickity clack clickity clack.
I've been doing a storm of writing lately. Usually that's enough to ward off the whangdoodles of uncertainty. After so not wanting to write a few weeks back at the beginning of my chapter 14, it came barreling through me and practically wrote itself—a blessed feeling, rich and rare. Chapter 15 has been much the same. I've now passed the 56,000 word mark (SMF), really in the zone, feeling pretty durned good about things. But it's another one of those "types" of novels and I'm well aware of the prejudice against them out there in certain quarters. Why am I writing it? Because it needs to be written. And the momentum is such that we should be arriving in Kankakee, ladies and gentleman, by morning. If that makes some editors happy—good on me. If it makes others unhappy—such is the price of your ticket, ladies and gentleman. Don't blame the conductor.
And to put things in a completely different perspective, I was almost run down in the parking lot of Costco the other day. In fact, I was run down in the parking lot of Costco. The inattentive woman in the Mercedes who was wheeling around a car waiting for a parking space hit my purse rather than my hip and sent the purse careening rather than my body—but it was a matter of inches. She refused to roll down her window, but that's okay. I enunciated very carefully. I'm sure she read my lips quite well before stepping on the gas and high-tailing it out of there.
I'm really glad I'm not really the Anna Karenina type. I'm really glad my last moments on the planet were not spent in the parking lot of Costco. Although who knows what the future holds? A friend of mine always used to say, "Irony is the leading cause of death in this country." I never quite understood what he meant, but I understood it well in that Costco parking lot the other night. I'd envisioned a somewhat more picturesque ending: perhaps reclining on a divan, coughing demurely between bouts of belting out a Puccini aria.
But life rarely gives you what you want in exactly the form you want it. Even your death.
Sometimes the scenery out the window is nice, though.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-17 06:22 pm (UTC)And I hope Ms Mercedes gets her own purse knocked for a loop.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-17 10:39 pm (UTC)And I hope Ms Mercedes gets her own purse knocked for a loop.
I just keep picturing her face, staring at me goggle-eyed. Not even a mouthing of "I'm sorry." Obviously, we don't live in the same universe.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 02:33 am (UTC)Even our ghetto of fiction has its ghettoes. It's a colourful place to play, and the people who turn it down on the basis of where it lives rather than what it does really aren't the ones who will ever get what we're talking about. Move on; the ones who matter will get it.
It isn't important what you got to play with. It's what you do with it that counts.
As for Miss Merc, she will no doubt run afoul of another purse some dark night in the future.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 10:47 am (UTC)Move on; the ones who matter will get it.
Oh yeah, I have, I will. But the problem is, so many of the ones who don't get it are in positions of power. But as a wise friend recently told me--that's completely out of my control. My job is to concentrate on the things I can have control over. The work. My job is just to do the work to the best of my ability.
So that's what I'm going to do. :-)
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 11:19 am (UTC)