STORIES

Diversify and Die

Kate_Dunedin_BeachNov12_480 It’s so satisfying to sit at my desk and write to the sound of the ocean. Only this time, it’s not in my earbuds, but outside my window. Our move to Dunedin placed us within walking distance of the beach, and the rhythmic breath of the waves at shore soothes me. The cool, robust breeze from the water sometimes spits through our windows like a fire hose, but it helps regulate the temperature in this upstairs master suite, high above almost all other houses on this hillside. It’s Summer here, though luckily for me, the fall and winter-loving, heat-intolerant moi, there really hasn’t been much heat yet. Weather is weird everywhere, as I understand it.

Anyway, we’re finally settling in to our new home (not new, per se, but new to us), and we can both feel the pull of literary pursuits, engendered by the sense that the busy work of our lives calmed down, and we are able to deskpic16DDec12_320 finally create some normal routines.

In OneNote, I have a tabbed list of blog ideas, just waiting for me to finish. Not so different from all the book ideas I also have–started or half-completed –just waiting for my attention. The problem isn’t that I don’t want to give my attention to them, it’s that I don’t have enough attention to go around. I really do look forward to the day when I can clone myself.

(Though Kate says in matters of sex, that would give her a heart attack.)

That being said, (much to Kate’s chagrin) I will now give my attention to this blog post….

Kate and I talked a while back, before the move, about our writing–what our goals are, and the changes we are anticipating having to make.

In my quest to learn the craft of writing, I thought it would be helpful if I had the ability to write in any genre. bookgenres Thus, over the years, I have managed to produce work in myriad categories. Fourteen, at last count. But it has become clear to me in recent months that my approach has not been wise. This diversification has only managed to erode the ground under my literary feet, and prevent me from getting a proper foothold in the market–especially when so many other writers have established theirs. And they are the ones who enjoy better sales. There’s a reason for that.

DeanKoontzspines It seems that most of THOSE-WHO-READ (myself included, though I made the error of thinking other readers behaved differently) tend to pick the type of book or author they like, or both, and then they continue to read that book/author. When they run out of an author’s work, they seek other authors who write in a similar genre and/or with a similar style. Thus, the readers who buy my books have read whichever genre of mine they are drawn to, and then discover there isn’t another book in that genre from me, and they move on to find those other authors they might also like who have books available which they have not read. This does not encourage a strong, growing readership.

Also, in diversifying myself as an author, I have failed to brand myself well enough to create the following that mybooks2012shelf_1268med probably would have existed by now, after 29 books. Had those 29 books been in one genre, I would not have taken such a hit when digital publishing swelled to its current oceanic level. According to factzone.com, in America, a new book is published every 13 minutes. This groundswell of publishing is attributable to the ease with which we can now publish our work. Yes, that means more bad books from bad writers mucking up the booklist for the rest of us, but it also means more freedom, and demands that we employ smart-marketing techniques. Hence, the issue at hand with my diversification.

My highest sales occurred when I was writing in one genre for an extended period of time and had not gotten off that beaten path yet into nonfiction, for instance. Subsequently, my sales dropped. And right when I was getting used to having that rather large paycheck every month.

Kate also feels she needs to focus more on the mainstream horror genre she prefers to write in, and not give so much attention to the lesbian genre, which for a horror author, is a very small piece of the royalty pie. Not exactly a thriving subgenre yet.

The new plan for me is to refocus my energies on the lesbian fiction genre, even though I might not always write the same subgenre inside that. I need to rebrand myself as the author of a particular genre, and keep putting out books for it. It will mean rewriting what I have on five or six or seven partially completed books in order to fit my chosen genre, but the effort will probably be worth it. And I have noticed, in reframing those other stalled books, that it would solve the issues that stagnated them in the first place. Some of them were for the mainstream market and I just could not seem to get past a certain point with them. I suspect, because I should have been sticking with the one genre instead of branching out. Hopefully it will put me back on track to producing more books, more frequently.

{Cracking knuckles.} Now back to work.

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September 30th, 2012

change, creativity, Highly Sensitive Person, HSP, Kelli Jae Baeli, Psychology, Sensory Processing Sensitivity, writing

Word Count & a Teeming Brain

One writer mentioned on her blog that she hates it when other writers have word count widgets on their blogs. It was as if they were showing off how much writing they got done. She didn’t do word counts herself because there were times when she took writing out and replaced it, and then the word count stayed the same even though she might have had a perfectly good day’s writing under her literary belt.

I have word count meters on my blog, but not for the reasons the aforementioned writer says. I have a word count meter because first, it lets my readers know I’m working on something, and what it is, and second, (and most importantly), it helps motivate ME. It’s not about showing off. That becomes obvious when you realize that I have the same issue the blogger/writer said. I often rewrite from notes in the document. Once that’s done, I delete the notes, and that often makes me break even on word count. So it’s not about crowing that I got so much work done, it’s about motivating myself in any way possible toward reaching a goal. And if you do enough writing, often enough, you eventually get that word count up anyway until the book is completed. So it doesn’t matter if the meter breaks even some days. On other days, it won’t. I also like looking down at the toolbar in Word and seeing that number rising. Again, it’s about motivation. If I see that I’ve just put down 300 words, there’s a little niggling voice that says try for 300 more…and I usually do.

Hey, whatever it takes.

I have been struggling to get back in my writing groove for a couple of years now, and that’s not something I’ve ever had to deal with before. Until now, I’ve never known what it was like to struggle with writing. But after seeing an article that came up on one of my Google Alerts, and giving it some deeper thought, it finally sunk in on a conscious level that this dilemma has a great deal to do with who I am, physiologically

As a person with SPS (Sensory Processing Sensitivity) or more commonly referred to as HSP – (Highly Sensitive Person) –a moniker I don’t care for as the connotation is misleading–I was reminded of how crucial it is for me to be in control of my environment. I need to have my routines and rituals to comfort me, free my mind from those things that would create a vortex for the creativity to irretrievably fall into (vorTEXT…there’s a joke in there somewhere…but I’m too distracted to think about it). For me, this vortex gets created by chaos, big changes, too many people, too much to do, and missing creature comforts, mostly. This is a sure way for me to become so distracted and uneasy, that I find it almost impossible to tap into either the work ethic or the creativity. And the past few years have been a circus of chaos and change. My chi has been fucked with to the nth degree for far too long.

So I acknowledge the sound reasons why my productivity has waned, while continuing to simultaneously seek solutions and be gentle with myself. It’s a precarious balance.

As I get older, I am more fearful rather than less so. I feel the creep of Age and all that comes stuffed in its pockets. I feel my mortality. Feel how tenuous life is, how precious time is and how inextricably we are caught in the linear-ness of it. I actually get PISSED OFF when I look at the clock and see that more time has passed. How dare it? It keeps ticking away and the only thing that can stop it, is the thing I wish to avoid the most. Irony, through and through.

The article I mentioned refers to a Keats poem which I somehow missed in all those literature classes…but it did speak as if from my own head and heart….

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high grav’d books, in charact’ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen’d grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to Nothingness do sink.

(c)Isaac Salazar

I have always had a profound fear that I will never live long enough to write all the books I wish to write. I also fear losing my great Love–the One it took me so long to find. Perhaps the only thing I fear as much is just suffering some horrible illness, but even that is connected to the fear of a premature demise. It always seems doubly tragic whenever the world loses great minds, creative people who have given us so much, and as a creative person, I feel a great responsibility to put my work out there. It’s my duty, my one great reason for existence.

Keats’ paradox in the metaphor of the ripened grain–that he is both the harvest and the harvester, is true as well for me. Or for any creative person. I am essentially a book, as well as the creator of the book. I create myself each time I go through this process. The creator and the created.

As a person with SPS, it’s easy to feel apart from the world, and having someone to love is equal parts comforting and fearful. Having that one great love also brings with it the fear of losing that one great love. The proverbial double-edged sword. The sword I hope not to fall upon in my passion to avoid that which frightens me (can you say self-fullfiling prophesy?).

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September 23rd, 2012

book trailer, books, challenge, change, Colorado, danger, fiction, Kelli Jae Baeli, relationships

Resurrection Sticks -Book Trailer

my novella, Resurrection Sticks

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June 28th, 2012

challenge, change, Highly Sensitive Person, HSP, Kate Genet, Kelli Jae Baeli, New Zealand, relationships, Sensory Processing Sensitivity

Land of New Zeal

Only five more days, and I will be on that flight….The excitement is finally becoming stronger than the fear and stress. Not that I don’t still worry…I’ve never flown to another country before, and dealt with all that entails–like going through customs. I’ve read the Air New Zealand website through and through. All the restriction on baggage and contents, how to check in, what to have ready in zippy bags, how much each can weigh, how big each bag can be. It’s hard to make choices about what to bring when it’s all you’re going to have for a while. If something should be amiss, and they say, “You can’t take that, or your bag is too big,” or whatever, I don’t know what to do because of course I’m only taking a paltry amount and all of it is crucial to me. Just have to hope that doesn’t happen. I have my large cargo/checked bag–pretty standard; and I have a small carry-on rolling bag, and my softside satchel, doubling as personal purse/bag. That’s it. It’s pretty amazing to see your personal requirements reduced to such a small collection of objects. But it does have a way of putting things in perspective. There are things you think you need, which, when it comes down to the wire, you realize you really don’t, or that you can always replace.

I’ve been living like a pauper in this HOT apartment…spending my days on the airbed in front of my computer (which I will mail out the day before, ahead of me). This computer is the only thing that keeps me in touch with my sweetie, and there will be an almost two-day period when I won’t be able to video chat with her all day as usual–see her face, communicate that way (Sounds silly, I know, but we have become quite addicted/dependent on seeing and communicating with each other while we wait for this reunion). I will only have my iPhone and Facebook Messenger until I reach Los Angeles, and then when I get to Auckland, I will have the phone she sent me to contact her between transfers there, in Christchurch and then Dunedin, where she will be waiting for me. And then we will have a wonderful week in a cabin by the water…a fireplace…the gifts we will exchange…and most of all, each other, finally. It is very much like two soulmates kept apart too long, and finally able to absorb each other again. I am living each moment for that.

This whole process has been a real challenge for me, an HSP–every single trigger is present, and still, i trudge forward with complete certainty. There were lots of stressful things to get done in a short amount of time; giving up all semblance of security and routine; selling or giving away or tossing my belongings; selling my beloved Cherryot–my favorite vehicle I’ve ever had; and of course, my two sweet cats. And there’s my crippling fear of flying…I will be on that plane from LA to Auckland for 13 hours…so there will be copious amounts of Xanax.

The truth is, no one can know the breadth and depth of what two people share, except those two people. And we are both quite clear about what we have, and how precious it is. There will be naysayers, and those who speak from their own painful experiences, but unless they have had this, felt it all the way to their marrow, as I do, they cannot and perhaps will not be able to understand it. And I don’t care. As my darling Kate posted recently:

“Sometimes life presents you with gifts of rare value and beauty. After unwrapping them, you don’t look at them and say no, it’s too much, or it must not be real because something this beautiful can only be a deception. You take it and cherish it, value it, and carry it around in your heart where it will never tarnish, no matter what the weather outside.

Jae is such a gift. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve her, but I’m going to make sure she’s safe and loved and happy always. I carry her in my heart.”

Things change when you find true love. YOU change. You are willing to do and sacrifice many things you never would have dreamed of before.And I have had my share of challenges and heartaches and despair…but I have always resonated with this quote, which has become a sort of mantra for me, to bolster my courage when things seem too daunting to conquer:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”(Theodore Roosevelt)

I will ignore the naysayers and critics and be thankful to those who encourage such love and possibility, as I cannot imagine my life without her now, and wouldn’t want to. She is everything to me and I can’t wait to get started on the beautiful life we’ve planned. Love like this is rare, the very odds were so against it ever happening, and so many odd, synchronous things happened to bring us together. Most people don’t ever find this at all, so I will not take this good fortune for granted, especially after the slew of misfortunes my life has been. I will embrace it, leap off that cliff and FLY.

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April 29th, 2012

authors, books, change, fiction, Kate Genet, Kelli Jae Baeli, New Zealand, relationships, writing

Of Authors & Soulmates

I have always had a long list of book projects waiting for my attention–some are on hold because I got stuck on them, some on hold because i haven’t found the right frame of mind, and some, because another project popped up that struck my fancy. Resurrection Sticks, was one of those Writerous Interruptus species, and it only took me a week to write this novella. It took on a life of its own and I just let it lead me.

I had been looking through files of notes on ideas, and came across a dream I had about what I could only call “resurrection sticks.” I thought maybe I could get a short story out of it. Many of my ideas come from dreams–when i can remember them, that is… So, I decided to try to write a story about these sticks…Once I got started, though, it became a bigger project and so I just willingly let it take me where it wanted to go. I love it when that happens.

My partner Kate, was also finishing up a book (Building Character) and hers became more than she thought, as well. But while mine was just around 30,000 words, hers became 117,000 before it was over. As authors, we must always allow the story to be as long as it needs to be to tell the story, and there’s usually no way to know what that’s going to be until it’s all over and the smoke clears.

One thing I learned about her that I found intriguing was that her writing method was different from mine, though we both achieve the same result. She is one of those write-straight-through authors. She writes, and doesn’t go back and change things or adapt things–the story just comes out and it is surprisingly clean, needing little editing. Mine, however is a series of scenes–dialogues, events, character backstory, and I have to weave them together somehow, find the connections and come up with some kind of sensible interplay among all the elements; this, while allowing the characters to take me along on their story. Whatever develops usually means I have to go back and alter something, add something, take something away, make it all fit somehow. The crafting I do is hard work. I am jealous that so much of her story comes out well-wrought on the first pass. There are even red herrings and foreshadowing in her story that work nicely some 10,000 words later when something else new happens on the page as she types. It’s fascinating. Did I say that I’m very jealous? I guess that makes me a made-writer and her, a born-writer. I am just amazed that on some subconscious level, her story develops in such a linear fashion…unlike mine, which includes me trying to fit square pegs in round holes. I wonder how other writers are in this regard. So I’m interested in how it will be for us writing a book together, and if those two methodologies will harmonize. With just the initial collaborations we’ve done, it seems our styles will work well together.

Now we’re both sort of taking a break for a day or two before we tackle the co-authoring project on our book, Hanging the Moon. I’m excited about the project.

This is going on amid my plans to move to New Zealand to be with her permanently. So much going on right now. I feel as though I’m preparing to relocate to another planet. When you’ve never been out of the U.S., and sudden;’y you’re going to another country to live for an indefinite period of time, all within a new relationship with my dream-woman, whom I thought I’d never find, it can be a lot to assimilate. My head is spinning. So much will change. All my created comfort zones will have to be tossed out the window, and I will have to reframe it into an adventure, instead of something really scary. The one thing I am certain of, though, is the one thing that makes it all worth it. I have found my soulmate, and I get to be with her, build a life. Two writers who are so much alike, and understand each other as if they share some of the same brain cells…it truly is a chance of a lifetime and I don’t intend to let it slip by. That alone is enough to justify what she and I often call being Brave and Crazy. Life is short, and when you find the one you’ve waited for all your life, all the sacrifices seem negligible, and all the other things you felt were so important seem to pale in comparison. My life is about to change in the most drastic way, and I am still happier than I ever thought possible.

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February 22nd, 2012

challenge, change, Highly Sensitive Person, relationships, Sensory Processing Sensitivity, writing

Stupid, Honorable, High-Road Seeking Fool

In a post from a few years ago (two posts, actually, under Going to Denver Because You’re Dead) I chronicled this transition of moving to Colorado to start a new life; again reinventing myself, with the hope of somehow finding my new place in this ever-changing, ever-challenging world. I got rid of three-quarters of everything i owned, packed a U-Haul trailer behind my Cherryot, and off I went. A journey that lasted 30 hours on many days of little sleep. By the time I arrived in Denver, i was exhausted, lost, and had this sensation of being on another planet. I was not used to driving in big city traffic, with all its interchanges and exits and geographic complications. I didn’t know how to get to this new apartment I had secured for myself by phone and online. I ended up off an exit in a bad neighborhood, worn out, my iPhone battery overtaxed and at that crucial moment, dead. I launched into a full-fledged panic attack, with some unsavory gang-bangers headed my way, and I dug the .25 out of the console and clenched it, hoping i would not have to use it. The gang-bangers wandered off, and i fell completely apart. I couldn’t go on. But then i realized that there was no one to save me but me. It was a familiar feeling. Somehow i managed to calm myself down, wait for my battery to charge, and checked the map against the street signs i could see, and re-route. I tried again to find where i was going, and got lost again. Finally i just stopped in the road and got out and approached the car behind me–several Latino guys in a jacked up car, and just point-blank told them i was lost and needed to find a a certain address. The driver was kind and helpful and told me exactly how to get there, and i did.

After that, i tried to fashion a life. I didn’t know anyone. I used the internet to meet as many women as possible, hoping to make new friends, find dates, and finally that partner i just knew had to be hiding here somewhere. Long story short, I dated 22 women that first year. All of them either I rejected or they rejected me. Then I met one who seemed genuinely interested. I wound up eventually moving in with her, and so began a nightmare of epic proportions that lasted another 9 months. Her mother would NOT move out of the basement as promised, her family hated me, my girlfriend quit her job started smoking pot every day all day, and drinking, (When she had presented herself as a non drug user and not a problem drinker when we met–and knew that was criteria I would not budge on) and not communicating, and hitting me when we had sex, and sleeping all the time, or having meltdowns where she would destroy the house and scream, all the while using my money to pay her mortgage and her truck payment and not paying MY bills. It ended with me calling the cops and she being arrested for domestic violence against me, and then me having to move in a few days, while injured and upset and exhausted.

There was so much more to that process but I’ll skip it all and just say it was another few weeks and months of stress and misfortune before things settled down. [For blogs about this situation, see Birthday Bash ; Fleeing Field Mouse ; Happy Effing Anniversary ; EXTENDED STRESS Hotel. ; Trauma Biscuit ; The Biggest Lies of All ]

Then I met someone else, four months later. Someone who made me feel things i hadn’t felt in 12 years. I was falling in love with her, and it had only been two months. My hope was renewed. I thought maybe it was my turn. That all my suffering had finally paid off somehow. But she could not feel sexual/romantic attraction to be 24/7–and thought she should. So we’d go platonic, and then she’d change her mind and want sex. I don’t get how someone can have sex with you 35 times in two months, but wonder if she had any attraction. Her attraction, though, she said, came and went, she said, and this became an on-again, off-again trial by fire. I continued to be patient and loving and kind and nurturing, and I made it all about her, and still, it ended. Trying to take the high road, as always, I agreed to be just friends with her, but then i saw very quickly that she could not be there for me. She could only handle her drama. All the while, I was dealing with my midlife crisis of getting older and facing that upcoming 50th birthday, and being reminded at a funeral for her friend’s girlfriend, that i didn’t get to go to my father’s funeral because my selfish petty family never told me he was sick or dead. And they left me out of his obit as a surviving family member. And i sat in that church–me, the atheist, listening to all that stupid blather, and wondering how many people would attend MY funeral. I realized it would not be many. And that also made me profoundly sad that I had gotten to this point in my life and didn’t have the fundamental things I should have by now. I had nightmares about my dad. Nightmares about me in a casket and no one there to say goodbye to me. Nightmares of drowning in an ocean with sharks circling me, and everyone I knew standing on a boat and watching, but not helping me. But she made it clear when I awoke from those nightmares the morning after that funeral service, that there was no room for my pain. She said “I really can’t take any of your negativity.”

But, like the stupid, honorable, high-road seeking fool that I am, I continued to be supportive and wonderful to her, swallowing my own pain…swallowing my heartache over her not returning my feelings, when it had been 12 long years of me thinking I could never fall in love again after that one gigantic heartbreak with the only woman who had been my first and last great love. I put myself aside again, while KR enjoyed my support, but gave nothing back. As long as i remained cheerful and strong and supportive, she was fine. I hoped it would all normalize and equalize somehow, if I was just patient.

Near this time, having not seen my best friend, JH, in two and half years, though we talked every day on the phone, I was looking forward to her upcoming visit. She knew me better than anyone on the planet and we had been extremely bonded for 11 years. She had planned to move here even before me, but I wound up having to go sooner before I lost my mind, being so unhappy where I was. Finally, then, she came to visit. First, in December. It was to be our bonding time. I had so much I wanted to share with her and i needed her more than ever–to talk to–in person. To help me figure out how to get my life back on track. But I introduced her to my two friends CW and KR (whom I had been dating and fell for, but was now just my friend). JH and CW had instant chemistry, and so it then became about them. I didn’t get that time with JH. But she assured me she was coming back the next month, to do that. Oh, and also to have me design her book cover. And of course, to see the new love interest, CW.

But that 2nd visit was even worse. Out of the 9 or so outings and plans, that were all planned by my best friend, JH–it was me and JH and CW. Or, it was JH and CW. I began to feel like a hotel, and a chauffeur. None of those plans were me and my best friend. My very missed and needed best friend. None of them. After several days of this, I voiced my feelings, and begrudgingly, she cancelled that date with CW that night and we got Chinese food and alcohol and watched a movie, but i never got the chance to talk with her like I’d wanted to for 2 and a half years. Because she preferred the movie, or talking about CW every few seconds. Another few days passed with the same paradigm. All these wonderful plans with CW, or allowing me to tag along with THEM. They had even made plans to go to Vegas in February, and New York in March for the CW’s birthday, which was near the same date as MINE. Finally I could not bite my tongue any longer. I had literally drawn blood in my own mouth biting my tongue. I told her how it made me feel (Again) and how much I had needed her, and how I had waited for this visit for two and half years.

Her response was, “Why are you trying to ruin my happiness?”

She was MAD. Actually MAD at me for expecting her attention, and some time together after all that time apart. I became so livid, I knew I would say something I’d be sorry for. I told her I was going to the store and would be right back. I spent an hour sitting in my Cherryot in the park, drinking a Hard Cider, smoking cigarettes I had sworn off of; and calmer, ready to have a rational discussion again, I went back.

She was gone. She had packed her bags and was just………GONE. She ignored my texts and my phone calls, (and after over a month, still no response). I even sent her a text that said “You mean I have lost you because I needed you?” I was met with more silence. Her new girlfriend, CW, then became my EX friend, because she ignored me too, except to send me the name of a counselor she had used. She had her own agenda now, and it no longer included me. In desperation, I tried to confide in KR, and I was an obvious mess, could not stop crying. She said she couldn’t help me, that I needed professional help. No. I needed a friend, and until that moment, I kind of hoped she’d come through finally, in my hour of need. But now, she was the third betrayal and abandonment within a few days. And no word from her either in all this time.

I called my VA counselor and could not get a regular appointment, because there were so many veterans now who needed help and they were understaffed and booked up. How could i be selfish enough to dismiss those soldiers who had their legs blown off in war, and suffered horrible psychological damage? So I called that counselor CW mentioned. I had a quick appointment the very next day and I thought it went well, and i started to feel like I would be okay. But then I got a call from that counselor, who informed me she couldn’t see me again because I owned GUNS. I am a single woman living alone, and only one of those was my usual one…the other two I had acquired quite by accident and never used. So now I was faced with my fourth abandonment and betrayal–by someone PROFESSIONAL, who I went to for help, because I knew I needed it. I tried to reason with her on the phone, telling her that taking away my guns would not keep me from killing myself if that’s what I wanted to do. There were a million ways to die, and it would have happened a long time ago, if that’s what I wanted to do. I didn’t go to her because I was suicidal. I went to her because i was profoundly sad and hurt and needed some help dealing with it. Help my “friends” could not give me because they were too busy walking in the other direction, after their own selfish wants. The email exchange is posted appropriately under the entry the Fourth Betrayal.

I now have this recurring nightmare of being bloody and bruised and broken, lying on the ground, and everyone who ever said they loved me, or were supposed to, are kicking me, spitting on me…walking away….

Now it’s February 22nd. My lease is up here on April 1st. I needed to find another cheaper place to live because I’m paying $1200 a month to live here. With more money, I could make other things happen–like fixing my credit that the last relationship ruined, and finally buying a home to call my own. I found a cheap apartment (even though it was up stairs and stairs destroy my knees), but maybe it was some rare good fortune, and I could just deal with it. Even though I didn’t even trust it; I chose to believe that things might be turning in my favor. Then I found out I couldn’t have my DTV dish there, and I was under a bundled contract with my internet, phone and TV. This, after I had already been packing and putting boxes in the garage for a week. I need a TV more than most people. All this time alone. And all those shows with familiar characters and storylines…it makes me feel in some strange way I have this virtual family…and I can also lose myself in the TV, and it keeps me from thinking too much about how I feel. I need that. I NEED IT like I need WATER and FOOD and SLEEP.

Honestly, I have not felt this degree of loneliness and heartache since 1999 & 2000, living in my van, crippled and fighting Big Brother, when all had forsaken me. It is the same now, lo these many years later. I feel crippled on the inside, and it’s no less harrowing and difficult than being unable to walk without crutches…I am lonely because the cold hard truth is no one loves me. Those who professed to, have forsaken me. My cats are the only living beings who I can say for sure have love for me, and how pathetic is that, especially at my age? My heart breaks from abandonment and betrayal. I have cried every day for over a month now. I don’t think I can ever understand or have any peace about what JH has done to me. It’s just three times the injury that CW and KR are also guilty of the same. Theirs is only a lesser crime perhaps because they have not been in my life as long. But does that really make it a lesser crime? The deed is done, no matter how I turn it. And yes, it does seem that JH’s crime is a capital offense. She and I have been best friends for 11 years…how is it that she can throw me away so easily, and for no compelling reason? She has been the only person in my life I could ever depend on. I would have taken a bullet for her. And yes, I realize that I have had her on a pedestal for some time because of that. I made a decision that i will never again need anyone so much, that when they leave, i can’t survive their absence. But it doesn’t take away the pain.

At the very least, it could be compared to a divorce. But it is also deeper than that. I am grieving over a death. The death of our friendship, at her own hand. And still, it seems more intense than divorce or death. When divorces and deaths happen, there are usually other people there to help support you, hug you, tell you everything will be okay and they love you and will be at your side. But what if what has been lost are all those people? What if you have no family and your friends have abandoned you? how much harder is it to pick yourself up off that hard ground, with no hands reaching to help you? There is no ameliorating force to dull the pain or provide strength. The only comfort and strength to be had has to come from inside the person on the ground. And what if that person is particularly sensitive? what if that person’s heart is tender and bruised to begin with? what if that person was reaching out for help with other pains when it happens? I feel that I have been beaten half to death and reached for my friends and they kicked me, and pelted me with stones. Where will I find the strength for this?

I have begun to make new friends, but that process is slow, and it is much too early to lean on those people, even though I desperately need to. They have been as supportive as they can, but it’s awkward to dump this all on them, since they haven’t known me very long. It’s not what I want to build new friendships on..and truthfully, I don’t expect them to stay around either. I fully expect them to just disappear too).

I have tried to keep busy. I have tried to stay in my left brain. I have ignored every painful thought that bubbles up in my mind. I have done all I know to do, and still it is not enough. I still cry every day. Sob. Bury my face in my sweet cats, and douse them with my tears. The medications I’ve tried are not working. The positive affirmations are not working. I am barely getting by. I don’t want to die, but this is killing me. I want to have hope. I want fortune to smile on me. Isn’t it time? Haven’t I suffered enough? Yet, to think this way is to somehow suggest that life is fair and there’s some balancing force that will reward me for trudging on. The truth is it’s all random. There is no fairness, there is only life, and what comes to you. It has little to do with how deserving you are, or how hard you’ve tried, or how good you’ve struggled to be. where does that leave me?

During this time, to have still another computer crash–which seems to happen every 6 months, is another thorn in my side. I was without a computer for a week, and this is not a good thing for me…it’s how I occupy my mind. But I had to sit in front of the TV and struggle through each minute, each hour, each day….I had to order a new computer and spend money on that which I needed for other things. And I am about to move again, in April, when my lease is up, to a cheaper apartment. I hope the extra money will help me reach at least one of my goals, which is to be able to clean up my credit so I can finally buy a home of my own. So now, in anticipation of that, determined not to injure myself by doing it all too fast, I have been packing up all the things I can do without for the next six weeks. I am surrounded by boxes and debris, the detritus of my existence, the things I carry around with me to set up in proper places to create this semblance of a life, but which has become merely the settings for a stage to serve a fictional play that is my life. Shakespeare said “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts…” quite existential–and that’s how I am feeling. I will turn 50 next month. 50. I am closer to my death than to my birth and I still don’t have a home, a partner…and no one loves me. This statement is usually some lament that is not accurate, but shockingly, it is in this instance, TRUE. There is no one in my life who LOVES me. That’s got to be the worst feeling in the universe. Especially while facing this threshold of getting older. I’m afraid. I’m fearful of too many things, now. Fearful of being ill with no one to take care of me. Afraid of something happening to me and no one will know, or even care….terrified of dying alone.

If I give myself to someone in friendship and love, and am repayed with betrayal and cruelty, then I might respond by withholding the precious aspects that make love valuable…but by withholding the very nature of what love is, I garner no interest in anyone loving me, and so I am caught in my own trap of self-protection. So I either have to choose a life of giving with the very real possibility of betrayal and pain, against the choice of loneliness, but without betrayal and cruelty. Which is the more formidable negative? which pain is greater?

Last night I had the same nightmare, over and over. I kept waking up from it, going back to sleep and then dreaming it again. And though I know, emotionally, that it was awful, I can’t remember a thing about the dream.

I can’t just stop caring. Believe me, I’ve tried. And I just go on caring anyway. I wish there was a pill for that, I’d twist the arm of the VA docs until they gave it to me. Sometimes I need to not care so much. It’s really a burden to care. Caring means it matters, and if it matters, it hurts when things don’t go well.

So today, I made the mistake of trying to correct the failing Internet connection on my computer and when using it wirelessly on My Nook. I called Century Link, and the woman wasn’t making sense, had me crawl under unplug and move to other room after I had to hunt for another phone cable and then when i finally get it hooked up in other room she had disconnected me. I wanted to drive down there, find her, and bash her face in. Not the kind of emotions I like to have.

Then Tom calls about my apartment–I can’t have a satellite dish on 2nd floor where my apartment will be. I’m under contract and can’t get Comcast because I am disputing what they say I owe and trying to be in the class action suit against them. So can’t get their service and couldn’t anyway because I’m under contract with Century Link along with DTV, Verizon. But, he said, he will have apt opening up on top floor, but not sure when it will be available because they’re being evicted and might fight it and that will put me over my lease period–and also I can’t climb that many stairs, my knees will blow and moving, will kill me unless I can pay someone to do EVERYTHING. And the past moving experiences have taught me that I NEVER have the help I need, and I wind up injuring myself to the point where it takes me months to get back to normal.

Tom’s supposed to call back.*

SO while I’m waiting, I couldn’t find my charger for my ear bud, and need it, because my neck injury won’t let me hold the phone with my shoulder like some people do, and I keep dropping my phone and If I hold the phone with one hand, like many people do, my hand goes numb, and I drop the phone that way too. If I break that I’m fucked because an iPhone is not cheap to replace. I did finally find the charger, mislabeled among all the other thousands of cords and cables, and plugged in my earbud. My only stupid victory in months. And I fully expect it to start smoking and catch on fire.

All the while, I am stressed because I’m stumbling through the chaos of packing…and the place is a mess. I’m about to lose my mind.

I’ve been crying again, feeling lost and alone… popping Xanax, drinking Hot Damn and Mudslides and Hard Ciders. Last night I spent $36 at liquor store–had to walk there because I was afraid to lose my parking spot outside because I’m using my garage for all the packing, and if I return to no parking spaces–which is VERY common here, I will have to then move ALL THOSE BOXES in the garage again to make room, and my back and neck can’t take it right now. Now my knees and hips are killing me, because there’s a big hill on the way up to Ohio street by the liquor store, that I simply HAD to climb to get some damn alcohol to try to calm my nerves, deaden my emotions.

I’m afraid I’ll get cancer because I’m smoking again. And that means I’ll deal with dying alone for sure.

I feel fat. I feel ugly. I feel useless. I feel hopeless. I feel alone.

_____

*ADDENDUM: Tom called back and said he couldn’t do it. SO good luck finding an apartment, sorry,,etc. SO back to square one. Square one seems to be my default position

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April 2nd, 2011

change, relationships

Trauma Biscuit

Discovered that the private garage at my new place is very small. I felt I should maybe fold my side mirrors in, or rub Vaseline on the side of the Cherryot. I did get it pulled in without losing any paint, but hoped I would learn the skill that sardines know.

Got everything inside, and discovered that Biscuit was nowhere to be found. I had been so careful. I even closed the garage door after I pulled in, carried her inside, and watched her dart into the apartment to hide, as usual. She has been so traumatized by this.

But then after I got everything in, couldn’t find her, looked in every nook and cranny, closet, even checked to see if baseboards were intact in kitchen by dishwasher, because I had lost her when moving into my previous apartment, and that’s where she went. Then, as now, I thought she might be some magic cat who could disappear at will. Like the Cheshire Cat, except when Biscuit disappears, she hasn’t been smiling. Finally when the laws of logic started to move into considerations of a possible vortex, or a wormhole, or even a parallel universe, I found her. In the corner of the kitchen, atop the cabinet. She’s been there now for two hours. Won’t come down.

Then of course, after the hideous 5 days I’d had, I just wanted a shower. But realized I’d left my shower curtain, and also had no towel. I showered anyway, just as I had the at previous apartment when I moved to Colorado–just directed the spray toward the wall and tried not to splash too much. And then I had to just get dressed, and let my clothes absorb the water. Then of course, I found that one towel, but it was too late. Later on, I had to climb with my sore body up on the counter and lean over the top of fridge to have a discussion with the still-retreated Biscuit.

“Hey Biscuit-head. You know it’s okay to come down now. This is our new home. We’re staying. No more moving. No more grabbing you and stuffing you in crates and suitcases. It’s safe to come down now.”

She said right.

“No really. I mean it. I did all that horrible stuff so I could get us here. This is your apartment too. You want the grand tour?”

Turning her head away. Not really.

I scratched her head, petted her. “Why don’t you just step down onto the top of the fridge, so you can see?”

Not a chance.

“How about if I just help you down?”

Don’t you freakin’ touch me. You’ve been trying to kill me all week.

“That’s not true, Biscuit. I love you. You’re my baby.” Then I added in a collusive whisper, “You know you’re my favorite.”

Slightly interested now. Really?

“Really. Now let me just help you down.”

I picked her up and held her firmly to my chest, still petting her and cooing nice things, and then struggled down off the counter. I set her wriggling onto the carpet in the living room.

“Look, Biscuit, look how big it is! And over here on the fireplace hearth, I have the litter box and your food and water, come look.”

She obliged, but without much enthusiasm. “Now, in here is the room where my office will be. It’s twice the size of all my other office rooms. Look.”

MM-hm.

Walking to the bathroom doorway, like some erstwhile tour guide, I said. “And in here is the bathroom, see? No shower curtain, careful of the puddle on the floor.”

She peeked in and nodded, and then swirled with her feather duster tail toward the bedroom door.

“And this is the bedroom. See? There’s Monkey on the foamy bed.”

She rubbed it along the side, and gave a nod to Monkey who extended a paw, but it was rejected.

Wandering back in the living room, she plopped down in the middle on the carpet. Calmer now. Monkey ambled in with her simian stride, and simian feet and sat down in front of her, gave her a few kisses on the head. Biscuit purred.

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June 17th, 2009

change, Colorado

News from the Front Lines

Four of my books are live on Amazon and four more will be, by next week, probably. Then another five will follow within a month. Then I can start working on the books I’ve had to put on the back burner to do all those final edits. I’ve also gotten out of my groove with the writing because of everything else that required my full attention. I’m anxious to get back to it. It’s such a part of me, that when I don’t write, I start to feel a little empty.

Am on schedule for my relocation to Colorado. My disc is almost healed–no thanks to the stupid neurologist who told me I absolutely had to have surgery. As usual, i question authority, so I did my own research. It is common knowledge among 98% of other doctors, that surgery is an absolute last resort, and those who have it are messed up for life. More scar tissue, more surgery, more alignment issues because your spine does not function well with metal plates in it. Conservative treatments are always the first choice, but he tried to railroad me into scheduling surgery….(he didn’t show me the MRI or the x-rays and even talked down to me as if I could not possibly understand the situation. He sorely underestimated me). I know now, this could have ruined my life. I don’t have anyone to help during something like that anyway. Not to mention that they would have gone in from the front of my neck, which would likely damage my vocal cords–no more singing…. It could have been a nightmare….and so I smell the pungent odor of malpractice. I’m going to file a complaint and hope they investigate how many lives he’s ruined–he should NOT have a license. I have fantasies of waltzing into his office and doing a jig on his desk and then telling him I’m going to ruin him, and kicking him in the nuts on my way out.

{okay, deep breath, and back to my happy space….}

I am so excited about moving. I’ve had good luck selling stuff and will have a yard sale too in the next few weeks. My house is becoming more and more empty….less and less to load and move. Yea! Oh, and i have a possible volunteer situation to load the trailer (can’t do anything like that anymore)–and I have a backup guy that I will pay to do it if the other thing falls through. Just trying to stay under budget.

I’ve already made some friends there I’m going to hang out with. Erin will be meeting me upon my arrival to help me, though I plan to have someone hired by then to unload. I did promise to take her to dinner, though, because she was so supportive while I was here alone with this crippling neck injury. She’s very sweet. I’ll try not to take advantage of her. hehe.
Okay, maybe a little.

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May 24th, 2009

change, Colorado

Silk Purses from Sow’s Ears

My best friend holds that distinction for many reasons, not the least of which is, she manages to teach me how to find opportunity in adversity.

During this recent challenge, though I approached it as I always do, by getting information and understanding what I really had to face, (and what I didn’t)–in seeking the truth–I was very proactive about tackling the situation. But within that mindset, still lived my tendency to allowed myself to be beaten down by repetitive ideas…like the idea that my life was on hold and there was nothing I could do about it.

So Justi and I were talking on the phone (which we do several times per day) and in speaking of the delays in my move to Colorado, the obstacles…i worked myself into a lather and heard myself say, “If i have to stay in this situation much longer, it’s going to kill me.” I think she took that to mean i was suicidal, and that wasn’t the case. I have been through that dark night of soul and and have come to a conclusion that precludes taking my own life. I said “I don’t want to die, I just don’t want to live like THIS.” That’s an important distinction. But for whatever reason, my friend thought I was fearful that I would become suicidal, so her skill of making a Silk Purse out of a Sow’s Ear kicked in.

She began to form a plan that would get me to Colorado. We discussed the details and at the end of it, I realized she was right. I could go. I could get there by August 1st. I would have to make a different set of decisions and let go of some old ideas, as well as some material possessions.

That was the first pertinent point: are these THINGS more important than my sanity or my happiness? Well of course not. So if I sold, gave away or tossed most of my stuff, the costs would decrease substantially, because I could drive there in my Blazer, pulling a U-haul trailer instead of dealing with a truck and auto transport. And, as it has happened several times before, i realized i was also maintaining a paradigm that was no longer supported by the details. I’ve written about this before. It’s that tendency we have to hold onto our ideas about how things are, when things have changed since that assessment was made. We have to go back and look at the details that brought us to that conclusion and ask ourselves if those details are still true or even still exist. If they don’t then the assessment of the situation must change, because the ingredients have changed.

One of those details -the most pertinent one–was that i no longer had a crappy undependable car. I had a really nice Blazer. With more room inside, and a luggage rack on top, and a TOWING HITCH. So the necessity of an auto transport, and thus, a TRUCK to pull it, meant more costs. If that was no longer in the paradigm, then the costs were less, which helped make it doable. Then we went through my budget spreadsheets and added up what I would have over the next few months and what i could generate by selling many of those things that kept me tied to this location. This created a possibility where there was none. And all I had to do was let go of some ideas and some material possessions.

So I am moving Aug 1st. Traveling light, but certain that my smile will become bigger and bigger the closer I get to Colorado.

I love my best friend.

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December 1st, 2007

change

Shifting Universe

So much can happen in so little time…I have been feeling a shifting in the Universe for several months now. I had some important decisions to make and for the most part, have made them.While my personal shifts are quite obvious–the angst of searching for something i might never find; the fear that that search necessarily engenders; the knowledge that although time is a human construct, it affects my body and i don’t want it to; the moral and ethical dilemmas that confront me regularly; the constant quest for unfettered serenity; the need to share my work coupled with the misgivings of revealing too much of myself–these are all omnipresent.

But i can’t escape this overwhelming sensation that there is so much more going on right now than i am privy to. War and rumors of war; a spiritual awakening; natural disasters; alternate universes a few feet away from me… the microcosm and the macrocosm.. the promise of change and the threat of stagnation.

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