Life like Clay....

The molding of a life, not a map or a plan. Life, really has no map that we can follow. We can hope and work but so much is guided by the people we become because of things that happened to us long before we were in control; the people we encounter, the experiences we have, the traumas we endure. Each marks us, molds us, adds this detail or that. Each little bit of a personality becoming stronger or weaker, each character trait developing based on our interactions with others, either selfish or selfless. We never really recognize this until forced to, sometimes slapped in the face with it. Some unexpected event or dramatic conversation acts as a wake-up call. Until then, we never really know ourselves. We just act as the person we think we should be, or hope to be, always wondering why we are never truly filled up inside. The recognition that we never really accepted ourselves makes it clearer why others, maybe, don't accept us either. Every flaw magnified, each mistake enlarged, dramatized. Understanding that we don't develop who we are, but that other people do, is like the death of a loved one. Deny, accept, mourn, heal. Then be who we are meant to be, love ourselves, be happy, enjoy life. Screw up sometimes and don't feel too bad. From this day forward, we are who we want to be.

Novel

Renee’s parents had been shocked when she told them she was leaving Greg. She’d never mentioned a word to them about their problems, trying to protect them from the unpleasant knowledge of their daughter’s failures as a wife and the reality that their son-in-law was a jackass. Though they weren’t Catholics like Greg’s parents, divorce was still rare among their circle. Initially, they’d worked to talk her out of the divorce, even tried to persuade her to seek counseling. That had been Greg’s doing.

Somehow, he’d convinced her parents that she’d become a different person. A selfish, jealous, unhappy wife and mother. Of course he’d blamed their problems on her. He tried to tell them she had been abusing drugs and even needed to be rehabbed. Renee had been furious when she realized the lies Greg had told about her. She’d known he was desperate to hang on but hadn’t thought he’d sink so low. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to convince her parents that Greg had been lying to everyone.
“Mother, how could you take his side over mine? You are MY mother!”
“Renee, we just want what’s best for you and the girls. We love you and Greg and Missy and Michele. Let us help you!” her mother had cried tearfully. Her father stared at the floor, unable or unwilling to participate in the conversation. Renee felt his shame and rage washed over her.
“Daddy, you believe all those lies? You honestly think I am lying to you?” she called to him, intentionally drawing him into the fray.
“I don’t know what to believe, Renee. Nothing is what we thought it was. You aren’t the person we used to know”, quietly, slowly, painfully. He wouldn’t meet her eyes and she stood, glaring angrily at him.
“Daddy, please. I need you. I can’t do this without you. Think of the girls. Daddy, look at me!” intentionally standing directly in front of him so he had to turn his head away to avoid her gaze.
“Renee, maybe just for a while. Go to that hospital and they will make you better. It won’t take long. We’ll take the girls until you are home” her mother had pleaded, agony in her voice.
Ignoring her mother, Renee gently reached up and turned her father’s face towards her “Daddy. Please. I am your only child. Your daughter. Your baby. I am in trouble and I need you. Please believe me” speaking softly and only to him. Her mother sobbed uncontrollably from across the room.
“You promise me? They are all lies? The drugs, the tantrums, the other men? All those stories he told us are lies?” he questioned, finally looking deeply into her eyes.
She met his stare and held it “Yes Daddy. I promise. I need you to believe me”.
“I do, Renee, I do” hugging her tightly. Her mother walked over to them and encircled them both with her arms. Renee still felt hurt when she remembered that afternoon. Something had changed between her and her parents that day, something that would never be the same again.

Novel

Novel by Keri Lock
(No part of this may be reproduced without the express permission of the author)
November 1978
Standing at the counter in the upstairs bathroom, she could hear the girls arguing in the kitchen. Sighing, she swiped at the tears stinging her eyes. “How am I supposed to do this on my own?” she whispered to her reflection in the mirror.

She felt old. She looked old. The lime colored paint on the wall behind caused her complexion to appear green. She turned away from her image, angry, a wave of nausea rolling over her. It had only been two months since the divorce was finalized and the exhaustion was overwhelming. Trying to be all things to her daughters was taking every ounce of energy she had. Work all day, pick the girls up, make dinner, help with homework, put the girls to bed, laundry, cleaning, packing lunches and into bed at midnight only to get up and do it again the next day, never a moment, not one, for herself.

Pieces of Me

by Keri Lock (No part may be reproduced without the express permission of the author)

I developed many surface friendships with girls, and a small group of boys. I had a social group, a gang who consistently accepted my presence among them. There slowly grew a handful of people, who, for the most part and God knows why, accepted me for exactly what I was. I will say right now that but for two of them, Jessie and Gabby, I likely either would have dropped out of school or been committed at some point. Sensing I needed their protection, they kept me grounded enough to get me through most of High School without having a nervous breakdown. I have never asked them how they knew exactly what I needed from them. They loved me fiercely, and I them.

I have not had such openness, such unquestioned loyalty from female friends since that time and am not sure I ever will again in my lifetime. I took what they gave and offered little of myself in return. They certainly knew more about me than others did, but still, my real ideas, thoughts, dreams were kept locked away. As close as we were, I never exposed half my true-self to either of them, even when Jessie lived at my house for the last three months of our Sophmore year of High School. Her father had been transferred to Florida, and had decided, in response to our tears and heartfelt pleas, to let her stay at my house so she could finish the school year. She spent every waking moment with me for weeks and still, I confounded her. But, to her credit, though she sensed the otherness, she never pushed me away as others had. It only made her hang on more tightly to me. Sometimes during one of those innocent moments of transparency that happens in young friendships, she might share some intimate detail with me; about her dream to go to Law School and become a trial attorney, about love or her relationship with her parents.

She’d quietly pour out her heart in the darkness of my bedroom, trusting me to hold her deepest, darkest secrets dear. Then she’d silently wait for me to share with her. All I had to offer in return was lighthearted sarcasm about my future, kids of divorce and how I’d probably never get married. It was complete and total pretense and we both knew it. She never called me on it, but would give me a hurt look, after having delved into her most personal depths and still I couldn’t be myself with her. Yet, Jessie knew there was more to me; I often shared my writing with her. I just couldn’t talk about it. For the sake of the moment, I would try to offer up some sacrifice, some small part of myself that I hadn’t shared with anyone. It usually fell flat but the gesture would satisfy her and she would laugh, “You are SO WEIRD!” She knew me best.

Rejection

Reaching deep into my chest and twisting my heart painfully, rejection tells me I am not good enough, I am not worthy. Rejection denies me my truest dream, one I have worked for an immense amount of time. It rips away the status-quo and exposes me for a failure, a fraud. It makes me question what I know about myself, what I feel, what I think. Rejection topples my confidence and leaves it into an irreparable pile of rubble. And I wonder. How can my everything be so dependent on this one thing?
It is not, I know. But so much of me is in it. So much of myself exposed and open. Rejecting it is the same as rejecting me, my validity as a human being, as an artist.

My Generation

My Generation offers a contradiction to society and history, alike. While the one previous to ours is known for their vocal advocacy for peace and forthrightness of government, and those prior to that as dedicated to country, sacrificing and selfless, the population of Generation X are at once selfish and sarcastic, caustic towards the overly principled, critical of the self confident.
We were at first known as the slacker generation, a lost age, named thusly because of our lack of ambition, or so it seemed. It is said we were self expressive to a fault, self absorbed and shallow, we seemed interested only in now. Immediate gratification was our mantra. We depended on our parents for financial support, long past they had theirs. We changed college majors three and four times, or dropped out all together. We had no sense of responsibility, slept in late, called in sick to our menial jobs, skipped classes and bragged about it. We complained about our lot and felt shorted when life didn't offer itself up on a Golden Platter. We were self interested and self seeking. We would accomplish nothing, or so it was said, written off as a failure of an entire generation. We took for granted things that the greater eras had fought for. We were unappreciative and immature, wearing flannel shirts and smoking pot while listening to Suicide Rock and writing poetry to memorialize Kurt Cobain.
Much is written about the failure of Generation X to contribute to the greater good or think beyond today. Yet little is said about how this failure phenomenon was created. There is no book examining the impetus of our morals or research determining the catalyst of our isolationism. "Experts" are sometimes quoted as saying we were given everything, worked for nothing and there were no expectations of us. And my generation says nothing. It is as though we are too unapproachable or imbecilic to contribute or respond.
It is true. We are Generation X for a reason. But is isn't because our childhoods were
idyllic and easy or because we are too self absorbed to care about the future. It is because we are damaged. We are children of a generation who valued personal freedom over selfless devotion to family. We are children of a generation who divorced often and easily, resulting in throwaway relationships. We were throwaway children, deemed by experts as "self resilient", our parents were told we'd adjust and it was better to move on and not to indulge us when we acted out. Our feelings were neither considered nor valued. We are the result of feminism, where woman, mothers, were told not only could they have it all, but they SHOULD have it all. So we were left with countless babysitters, daycare providers and relatives while our parents indulged themselves in supporting the "greater good", while our single parents partied and while adults came and went in our lives, never dependable or constant. We learned not to depend on anyone but ourselves, not to trust that tomorrow would be what we expect and that the future is NOT in our control. We were not listened to and our concerns were not taken seriously. We were immediately deemed less important than the prior generation because we had no noble cause to unite around, no difference to make in our world.We are Generation X because we were not given a name, allowed a voice or determined to matter.
But we do matter and we are making a difference. We care about our environment and are changing the way that people view the earth. We are willing to change our lifestyle, live outside the box, do what is not easy in order to save it. We are tolerant of all people, religions, races, lifestyles and cultures, without exception. We realize that America is not the center of the universe and care about how the rest of the world lives. We play very different role in our families than our parents did. We are not the central figures, but our children are. We are stay-at-home moms and dads, volunteering in their classrooms, involved in their activities. We make decisions based on their emotional well-being instead of our own personal ambition or desire. We are there. Even when we divorce, we accept non-traditional versions of family in order to maintain stability. We teach our children that they matter. And we have learned that we have a name, it is Mom and Dad, Brother, Sister, Lover, Teacher, Lawyer, Friend. We are neither feckless nor uncaring. We are here and we have a voice. Despite we were were taught when we were children, we matter.

Untitled

Unnamed

I have always been a creature of imagination. As a child, I would create elaborate, whimsical worlds within my head, sharing them with no one. Vivid images and meticulously detailed stories evolved in a manner only somewhat within my control. Often times, the plot set off on a course neither planned nor expected. I could, and did, lose countless waking hours on my bed, the couch, the beach, anywhere, while each story played out. Didn’t matter where I might be, I could always find a little nook to establish as my own and crawl into the movie reel within my head.

My earliest recollection of these experiences involves me as Wonderwoman, fearsome and fearless, capturing criminals and exuding power, strong but still feminine. I loved imagining myself in that shiny, starred, super-suit to such a degree that I demanded my mother find me a real-life version. My suit served me daily as I chased down bad guys and righted the world. Gradually, it became part of my identity, at once feeding my imagination and encouraging my belief that I was, in fact, a super hero. It served as my Halloween costume for two years, and would have for three but for my mother discovering my long toes poking out the feet of the shiny tights. I wept in despair the day I could no longer squeeze my growing fanny into those sparkley spankies, and despite the use of my super-strength, I could not stretch the gold, sequined belt around my waist. At my angry insistence it still fit me, my mother was resolute. It was time to throw my super-suit in the trash. I would need to choose a different costume. Desperately, and enveloped in patriotic righteousness, I threw myself onto my bed and squeezed my blurry eyes shut, recalling the many adventures my costume and I had. I lay there, scrutinizing every detail in my mind and slowly, amazingly, it dawned on me that I need not actually wear the suit in real life for the adventures to continue.

Some might call this daydreaming, but for me, the stories were often truer to me than my real life. Certainly, I had more power over the stories in my head than I did of my real life. Turning inward made me light as air, dust in the wind. My imaginings sent me anywhere in the world within a nanosecond. The uncertain, complicated and often, painful life of my human existence left far behind.

Sometimes the main character of my imaginings was an entity outside myself, a character from a recent movie or from my favorite book. More often, I became the character and the plot revolved around me. I would drop myself directly into the action and it played out of its own accord. If I was forced to interrupt the tale for some real-life event; a meal, chores, school, I would regretfully press a mental “Pause” button and temporarily place the action on hold until I could get back to it. Returning to reality often left me irritated and antsy. Nothing in my real life was quite as attractive as the yarn spinning in my mind.

Throughout my childhood, the stories were generally based on something I had recently read. Another vice of imagination is the compulsive, nearly manic need to read anything and everything I could get my hands on, the backs of cereal boxes not excluded. I was blessed to have been taught to read at the early age of three and so when I was not imagining, I was single mindedly devouring the words on pages of all kinds; novels, short stories, poetry, even news articles. As while daydreaming, I would drift off into other worlds for endless hours at a time. I still do this to some extent and it surprises me each time I drunkenly return from a reading frenzy to realize hours have passed.

Back then, I mostly read classics: fiction and realistic fiction. Little Women, Swiss Family Robinson, Nancy Drew, were some of my much-loved favorites. I would read them over and over, pages weathered and worn, imagining myself as each of the different characters. Any given day I might find myself as the heroine of a Civil War era drama, an isolated victim of a shipwreck or a celebrated Detective responsible for soothing incredible injustice. I found myself feeling what the characters felt identifying with them as if they were real. Each character’s ability to right a wrong or solve a problem somehow transcended into my real life self image. I often pictured myself playing a character when experiencing conflict in reality. `

The nature of my imaginings changed as I grew and became reflective of events and experiences in my life, rather than things I might be reading. My pre-pubescent self imagined a world where I was the social Queen Bee, adored by girls and boys alike. Peers and classmates often made up the cast of characters in these stories. Lying in bed each night, replaying the day in my head, I could easily change the outcome of any unjust social situation. Retreating within myself, I was ensconced in a world where I had never been snubbed by Marybeth; she who had newer and cooler Blookers than me or humiliated when a boy I had a crush on publicly shared a love note I furtively passed him during music class. I could turn inward in an instant and forget my awkwardness and the social cruelty that is part and parcel at that age. I didn’t learn until I was much older that my “daydreaming” was both an escape mechanism and an avoidance technique. If I lived life inside myself I needn’t deal with conflict, with other people, with insecurity and rejection; nothing could hurt me there.

There was an intense period where my developing body and dawning sexual awareness caused me some embarrassment. I come from a strong line of eastern European ancestors, who, to put it politely, were well endowed. I developed fast and young. By the time I was twelve, my assets were much larger than other girls’ my age. This lead to a variety of issues I tended to avoid, including unwanted male attention. Although some may have actually had corporal intentions, most crude innuendos and suggestions spewed by the boys in my school were initiated I am sure, much more to stroke the ego and bolster their burgeoning masculinity, than by any inclination to act on them. I am certain that other girls were having similar experiences, as is the nature of sexual development. I never really felt threatened and many of these young boys had actually become friends of mine outside of school. Yet their behavior caused me embarrassment to a great extent and I retreated even more into my own world.

It may have been my own surging hormones, or my psyche’s attempt to heal itself, but my inner world tended toward the very sexual around this time. Explicit scenes would roll through my head, chock full of color and motion. Beautifully detailed bodies, sometimes my own, engaged in erotic acts, most of which I had only read about and hadn’t yet experienced in reality. Sometimes I would replay scenes from a movie, only in much greater detail than was actually shown in the theatre. While earlier stories tended toward the slow, mute lovemaking of romance novels, they later became progressively more physical, more anatomically detailed, more intense. Slapping, sweaty figures, meshed together and arranged in impossible positions. I craved the titillation but the images in my head sometimes shamed me and I can remember feeling terribly embarrassed when having had one explicit daydream interrupted by my mother who had just arrived home unexpectedly from a rained out golf outing. I was sure she too, could see the reel playing in my head and was both humiliated and furious with her for knowing. My mother, of course, had no idea why I was irritated with her but I ended up huffing off to my room anyway, and slamming the door in her face.

Perhaps because of the stories constantly playing out in my head, or maybe it was something else, some unexplained, unseen sense of otherness, I always knew I was different from most of my peers. Early in childhood I recognized this otherness and realized that it isolated me from the carefree relationships others’ were engaging in. I was cautious and trusted no one. I felt emotions deeper, unraveled events longer and responded differently to situations than any other child I knew. I was an outsider, even at events I was hosting and though I had all the right clothes, attended the coolest parties and had a multitude of “friends”, I never really was like them. On the surface, I was a confident, attractive, smart, popular girl with a normal, in some cases, even more stable life than theirs. Inside I was someone else completely; I was every one of them, I was no one.

Memoir

Unnamed (no part of this text may be reproduced without the consent of the author)


I have always been a creature of imagination. As a child, I would create elaborate, whimsical worlds within my head, sharing them with no one. Vivid images and meticulously detailed stories evolved in a manner only somewhat within my control. Often times, the plot set off on a course neither planned nor expected. I could, and did, lose countless waking hours on my bed, the couch, the beach, anywhere, while each story played out. Didn’t matter where I might be, I could always find a little nook to establish as my own and crawl into the movie reel within my head.

My earliest recollection of these experiences involves me as Wonderwoman, fearsome and fearless, capturing criminals and exuding power, strong but still feminine. I loved imagining myself in that shiny, starred, super-suit to such a degree that I demanded my mother find me a real-life version. My suit served me daily as I chased down bad guys and righted the world. Gradually, it became part of my identity, at once feeding my imagination and encouraging my belief that I was, in fact, a super hero. It served as my Halloween costume for two years, and would have for three but for my mother discovering my long toes poking out the feet of the shiny tights. I wept in despair the day I could no longer squeeze my growing fanny into those sparkley spankies, and despite the use of my super-strength, I could not stretch the gold, sequined belt around my waist. At my angry insistence it still fit me, my mother was resolute. It was time to throw my super-suit in the trash. I would need to choose a different costume. Desperately, and enveloped in patriotic righteousness, I threw myself onto my bed and squeezed my blurry eyes shut, recalling the many adventures my costume and I had. I lay there, scrutinizing every detail in my mind and slowly, amazingly, it dawned on me that I need not actually wear the suit in real life for the adventures to continue.

Some might call this daydreaming, but for me, the stories were often truer to me than my real life. Certainly, I had more power over the stories in my head than I did of my real life. Turning inward made me light as air, dust in the wind. My imaginings sent me anywhere in the world within a nanosecond. The uncertain, complicated and often, painful life of my human existence left far behind.

Sometimes the main character of my imaginings was an entity outside myself, a character from a recent movie or from my favorite book. More often, I became the character and the plot revolved around me. I would drop myself directly into the action and it played out of its own accord. If I was forced to interrupt the tale for some real-life event; a meal, chores, school, I would regretfully press a mental “Pause” button and temporarily place the action on hold until I could get back to it. Returning to reality often left me irritated and antsy. Nothing in my real life was quite as attractive as the yarn spinning in my mind.

Throughout my childhood, the stories were generally based on something I had recently read. Another vice of imagination is the compulsive, nearly manic need to read anything and everything I could get my hands on, the backs of cereal boxes not excluded. I was blessed to have been taught to read at the early age of three and so when I was not imagining, I was single mindedly devouring the words on pages of all kinds; novels, short stories, poetry, even news articles. As while daydreaming, I would drift off into other worlds for endless hours at a time. I still do this to some extent and it surprises me each time I drunkenly return from a reading frenzy to realize hours have passed.

Back then, I mostly read classics: fiction and realistic fiction. Little Women, Swiss Family Robinson, Nancy Drew, were some of my much-loved favorites. I would read them over and over, pages weathered and worn, imagining myself as each of the different characters. Any given day I might find myself as the heroine of a Civil War era drama, an isolated victim of a shipwreck or a celebrated Detective responsible for soothing incredible injustice. I found myself feeling what the characters felt identifying with them as if they were real. Each character’s ability to right a wrong or solve a problem somehow transcended into my real life self image. I often pictured myself playing a character when experiencing conflict in reality. `

The nature of my imaginings changed as I grew and became reflective of events and experiences in my life, rather than things I might be reading. My pre-pubescent self imagined a world where I was the social Queen Bee, adored by girls and boys alike. Peers and classmates often made up the cast of characters in these stories. Lying in bed each night, replaying the day in my head, I could easily change the outcome of any unjust social situation. Retreating within myself, I was ensconced in a world where I had never been snubbed by Marybeth; she who had newer and cooler Blookers than me or humiliated when a boy I had a crush on publicly shared a love note I furtively passed him during music class. I could turn inward in an instant and forget my awkwardness and the social cruelty that is part and parcel at that age. I didn’t learn until I was much older that my “daydreaming” was both an escape mechanism and an avoidance technique. If I lived life inside myself I needn’t deal with conflict, with other people, with insecurity and rejection; nothing could hurt me there.

There was an intense period where my developing body and dawning sexual awareness caused me some embarrassment. I come from a strong line of eastern European ancestors, who, to put it politely, were well endowed. I developed fast and young. By the time I was twelve, my assets were much larger than other girls’ my age. This lead to a variety of issues I tended to avoid, including unwanted male attention. Although some may have actually had corporal intentions, most crude innuendos and suggestions spewed by the boys in my school were initiated I am sure, much more to stroke the ego and bolster their burgeoning masculinity, than by any inclination to act on them. I am certain that other girls were having similar experiences, as is the nature of sexual development. I never really felt threatened and many of these young boys had actually become friends of mine outside of school. Yet their behavior caused me embarrassment to a great extent and I retreated even more into my own world.

It may have been my own surging hormones, or my psyche’s attempt to heal itself, but my inner world tended toward the very sexual around this time. Explicit scenes would roll through my head, chock full of color and motion. Beautifully detailed bodies, sometimes my own, engaged in erotic acts, most of which I had only read about and hadn’t yet experienced in reality. Sometimes I would replay scenes from a movie, only in much greater detail than was actually shown in the theatre. While earlier stories tended toward the slow, mute lovemaking of romance novels, they later became progressively more physical, more anatomically detailed, more intense. Slapping, sweaty figures, meshed together and arranged in impossible positions. I craved the titillation but the images in my head sometimes shamed me and I can remember feeling terribly embarrassed when having had one explicit daydream interrupted by my mother who had just arrived home unexpectedly from a rained out golf outing. I was sure she too, could see the reel playing in my head and was both humiliated and furious with her for knowing. My mother, of course, had no idea why I was irritated with her but I ended up huffing off to my room anyway, and slamming the door in her face.

Perhaps because of the stories constantly playing out in my head, or maybe it was something else, some unexplained, unseen sense of otherness, I always knew I was different from most of my peers. Early in childhood I recognized this otherness and realized that it isolated me from the carefree relationships others’ were engaging in. I was cautious and trusted no one. I felt emotions deeper, unraveled events longer and responded differently to situations than any other child I knew. I was an outsider, even at events I was hosting and though I had all the right clothes, attended the coolest parties and had a multitude of “friends”, I never really was like them. On the surface, I was a confident, attractive, smart, popular girl with a normal, in some cases, even more stable life than theirs. Inside I was someone else completely; I was every one of them, I was no one.

A person of water and light

The beauty of the sparkling sunshine, the tingling of the warmth on my face, the sound of little voices, cheerfully going about their Summer business of sprinklers and bike rides. This is the magnificence of this season, sadly about to come to a close. I love Autumn. It is, by far, my favorite season. I am, mostly, a person of texture and warm color, both senses well served by the changes wrought by Fall. Yet, too, I am a creature of water and light. Living where I do, I rarely get my fill of the requisite warmth and fluidity escorted in by this time of the year. Summer is the only opportunity to gorge on the weather of outdoors and openess.
I sometimes must remind myself to STOP!, and turn on all my senses. Tune into the miracles occurring in every corner of my world, almost minute by minute. The rich hues of the grass and flowers, the small milestones I accomplish each day, the sound of crickets chirping, indicating all is at peace on my corner of the block. These are gifts I often overlook.
Within the hustle and bustle of my day: work,school, writing, baseball, football, golf, music lessons.....the doldrum business of paying bills and examining the minutia of middle class living, the beauty gets lost. Minutes fly by, turning to hours and then days. I sometimes forget to appreciate the exquisite simplicity of existence. I love my family. I love the earth and its bounty. I love my career. How to get past it all feeling like ever present, ever lasting and never finished work? Do I take for granted the tomorrows?
Instead of working minute by minute, live in the moment. Admire the water, the light, the warmth of the air. It will not be back soon. There is one less Summer of my existence, of your existence. Make every moment count.

In Memoriam

In Memoriam to a father who wasn't there, who drastically altered the course of my life with his abandonment and who permanently disabled and damaged me in ways uncountable and even unknown...Remembering your lies, the times you messed up and the pain my heart felt every time you failed to show up or even call. Examining the endless ways your selfishness wrecked my life and otherwise screwed me out of a normal, emotionally healthy existence. My loved ones thank you for your absence...
May you Rest In Peace

In the Winter...

Ok. Now I am procrastinating. How can amazing things ever happen to me when the highlight of my day is snooping on my son's MYSPACE page? I did go to Lowes and get new moulding for the downstairs bathroom.We painted it a light tan and it looks really nice. I have been reading the "Dummy" book and there is some good stuff. Suggestions about how to approach Agents and Publishers and even a short list of names to get started with. The thing is, I don't think I can handle the rejection. It isn't that I am fragile or anything (believe me, I have handled some major burdens lately and it made me a stronger person) but the last time I sent stuff out I got a stack of rejection letters. I am terrified that this is my last chance. I am thirty-something and dreams don't come true everyday, ya know? I need something to look forward to, to strive for. I have to believe I can make my tomorrow better based on what I do today. If things do not work this time around I may lose motivation all together. Of course, that is kind of a cowardly approach to take. I am just feeling lowwwwww....winter in Buffalo. It is bad.I think I suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) due to a lack of vitamin D. Maybe a tanning bed would help...
Anyway, I'm going to go and read another chapter of the "Dummy" book. Then I am going to do some real writing...and then maybe check my son's MYSPACE page and see if he has any new posts. OMG I am such a LOSER.