Disconnect.

I've been struggling for a while trying to make sense of things. Purpose. Relationships. Life.

Before you get all worked up, nothing's going on. Not even once have I been tempted to buy a convertible or hire an exotic pool boy even though I'm speeding head-long into that age bracket. Observing the lives of those around me reveals those tales usually don't end well. Besides, I don't even own a pool. Details, details.

This post probably won't make a lot of sense, but they rarely do. This blog is about working things out. I see it as a bonus if I write something and it happens to mean something other than random words on a screen.  Of course, I welcome your ideas and feedback if you dare to leave a comment.  Contrary to the title of this blog post, I really do wish to connect with those of you who take the time to read this nonsense.

Back on point.

I spend a lot of time thinking through scenarios, especially when I'm in plotting or writing mode for a novel.  Characters take shape within my mind, and I assign to them a host of flaws and (usually) redeeming qualities.  They act, they react.  They show compassion, they show contempt.  It's an undeniably odd way to spend one's day, creating people and then watching them take over and navigate their triangles, circles, and various other geometric designs.  I do not envy God.

My real life is no less strange than those I craft.  If I were at liberty to share even the roughest outline of my family's past, you probably wouldn't believe most of it.  If I asked for your family's story, complete with cobwebs and skeletons, I'm sure it would be just as sordid.  No one is immune from controversy and conflict.  If we were, we probably wouldn't have many true, close friends.  Stumbling and falling and then picking yourself back up again, especially with the help of others, tends to plant the seeds of empathy.  It allows our ears to remain open and our mouths to stay shut.  It makes us more than just human, it makes us alive.

Sometimes we forget how to put ourselves in the shoes of others. We must not forget.  To forget that others need to connect with us is to forget how to truly live.

My brother stopped by a few days ago.  He and his wife are involved in a network marketing-type endeavor which focuses on self-help and coaching (good things, certainly). One of the recorded talks he listened to applied to me and my writing path, and he asked if he could stop by.  As we sat on my front porch, rocking on my rocking chairs and trying to ignore the mayhem inside the walls of my house, he shook his head.

"I've been trying to let God talk to me in that still, small voice," my brother confessed.  "He usually has to shout at me."  He felt God laid that particular CD on his heart, intended for me, so I could tell him our sister was in the hospital and scheduled for surgery in the coming week.

"What is wrong with our family?"  He asked, voicing a thought that has rolled around in my head frequently.  All I could do was shrug.  If I knew the answer, it would be fixed already.

A minute later, I asked how his step-daughter, a freshman in college, was doing.  

"She's sick.  They have her running... But, anyway, I really wanted you to listen to this CD."

And that was that.  I love my brother.  I'm as guilty of this as he is, or just about anyone else.  We ask to be let in while simultaneously slamming the door.  We disconnect ourselves from others, and for what? I'm sure whatever is on the CD is interesting, possibly even life-changing; however, it cannot rival the genuine sharing of struggle and concern.  A sister struggling with health issues.  A niece burning her candle at both ends trying to figure out a new stage of life.  Someone else enduring the day with a difficult spouse or an unwell child.

I am guilty of this.  The guiltiest, maybe.

And I wonder...  Is God sitting, pen in hand, considering the plot to our story and wondering about story elements--conflict, story arc, resolution? Though He knows the end to our novel, does a twist or turn ever surprise Him?  Does He write our characters together, only to have us change the lines and the scenes into something unrecognizable?

Fifty Shades Of Frustration

I am on Twitter.  I'm not too terribly proud of it.

My motives were good.  I wanted to connect with other writers so I could stop boring my friends and family who don't really give a hoot.  Twitter seemed a logical place, with people much like myself just a hashtag away.  Or so I thought.

By searching out and following random (and not-so-random) writers and publishers and editors, I found myself eyeball-deep in self-promotion and little else of value.  Tweets like these, by the thousands, sweep through my feed:

BUY MY BOOK FOR .99, TODAY ONLY #bythewayitsucks

Mona doesn't need dignity where she's going...  VAGUE BOOK TITLE #scrubyourbrainwithlysollater

#Write your #novel in five hours but.payme20bucksfirst.com !!!!

I nearly called it quits, deciding I'd failed in ferreting out real live people on Twitter.  The best I could tell, Twitter was one big, soulless PR/Advertising dumping ground for authors and booksellers alike.  Not at all the place where tormented artists were huddled together, whining about deadlines, writer's block, and plot holes.  Something happened late last week to change that, though.  An innocent question led me to small community of writers loosely tied to NaNoWriMo, and, finally, I found hope in the whole Twitter idea that I'd been scoffing at all this time.

Until last night.  Yes, I had four whole days of Twitter happiness, and then I discovered something so..... so....  I don't have the words to describe it.

I followed a particular female author, just because.  She's no one I'd heard of before, and I didn't remember her at all until something popped up on my newsfeed last night while I was watching the Oscars.  This woman was interacting with her followers (something rare amongst authors on Twitter, with the exception of the incomparable Neil Gaiman), and I took notice.  Authors/celebrities who take the time to talk to their fans impress me--it shows me they care...  about something, at least.  Her follower complained that her website had crashed, and the author explained it always did after she released a new book "teaser".  They began talking back and forth about how wonderful and quirky the books' main characters are.  Now, I had no idea who this lady was or what she writes, but I was intrigued.

I proceeded to download a free sample of one of her books from Amazon without reading the summary.  The sample netted me 10 or so pages to read and decide whether I am interested enough to buy the entire book.  At $10, I'm already fairly certain I'm NOT interested, but I wanted to see this quirky character everyone's in love with.

It took me about five pages before I realized that this series is completely hanging onto the coattails of Fifty Shades of Grey.  (Please don't ask me if I am into Fifty Shades of Grey unless you want to hear me go off on a day-long rant....  I just....  Yeah, don't ask me about it, that's all.)

So, whatever.  I get it.  Sex sells.  A lot.  Like major best-seller a lot.  That's not really my beef here, although it's really annoying.  I'm taking a deep breath and trying--but failing--to climb down off my soapbox.

This morning I checked my Twitter account and came across this author again.  At some point, she (or one of her followers) had shared something by an individual on Twitter pretending to be the main male character of her book series.  Not that weird--I'm assuming that most fictional characters have a Twitter account maintained by some fanatic.  Maybe someday even Liam or Claire will have their own Twitter accounts, too.

What disturbed me is that this fictional character was having fairly graphic Tweetsex (is that a term?  If not, it is now) with his followers.  I mean....  What???  Y'all have no shame.  I don't want to imagine any of you doing any of that with any of that, knowwhatI'msayin'?

I'm not against romance novels.  I like it when people fall in love, in real life or in a book's life.  I've been known to drown myself in chocolate chip cookies and a trashy novel when I can't be bothered with thinking.  Trashy novels don't require thinking.  But.... some of these books are topping the charts! And I don't want to believe it for a single second.

It's discouraging to know that this is what I am up against.  That most of the readers don't care what the plot is or how utterly unbelievable a character is as long as they are drrrrty birdies.  That I will likely never see the same level of success because my main character doesn't let him x her y with a z.  Depressing, really.

I'm not yet swearing off Twitter because luckily I did find a few quality individuals along the way, and a couple of them have helped quite a deal with my novel.  However, I guess I will have to learn to be more discerning of the complete strangers I pay attention to.  I suppose that's not a bad thing to apply to most areas of my life.

And even though it's disheartening to see, I'm not going to let the Fifty Shades of the literary world get me down.  A captivating story can be created without all of that, I'm sure of it.

#rantover #amiright?

Social Interaction for Dummies

Something strange has happened to me.  I have become content being by myself in social situations.  If I am sitting alone somewhere, staring at the ceiling, please don't feel bad for me.  It's probably the most peace and quiet I've had in days.  In fact, if you come talk to me out of pity because I look lonely, you probably ruined the zen of the moment.  Thanks for that.

Deep inside there is a comedian... I enjoyed him for lunch with some fava beans and a nice chianti.  Just kidding.  But, really, I enjoy making people laugh.  I will beat every ounce of life out of a joke, and then give it one more really good  swat because, heck, I can.  That's my personality, love it or hate it.  Lately, though, I have been more than happy to be a fly on the wall, listening and observing vs. working the crowd.

If I'm being truthful, I've never felt like working the crowd.  I've always entertained others out of necessity and, eventually, force of habit.  When it all boils down to it, I'm much too slow to craft my speech, and I hate how little dexterity there is with the words that come from my lips.  In a perfect world I would want to live life with cue cards with the option of ad-libbing a particularly witty one-liner whenever the opportunity arises.  Maybe I missed my calling--maybe I should have been a sitcom actress.  Even then, I probably would have been cast as the quirky, awkward neighbor or the harried mother screaming at her kids in the middle of the supermarket....  An extra.

I don't want to worry about being myself, socially clumsy as I am, or about giving myself a free pass to get lost in thought when you think I should be doing the limbo or Macarena or something.  I don't mind if you don't mind.   If you mind, well, you've just become the topic of my next cue card.