It's That Time Again!

So. Birthday post. What shall we talk about?

Over the past year, I published two short stories: My Apple Tree and Wishing Cotton. Exciting stuff. I’ve discovered through this process that I am more self-conscious of my writing than I’d actually realized. Nothing strikes terror in my breast like putting my work out there for people who don’t owe me favors, loyalty, or money to critique. That fear has always been a challenge I’ve struggled to overcome. The biggest source of pride for me is that I’ve published at all; I’ve left the safety of my computer files and journals and opened myself up for criticism. Even if no one ever reads my books, releasing them into the wild is a pretty big accomplishment all by itself.

I’ve also started edits on my first full-length novel, The Truth Seekers. It’s an historical romance, most likely my one and only. I’m planning to settle down after this. I’m getting too old to bounce around from style to style, so it’s time to commit. All the same, I’ve done a ridiculous amount of work on this book, so it would feel wrong not to share it in a final display of sowing my wild oats. I only hope it doesn’t suck, but that’s a question to answer in my NEXT birthday post.

Just lie and tell me it's brilliant.

My older son finished his freshman year of high school, making it onto the second honors roll despite all the nay-sayers who said that an autistic kid would never make it in a challenging, private college-prep school. 

Captain, my captain.

So nyah-nyah. It wasn’t easy, but as people are discovering about me, I would fight to the death for my kids. I don’t let anyone place limits on my boys – even themselves. Still, I have to admit that his next milestone fills my soul with dread. It’s time for him to learn to drive. Pray to your gods, people. This will be interesting.

"Please, don't let him see a squirrel..."

His little brother, Shorty, finished third grade in one piece. We have some concerns with his development, but that’s a battle we’ll start fighting again once school is back in session this autumn. Shorty is now having a blast at theater camp, and really, what’s the point of being a child if you can’t enjoy it? We’ll cross the appropriate bridges when we come to them. In the meantime, I’m looking forward to his first public performance next week.

The venue will be slightly less glamorous than this.

I became an aunt for the first time, which was really lovely. Although we haven’t met Minna in person yet, we are planning to spoil her like mad. Being an only child, I have always wondered if I would get the opportunity to be someone’s “cool aunt.” Here’s my chance!

Okay, not THAT cool.

Probably more like this.

I got a tattoo on my last birthday, and while I’m not doing that again this year, I did enjoy waiting for my parents to notice. They were just two weeks shy of going a full year. 

Way to miss the obvious.

They have dealt with this heavy blow by never mentioning it and pretending it never happened. I think I’ll give them a year off before I do something that upsets their worldview again.

Not exactly subtle, either.

I have gotten sucked into the world of crowd-funded projects this year. Many of you have seen my posts about The Minister of Chance, which began life as a sonic adventure and is now morphing into a film. The initial reason I loved this project so much was that it reminded me of the days when my father would play tapes of the old radio shows he listened to as a child. The imagination and imagery that went into some of those early productions has been amplified by the Minister of Chance cast and crew. Even without taking into account that this was a crowd-funded operation (and therefore wasn’t making anyone rich), what they have accomplished is really remarkable. The six episodes of the sonic series are available for free download on iTunes or the Minister of Chance website. I can’t recommend it enough. The talent that has come together to bring the Minister’s world to life is astounding, and the people working on this project are just lovely, dedicated, welcoming, and brilliant (as well as stunningly good looking).

Tell your friends! Hell, tell your enemies! We're not picky!

This year, I’ve reconnected with old friends, made new ones, and seen more of the amazing, screwy, wonderful, and insane place we call Planet Earth. I’ve been bowled over by beauty, heartbroken by cruelty, frustrated by ignorance, and frightened by risks.

I still have so much left to do. My husband tells me that I really need to learn to cook eventually, and he wouldn’t mind if I actually folded the laundry now and then. I need to learn the fine art of self-promotion without incorporating an apology for my mediocrity at every opportunity. My computer and I need to have more time apart, because there are some lovely people in my life, and I should take more time to enjoy and appreciate them. My health needs to be a bit more than an afterthought as I chug my eighth cup of coffee, too.

All the same, I’m proud of how I spent this year. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t easy, but it took me further on my path. If I had to sum up the theme of my fortieth year, I would say it was this:

Make the scary choice.

It's My Birthday, and I'll Blog If I Want To

So now I’m forty. Woo. 

Age is just a number, but it does pack a bit of a psychological whammy. When I turned twenty, I felt like I was finally leaving my childhood behind. When I turned thirty, I felt like I was now a “real” adult. (I was very depressed over that particular birthday.)

And now here’s forty, getting all up in my face. What a bitch.

Forty feels weird because it’s sort of the point at which people stop saying, “Oh, you’ve still got plenty of time to marry/have kids/buy a house/build a career.”  There’s a new feeling that the clock is ticking, and that if you’re going to get anything accomplished, you might want to get a move on.

I’m not completely depressed, because I do have things I can point to that show I haven’t just been doing macramé and watching YouTube all this time. I quit smoking – for real, this time – so I’ve got a much better chance of future birthdays to piss and moan about. I’ve got a number of manuscripts that I am slowly preparing for publication, and I have copy-editing work to keep me out of trouble. I took the leap and left my law gig, and I’ve been swallowing my self-doubt and putting myself “out there.” I’ve gone to workshops and voiced my opinion on writing, even though I had a strong suspicion that my view would be in the minority. I’ve actually allowed other people to read my work and give their opinions. I’ve learned to listen to criticism without hiring a hit squad to ice the person who would dare to think that there was a gaping plot hole in my book. Even though there totally was.

No, I haven’t gone to print yet. No, I haven’t written the next big thing. No, they are not making a movie out of my book. And no, David Tennant hasn’t called me up and asked if we could be best friends. Dammit.

All the same, I do have things to feel good about. I’m not going to say I’m “truly blessed” because that phrase makes me itch. (“Truly” as opposed to what? “Kinda blessed”? Looked like “blessed,” but turned out to be a clever disguise for “royally fucked” at the last minute? Why do people feel the need to say “truly” when they’re expressing their blessedness? I don’t get it.)

I digress. It’s what I’m good at.

I have wonderful people in my life. One can only assume they’re there because they want to be. As little as I may understand why they feel that way, they appear to value me. Since I think they’re all pretty amazing, it’s a happy thing. Look at all these super-groovy people who think I’m the shit! (Go, me!) I have a wonderful family of friends and relations who like me for who I am and see good in me that I’d never have noticed myself (and frankly am still skeptical about). Once I stifle the irrational fear that I will disappoint them, I can only be grateful to know each of these unique and quirky people for making my life an interesting adventure. It wouldn’t be half as much fun without them.

I have two phenomenal children who will either become dictators of small countries or who will help make the world a better place. (It’s a fine line.) They like who they are, and they’re not afraid to be different, which makes me so proud I could spew glitter.

I have a husband who is almost too good to be true. He cooks, and he fixes computers – what more does a writer need in her life? Fortunately, he puts his foot in his mouth just enough to keep him from being too perfect. We’ve been through hell together, and I can’t think of another person I would have rather made that trip with. Maybe someone with an ice chest. And some beer.

And here I am at forty, carving out a new career for myself. I’m finally working toward the dream I have had since I was a little girl. I may succeed, or I may fail. I’m giving it a shot either way. All the writers out there who are struggling to get published, wrangling editors and query letters and Oxford commas with sincere passion and devotion, are in the same boat that I’m in. We want to succeed so badly, and every year that slips by makes it harder and harder to hang onto those dreams. 

I guess all I want to say is – your life isn’t over until you stop living it. Dreams can still come true. Even after you’ve turned forty.

The Novelist at 40

I’m turning forty this month, and I can’t say I’m particularly happy about it. I mean, I’m nowhere near mature enough to be middle-aged. I’m certainly not ready to start acting like a productive member of society. How can I be turning forty?

Oh, wait. That’s right. I’m a professional writer.

My profession is one of my absolute favorite things about my life, because it’s like belonging to an exclusive club: The Pedantically Insane Club for the Compulsively Verbose, if you will. This club’s membership stretches back to the dawn of time and includes such pillars of the community as Charlie Dickens, Willy Shakespeare, Dorothy Parker, Hunter S. Thompson, and Virginia Wolfe.

By pillars of the community, of course what I really mean is brilliant lunatics who made it socially acceptable to be an eccentric misanthrope with permanently ink-stained fingers, a complete lack of tact, and a dodgy sense of fashion.

If you think about the writers whose works have endured – particularly if you are a writer yourself – you will notice a pattern. Each of them is described by contemporaries with words such as “socially inept,” “caustic,” and “completely batshit crazy.” While we accept this as the natural order of the universe when studying long-dead masters of the written word, we still seem to be surprised when we encounter the same qualities in contemporary wordsmiths. Generation after generation of writers has been confronted with society’s clearly unrealistic hope that they will behave like normal, rational human beings. All this accomplishes is to guarantee that modern writers are just as misunderstood and ostracized as their long-dead counterparts.

Our world has manufactured a criterion for socially-acceptable insanity: brilliance. Once you have been labeled “genius,” you can be as rude and unhygienic as you please. Unfortunately, it is rare that such a distinction is awarded prior to the death of the weirdo in question.

However, it is possible for modern writers to take comfort in the history of censure that those who have gone before us have endured. As writers, we are traditionally expected, and in many respects are obligated, to behave in a socially inappropriate and often blatantly disrespectful manner. Crazy is simply just one part of the job description. Hence my self-proclaimed status as “professional oddity.” It’s not just an arbitrary title – it is a sacred trust.

So it’s okay that I’m turning forty, because I’m a writer. No matter how old I get, I’ll never be old. I shall wear my immaturity and irreverence like a badge of office until I draw my last breath. And if I’m very, very lucky, my writing will still speak for me after my own voice falls silent.

Until then, I’ve still got stories to write!