Saturday, January 26, 2013

750 Words # Something

I did it again.  I wrote all night.  Each time I woke up with my neck aching against any pillow formation I could make, my mind went to conversations with my project manager (I guess that's the best word for him--I'm helping him assemble a book), today's impending funeral and what I would put here because, having signed up for the February challenge (750 words a day all month), I was asked how I would reward myself.  It was a lot easier to note how I would "punish" myself if I failed at my endeavor.  Washing the kitchen floor, on hands and knees, seemed an appropriate consequence for the crime.  Why is it so hard for me to pick a reward?

Well first off, I've got everything in the world, so there's nothing I could buy.  I've got warm, comfy clothing, dressy clothing (though nothing that fits very well, but my job doesn't require formal, business dress and I intend to lose weight), arts and crafts supplies, a computer with a large screen monitor, time to do what I want (too much time, actually), a vacation coming up...what else is there except for world travel which is too expensive?  I'm not about to book a trip to Europe any time soon.  But truly, the reward I get from writing is having written something.  It's tangible, it's printable, it's a thing I have created, and I so love to create things.  Last night, I sat on the floor with my introverted one and made clay figures--a funky purple vase with an orange strip snaking up and around the side, purple dots on top of the orange, gray, glittery dots on top of those and mauve tulip-rose looking things with big blobs of babies breath and lilting, pea-green leaves.  She made a spaceship and an alien.  We put them on the "alter" of our recently deceased dog, Shiba.  The alter is growing: a portrait of the Inu, her pink collar with dog tags, my meditating Swami with royal blue harem pants--he sits, a crossed legged, arms folded, ogling the world through ridiculously big eyes, a cardinal on his head.  There's a blue snail there, too, and a sympathy card from the vet.

How did I get on this topic?  Oh yes.  Rewards.  Creating. 

I've thought about using my 750 words on the draft novel I wrote during National Novel Writers Month, but per usual, I've lost interest in it.  I don't know why--it's gritty as can be, written in short segments, and details the life of a recovering heroine addict who is emotionally distanced from her father, a police officer.  There's lots of nasty sex and swearing interwoven with jail and psych ward scenes.  Obviously, there's the underlying trauma that launched it all. You'd think I would be captivated by my own characters and plot, but I easily tire of both, and besides, why write another book I need to market?  I'm already in the red with my first novel, sixty copies sitting in the trunk of my car, in spite of good reviews.  Creative writing is a bitch to sell.

My goal this year is to release an e-book of poetry with photos taken by my husband and me.  There's little cost in producing an e-book except for hiring formatting help, and if we sell only a couple of copies at an absurdly cheap price, we'll have done well, and I will have fulfilled my drive to create something, though admittedly, for me, an e-book is not so satisfying as a live product.  But I'm getting printed satisfaction from working on this business related project which has potential of becoming a real book with my name on it (yes, I've got some vanity going on there, but there's my professional image and publication history to maintain).  I'm actually earning money from this project and have a shot at earning something after, should the book go viral in the public administration sector.  The only gift I could give myself is a structured, part-time job in the outside world so I can maintain my household and a modicum of sanity.  It's kind of hard to give yourself that kind of gift in this economy, and working at Wal-mart isn't exactly what I have in mind.  My feet and back would hurt within a couple of hours, and I couldn't even work a register because my math isn't great.

So there it is.  My 750 words confessing I"m a spoiled brat who has everything.  
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