Proof that I'm nuts...
Exhibit 1: Yesterday I drove Fezzig, my beloved Saturn coupe, to work and back one last time. During the day, in concert with my insurance guy, I made arrangements to have Fezzig picked up for salvage. Driving home yesterday, I let my imagination get away with me, and found myself thinking of it as though I were putting a beloved pet to sleep. This madness upset me so badly that I spent the better part of the drive back to Seattle crying my eyes out and thinking things like "This is our last drive across the bridge together," and "This is the last time we'll ever park at the University Bookstore together." Because, you know, I don't have enough things to concern me over the course of any given day.
Yes, I'm insane.
It's unlikelynot impossible, mind you, merely unlikelythat I'll name the new car. This business of personifying inaminate objects is deadly to someone with as wide a sentimental streak as me.
Exhibit 2: After much cogitation, I wrote to Dean Smith and asked him if there was any room in the short story workshop after all. My excuse in initially not stepping up was that I didn't have the money. The truth is that I do, and that I was just scared to death of giving myself permission to take my writing seriously enough to devote a solid week to nothing but its development. This is typical behavior when I want something so badly I can taste it. Well, after some thought, I wrote to Dean and asked if I could still get in; I ended up first on the waiting list. It soon turned out that one of the people committed to the workshop bailed, so a space opened up and now I'm in.
Wonderful, right? Great opportunity, studying with Gardner Dozois, and Kris and Dean? No, not for me. Last night, I took the reading list for the workshop over to University Bookstore to pick up books. I go over to the science fiction section and start looking for titles. Suddenly, I feel dizzy, then I started to hyperventilate. For me it's ==PANIC ATTACK TIME==. Good heavens, they might find out I'm a complete fraud or, worse yet, human. I paid for my books and hightailed it out of there. I landed three blocks away at The Boyfriend's door a complete basket case.
Let it be said now: He is the most patient man on the entire planet.
So, here I am at 7 AM, calmed and a little more stable (because who knows when I might go off again!), rationally reviewing old college books about short story writing and looking at my past publications, few though they may be, to remind myself that I learned a long time ago what story structure and character arc are all about, and that I've built a career on helping people refine their art.
Guess the thing I seem to fear most is giving myself permission to refine my own.
Hello, Planters? One order of nuts please, to go....
Yes, I'm insane.
It's unlikelynot impossible, mind you, merely unlikelythat I'll name the new car. This business of personifying inaminate objects is deadly to someone with as wide a sentimental streak as me.
Exhibit 2: After much cogitation, I wrote to Dean Smith and asked him if there was any room in the short story workshop after all. My excuse in initially not stepping up was that I didn't have the money. The truth is that I do, and that I was just scared to death of giving myself permission to take my writing seriously enough to devote a solid week to nothing but its development. This is typical behavior when I want something so badly I can taste it. Well, after some thought, I wrote to Dean and asked if I could still get in; I ended up first on the waiting list. It soon turned out that one of the people committed to the workshop bailed, so a space opened up and now I'm in.
Wonderful, right? Great opportunity, studying with Gardner Dozois, and Kris and Dean? No, not for me. Last night, I took the reading list for the workshop over to University Bookstore to pick up books. I go over to the science fiction section and start looking for titles. Suddenly, I feel dizzy, then I started to hyperventilate. For me it's ==PANIC ATTACK TIME==. Good heavens, they might find out I'm a complete fraud or, worse yet, human. I paid for my books and hightailed it out of there. I landed three blocks away at The Boyfriend's door a complete basket case.
Let it be said now: He is the most patient man on the entire planet.
So, here I am at 7 AM, calmed and a little more stable (because who knows when I might go off again!), rationally reviewing old college books about short story writing and looking at my past publications, few though they may be, to remind myself that I learned a long time ago what story structure and character arc are all about, and that I've built a career on helping people refine their art.
Guess the thing I seem to fear most is giving myself permission to refine my own.
Hello, Planters? One order of nuts please, to go....