It's Friday!

Okay, I'm cheating right now. I admit it. I took off my silly little finger splint to type this. But I promise I'll put it back on.

Although it does look (and feel) silly!

So, today is Friday and I, once again, accomplished nothing. Zip. Nada. My goal is to be back revising on Monday, after giving the poor little pointer finger some time off.

Actually, both pointer fingers. Oh? I didn't tell you about my stupid scissors accident last night? Well, pull up a computer chair, friend.

I decided to cut one of those pain patches for your back into thirds so I could tape it to my finger, right? So I was trying to cut the damned thing while not using my right pointer finger -- and proceeded to cut the crap out of my other pointer finger! I mean, it laid that baby wide open. So now, both pointer fingers are all bandaged up. I look like a lobster with funky white claws!

Not the best week, quite frankly.

Anyhoo, it's Family Movie Night and provided I don't cut a limb off between now and this evening, we're watching Pretty in Pink. Molly's finest, if you ask me. We also rented The Last Starfighter, which we can watch this weekend if we have time (or if we get snowed in).

I'm thinking Night of the Comet for next time. We might have to skip next Friday, since I seem to recall we have something going on that night.

That's it for now. Have a great weekend. I'll be back on Sunday (unless I cut myself to death!).

Old bosses, revisions and Molly Ringwald

As I was leaving the gym this morning, I ran into an old editor of mine from my early days in the newsroom. We chatted for a while in the bitter 12-degree air, catching up a bit. She retired a few years before I quit the newspaper and while I see her occasionally, we don't talk often.

She asked me what I've been up to. I told her I had just finished my novel and was in the process of revising it before starting the submission process.

"Oh. Really?" she said. And she got that look on her face that I know all too well. If I had told her I was building a rocket ship in my basement, I would have received the same look.

I've seen that look a lot over the past three years. I had a great career, a successful career. And I threw it all away to write a fricken book? What the hell is wrong with me? Don't I care about my family? My financial responsibilities? My standing in the community?

Yes. I care about all of those things. Of course I do. And when I quit my job, it wasn't without a fairly substantial financial nest egg. And while I'm not willing to discuss my financial doings on this blog, suffice it to say that we're not starving.

Yet.

This has been hard for me. More importantly, it's been hard on my family. But they have faith in me, more faith than I have in myself sometimes. They believe that I can sell this book and make money from it. They've read it. They love it. Without their faith, I would have quit long ago. And I'd probably be working at Wally World about now -- you know, as one of those old farts who smile at you when you enter the store. I mean, how hard can that be?

Well, I'm not there yet. And God willing, I will never be there. But if I end up as a Wal-Mart greeter, I will at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I tried. That I gave my dream everything I could give it. I know this: No one achieves their dreams without actually trying. And I'm trying. My best.

So I smiled at my old editor. She didn't piss me off. No. She motivated me. I came home, made breakfast and finished not one chapter revision, but two!

So there.

Oh, and it's Friday! Family movie night. And Molly is making a return appearance in the Towery home this evening.

We're watching Sixteen Candles at the 12-year-old's request (snicker). Next week, we'll finish the Molly Ringwald Trifecta with Pretty in Pink.

I hope you all have a wonderful evening and a superb weekend.

When fear strikes

Yawn. Sorry. I'm not feeling real blog-ish tonight.

It could be that I've got one eye on the football playoffs and the other on the keyboard. Or it could be that I still feel a little punky and probably ought to be curled up in bed (watching football, of course).

Most likely, however, it's fear. That's right. Fear.

See, fear has been my constant companion my entire life. It was there in third grade when that big Holloway kid knocked me on my ass during a pick-up football game and then wanted to fight. I ran. Although I suppose, looking back, that it might have been more intelligence than fear on my part -- seeing as how the kid was in eighth grade and bigger than my old man.

It was there when my parents divorced (violently). It was there in junior high, when the class bullies realized that my stepfather was a cop and decided to make my life as miserable as they possibly could. And boy, could they. To this day, when I see a locker room I break out in a cold sweat.

It was there when I left for the Air Force. Big time. And when I got out. And when I went to college, and got married, and went to rehab. And started my career, and had a kid, then another, then yet another. It was there when I got divorced (non-violently; some lessons can be learned). It was there when I went to South America treasure hunting and lived in fear of being kidnapped by Colombian rebels like my boss had been a few years earlier.

It was there when I quit my job, when I started my novel, when I finished it, and when I started the first round of revisions.

And it's still here. Big time.

It isn't nearly as frightening an opponent as it was in the past, however. Age does bring wisdom. And I often find myself sitting and wondering what I fear most -- success or failure?

Fear feeds on my insecurities. Fear requires that inner voice that tells me I'm not good enough in order to thrive. Fear never takes a holiday. And it's patient. Damned patient. It's always there, sometimes just under the surface, other times deeper than that. But it's always there.

So each time I sit down to this latest (and probably last) round of revisions before I start shopping the manuscript for real, the fear comes. Hard. And so I surf the Internet. I read a book. I watch television. I do anything and everything, except what I'm supposed to be doing -- revising the damned manuscript.

Because, see, I'm afraid.

But at least I can recognize it these days. That wasn't always the case. And fear no longer paralyzes me like it used to. I can get through it.

I can.

FAMILY MOVIE UPDATE: Our 12-year-old son has developed a massive crush on Molly Ringwald and now sighs wistfully as he stares at her picture on the CD case. He also is angry that he didn't get to live through the 1980s! I'm so proud of him.