Shine on, you crazy diamonds

I've had a couple of regular blog readers email me lately and sort of casually ask me if I'm OK. As in: Are you losing your freaking mind?

I'd like to think they're just concerned about me, and not making a specific diagnosis about my mental state. But one never knows, does one?

No. I'm not losing my mind. At least, no more than usual. See, I like to write the truth. The unvarnished truth -- warts, wood ticks and all. I tend to be a loaded gun with a hair trigger. Just ask any of my old newspaper editors. I like to stir things up. Free will run riot, that's me.

I figure if I'm going to go through the trouble of blogging, then why avoid the truth? We all know writer/bloggers out there in Internet-land who like to pretend they are fit as fiddles, that there's absolutely nothing out of whack in their lives or their minds. Their lives, if you believe their shiny little blogs, are going just swimmingly, thank you very much. Wife (or hubby) and kids are perfect. The car is a BMW. They aren't in the least bit quirky, but instead are very staid and normal and, well, kind of like those plastic women in The Stepford Wives. They chat about recipes and their kids and the PTO and sometimes, rarely, they mention their writing. They seem perfect.

They lie. Trust me. They do.

I mean, come on. They're writers for Christ's sake! It's been my experience that all writers are just a bit off, if you know what I mean.

Unless they're faking it. Unless they really are normal people who are just pretending to be writers. Then I suppose they really don't fall victim -- sometimes on a daily basis -- to the full-on, bat shit crazies. It's possible.

I write this blog to capture the journey. Someday, when I'm rich and famous, some interviewer will ask me if it was difficult to become a published author. And I will have the notes handy (this blog) to show him or her that no, it's not easy.

It was damned hard. And there were times when I thought I was going to quit, or go crazy. Or kick the damned cat or something. There were (are) times when I just want to chuck it all and become a Wal-mart greeter or a fry cook or a grease monkey.

But I don't. I keep on keeping on. Like we all do. The great Pink Floyd once sang: Shine on, you crazy diamonds.

I'm shining, brothers and sisters. I'm shining. Are you?

WRITING UPDATE: I spent the day polishing my query for the one-thousandth time and, once I got so sick of it I thought I was going to throw up, I sent it out to three more agents. I also pasted the first 10 pages of my manuscript onto the email. For those who are counting, that makes six agents queried. The first three were form rejections. Cross your fingers. I know I am.

Also, for those who asked about my eyelid after the vicious wood tick attack -- it's fine, albeit a little red and swollen. Since it was much larger than a deer tick, I'm not going to worry about lyme disease. Not yet, anyway. Of course, the last time I had a fever blister, I was deathly afraid I had come down with lip cancer. So I suppose it's only a matter of time before I start exhibiting symptoms. But for now, it's all good.

See you all tomorrow. Happy writing (for all you real writers out there).

Defining the dream

The sub-title of this blog is Chasing the Dream. All of you writers out there know what I'm talking about. The golden chalice. The 76 Virgins. The Holy Grail.

That's right. To get published. To get that initial phone call from my dream agent, to hear her tell me at some point later on that she's sold the book to Random House for a cool million and, oh, by the way, would $500,000 be cool for an advance?

OMG. I get all shivery just thinking about it. Don't you? (C'mon. Be honest. You know you do.)

But sometimes, when I get really honest with myself (and I just hate when I do that), I know deep down that getting published won't solve a damn thing. It won't make me younger, or better looking, or give me a shiny, happy personality. It won't take the dusting of silver out of my hair. It won't make my cat stop nipping me every time I try to pet the little bitch.

In short, it will do nothing but magnify the problems I already have. I know. I know. If we get published, we'll likely get rich and then, boy, won't that be grand?

Probably for a while, yes. But you know what? I've never wanted to be really wealthy, because I have an addictive personality and, man, with that kind of money who the hell knows what I would do? I can't think of one person with my kind of personality who's benefited from coming into a shitload of cash. Can you?

But fame, that has to be pretty cool, right?

Not really. Look, I was once a medium-sized fish in a small pond -- meaning I wrote a column for the city newspaper here for many years and most people knew my name and recognized me from the (very) flattering photo that ran with the column. I remember once when I was picking up some dry cleaning, a young girl working behind the counter asked me for my autograph. My girlfriend (now wife) was more amused than proud.

But I never forgot how I felt that sunny Saturday morning.

I was both ashamed and horrified. Ashamed because, come on, I was a freaking newspaper columnist! I mean, really. And horrified because, well, I know the real me, you know? While I had been sober for a few years by then, I certainly didn't consider myself any kind of a role model -- for anyone. And especially some cute teenaged girl working at a laundry shop.

What did I do? I politely assured her I was flattered, but that she didn't really want my autograph. (Okay, because I strive to be completely honest here, she insisted so I gave it to her. You happy now?)

But I came away with a feeling that I don't deserve to be famous. For anything. Ever. It felt downright creepy, to be honest.

So if I don't do it for money, and I don't do it for fame (and I don't, trust me), then why do I do it? Why is my dream to become a published author?

I'm still grappling with that one. But I finished Anne Lamott's deeply moving and wonderful Bird by Bird today and she touched on some answers that resonated with me. She wrote that many writers write out of sense of wanting to communicate some deeper truth. Oh, and for vengeance.

It was that latter reason that resonated most with me. I suspect that my childhood issues, including being rejected by my father and mother and half of my siblings, has something to do with it. I suspect I'm trying to show them that I matter, you know? That I am somehow significant, no matter what they say or do. That I count.

But mainly, because it would feel so damned good to succeed beyond their wildest dreams. It would be better than pissing in their oatmeal, if you know what I mean. Vengeance, baby, vengeance. Anne got that part right.

Of course, I could be way off base here. Who knows? But for anyone out there, writer or non-writer, who hasn't read Lamott's book, I have one piece of advice (are you listening, Gina?):

Run, don't walk, to the local bookstore and buy it. And then read it. Twice.

Writers are good people

I've made a surprising discovery over the past couple of years. Writers are good people.

Now that might not come as a surprise to anyone who actually knows and likes someone who writes for a living. But for those of us who'd imagined most authors as drunken, angry and anti-social narcissists, it was a pleasant surprise.

To give you a little context, let me tell you about my professional life since turning 15:

I pumped gas at a large Amoco station throughout high school, working for one of the meanest people I've ever met. I mean, wow, what a nasty man he was (may he rest in peace).

I joined the Air Force after graduating from high school, and spent four years as a military police officer. I had several "adventures" there, had my life threatened a few times and got a broken jaw out of the deal. Oh, and I got to travel a lot. Woot. I also reported to some fairly nasty people (anyone who's been in the military knows what I mean).

After leaving the Air Force, I tended bar and managed a Radio Shack while going to college. I don't have to say any more, do I?

I then began my long and successful journalism career at the largest daily newspaper in Illinois outside Chicago. I worked for, and with, some of the greatest people I've ever met. And some of the worst. Let's just say life in a newsroom is never dull and leave it at that.

I worked (and still do) with a group of men who hunt for sunken Spanish galleons for a living. All over the world. I even got to live and work in the jungles and on the oceans of South America for a couple of months, living a dream. But it was hard and difficult work, and some of the people we dealt with were less than honest and, frankly, downright dangerous.

I also managed a U.S. Congressional race last year. It was the most fun I've ever had with my clothes on, but the words stressful and competitive don't do it justice.

Now, I am a writer. An aspiring author.

Writing is a solitary and lonely career -- hour after hour, day after day spent alone sitting in front of my computer, thinking and pecking, thinking and pecking. I figured a literary career would be competitive and nasty. And make no mistake, it can be both.

But somehow, it's different than all the others. Competition is generally good-natured, because when one of my writer friends gets an agent, or a book deal, it's good for all writers. In other words, if my friend Jennifer sells her Young Adult Fantasy title, it has no negative impact on my adult thriller. Every book sold means people are still reading and buying books. And that, my friends, is a good thing. A very good thing.

And so we support one another. We visit each other's blogs. We make comments, offer a shoulder to cry on, a hand of congratulations. My friend Gina said it best when she wrote, "Isn't it nice to know we're not alone any more?"

Yes. It's nice to know. It's nice to know there are people out there sweating the query process, line edits, revisions and rejections that come with a career in writing.

There's nothing better than spending all day sweating over my manuscript, agonizing over every word, every phrase, every comma, and then going online and finding others who have done the exact same thing.

And the best thing of all? They're working in their pajamas, too!

Take that, you corporate weasels.