Saturday, April 28, 2012

I return to blogger to find its regenerated; we'll have to spend some time getting reacquainted.

I've been busy and revising—aside from a brief respite here and there—for the past two months. One project and then another and I am spent. Revision is a heightened state of awareness, an intense process of being never fully out of the world you're working on.

There was a time when I had the ability to complete a revision within a week, two at the most. I can't do that anymore, but I also realize I can't sustain revision mode for more than two weeks without it exhausting me. It's a problem that has hovered at the edges of my life for a year now—how does one recondition oneself when one's process still works but one's life can no longer accommodate it?

April has proven for a second year that it's a bad month for me. Bipolar in how it hits such highs, but the lows are carpeted with broken glass. You know when you hear a song and it transports you to the first time you heard it or the last time you heard it? Or a smell can remind you of something you'd forgotten? I have sensory memory connected to the project I spent all of April revising.

They aren't good sensory memories. The beginning of that book waited for me at home every night to embrace me with razor blade fingers. It hurt to read it, and I was sort of pushing past that hurt when a family member's health issue became very in my face and I realized that I had been sheltered from it by distance. I was already slipping, and I fell hard. Only now feeling like I've grabbed that rug and tugged it back beneath me.

My mean little story would've been easier to stuff it in a drawer and never let anyone see it. But I'm learning that as lazy as I think I might be, I don't have a lot of sustainable interest in doing things that are easy. (I do the impossible often, but it's so, so tiring to constantly have to fight to be allowed to do it.)

This story and I have been growing and changing, but first we had to be carved down to the bone. Stripped bare. Rebuilt. Made better when I once thought it impossible to do so on my own.

So if I've been distant or abrupt, it's because I'm tired and I don't have a lot of patience left. My tolerance of uncertainty is maxed out.

But I saw Cabin in the Woods last night, and it reminded that sometimes great things get made and life gets in the way of them being shared but it doesn't mean they will never get shared. (If you didn't know, Cabin in the Woods was supposed to have come out in January 2011 but its distributor folded.)

There is a whole world of people out there doing the things they love, and they aren't doing them because it's always easy. They're doing them because they love enough to make the impossible happen.

Tuesday, April 03, 2012

This is a blog post for editors.

I wanted to say thank you for your responses.

I appreciate that you have taken the time to respond, whether it's two sentences or two paragraphs. Whether you were blunt or kind-edged; whether you admitted you weren't the right editor or said it was the book that wasn't right. Whether you were so unintentionally funny that I laughed out loud or so encouraging that I regretted you weren't saying yes.

I want to thank you for saying no, because it wasn't right for you or the current list or the house. I want to thank you for believing in the potential of the manuscript, and recognizing the potential of my abilities.

What you're reading? There were moments I was convinced no one would ever get to see it. That you're reading it—that you allowed to even temporarily take up residence in your head—is doing the impossible. Maybe it doesn't feel the same to you—like me, you probably see a lot of stories, and it takes that right one, that really special one to stand out. It needs to resonate in that sure, true space deep within your bones.

I get it. I honestly do.

Maybe you will be the one, and I will say thank you in person, and we will make that story sing. Maybe you won't be the one, and I will wish you well if our paths cross and believe that you have gone on to make other stories sing. We all like stories; it's why we do what we do.

Regardless: this moment, this luminescent possibility of wonder, is the most beautiful thing I have seen in a good long time.

So thank you.