The Value of Self-Pity

You know, usually it’s seen as a bad thing to indulge in a round of gloomy, self-indulgent pity partying for yourself.

I couldn’t disagree more.

I think it’s actually quite healthy behavior, as it allows one to fully feel their suffering and to become outraged at all the wrongs they have endured.  After all, life’s NOT fair, and sometimes you really did get a raw deal.  Acknowledging this and validating how you feel about your raw deal is part of the process of overcoming adversity.

Self-pity is economical, too.  Think about it: If you can feel really bad for yourself, you don’t need to pay a therapist to:

1. Tell you it’s okay to feel bad.
2. Feel sorry for you.
3. Care about your feelings (because mired as you are in your pity party, you care enough for 10 people).
4. Encourage you to take good care of yourself.
5. Nod sympathetically and help you toss your loved ones under the proverbial bus.

But all good things must come to an end.  At some point you have to get up, get moving, and face the oncoming of many new days that will probably, at some point, deliver yet more disappointment and regret.

If you’ve had a childhood anything like mine, you either get really good at moving forward or you don’t.  I got good at it.  So the past two days I’ve been hard at work thinking, making plans, being grateful, and trying to find something to look forward to.

I also went to the driving range and drove a big bucket of balls.  Hitting a golf ball just right, club square, arms straight, wrists hinged, feels so damn good.  Hearing the metallic thwackof the driver, and watching that ball fly high and straight and long – it is a singular pleasure.  Therapeutic.

 

 It’s time for me to let it go again.  That’s the problem with forgiveness and gratitude.  They’re not something you give once, but things that must be practiced over and over again.  Sometimes it’s hard, and giving in to the downward spiral is inexorable.  And then you have to get over it.

 The biggest part of that is finding meaning in everyday tasks, remembering that how you treat people is more about you than them, trying to bloom where you’re planted (even if you desperately long to be re-potted somewhere else), and really really really thinking about this:

“This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one: the being a force of nature instead of a feverish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.

I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live.  Life is no ‘brief candle’ to me.  It is a sort of splendid torch that I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to a future generation.” – George Bernard Shaw

Amen.

Anyone just ever feel pointless?  Hopeless?  Like choices of the past have painted you into a corner from which you feel you can’t escape and will bring you nothing but regrets?

Me, too.

I’m having a pity party.  We’ve got ice cream and alcohol, flannel jammies and trashy films.  Self-loathing is required and weight gain is expected.  Too much chatting, however, will result in immediate expulsion.

Forget Everything I Said

Remember my last post, in which I waxed on about breaking through my block and being energized?

Yeah.  That was fun.

Block? What block?

I had a productive writing day yesterday, about 10 pages, which is really good for me.  I’m a slow writer by most standards.

But yesterday, people, I broke the barrier.  I made it beyond the hard part, and now I get to write the part of the novel where I actually have an idea of what’s going to happen.  Granted, it’s a vague idea, but a far cry from the last bit where I was lost and floundering.

The downside is I am short on words.  I can’t remember the name of that doohickey you use to open a can, or the thingie that turns on the car, or my dog’s name, or where I put my glass of . . . what’s that clear stuff that comes from the tap?

The other downside is that I had to abandon a hot tub of soaking salts to rush to my office, dripping and wrapped in a towel, to add to a scene and begin a new one.

These are really good problems, people.  In fact, these are the problems I long for.  Too many words rushing to the page, not enough coming from my mouth.

The German doesn’t like it, though.  He keeps asking me, “What’s wrong?  Why so quiet?”  He doesn’t seem to understand that I only have so much space in my cranium, that I can’t turn the voices off, and even if I could, I wouldn’t.  It’s scary-quiet when they shut up, and bad things happen in my mind without their noise. 

They were pretty silent during the last chunk of the book, and I was pretty scared.  It’s hard to go it alone, and slogging through can mean some heavy lifting without their input.  But it seems that they liked where I took them, because they’re chatting again, all perky and rested from their time off.

And like a chump, I welcome them back without the slightest recrimination.  The prodigal characters, returned home without the least bit of shame for their absence.  They find me happy to see them, smiling and chipper, their beds turned down, mints on the pillow.  Come, come, be comfortable, stay awhile, would you care for tea?

Basically, this means I’m happy because I’m back to doing what I was made to do: Putting words in a line and feeling good about it.

It’s going to suck when the ride is over, but for now, I’m buzzed and riding high on the thrill of this thing, this writing thing. 

No Image Available

My next novel, Veiled Passions, is due for release on October 7 of this year and I’m so excited – I love this book.  It’s funny, but I didn’t when I wrote it.  I was fraught with angst and worry and fear that it wasn’t good.  And now?  I go back and see what I have, and I like it.  (This should comfort me as I suffer the same angst now.  It doesn’t.)

Anyway, the book went up on Amazon and a few other booksellers’ pages – including Target, which makes me ridiculously happy for some reason.  But here’s the thing – I haven’t seen the cover yet, and all the places that show my book’s listing say ‘No Image Available.’

I’m busting to see this cover!!!  It’s killing me, the not knowing what it’s going to look like, what it’ll say on the back, and if I’m going to get what I want (red and gold and perhaps something really classic and elegant) or if I’ll get the Dread Clinch Cover.

I can’t wait.  Seriously.  I am all atwitter to see it.

In other book news, I’ve renamed the current novel I’m writing to Veiled Surrender.  It’s far more accurate, I think, as the book is all about the surrender to love, to the truest desires of the heart, and mostly, to the inevitable truth of who we are.

On a personal front – I looked at the photos of my vacation and have decided that further dieting is needed.  Nothing quite compares to a bikini picture in urging one forward to their fitness goals.  Unless one counts the photos where upper arm fat and a thick middle conspire to make one appear pregnant when one is most certainly not.  These, too, make the elliptical machine in my fitness room a priority.

I’ve also decided to attend the Philadelphia Writers’ Conference this year.  I’m pretty excited about it.  It’s a really nice, small conference that offers a lot of encouragement and inspiration, which are both things I am seriously lacking.  I am hoping it’ll give me a boost to my flagging spirits.

So there you have it, people.  I will post the photo of my book jacket as soon as I get it, or if it’s the Dread Clinch Cover, as soon as I’ve made peace with it.

To illustrate my worries and my point, follow this link http://www.romances.com.br/site1/autoras_detail.asp?offset=190&codautor=196 to get a little taste of my Brazilian cover, as WordPress won’t let me embed the photo.

On that note, people, I’m going to get back to work.  I hope you all are enjoying a great Sunday!

Matters of the Heart

I’m in love with two heart doctors.  One is my cardiologist, the dreamy doctor Dave (you should see me leaving my cardiology appointments – I’m all giggly and blushy), and the other is Mehmet Oz.

 Seriously.  Is he not the most adorable thing you’ve ever lain eyes upon?  I love him!

(This subject is brought to mind by the fact that I am overdue on a cardiology visit.)

So, in other news, the book is coming along slowly, and as it drags out and I struggle with the characters and my own mediocrity, my thoughts are toward the end of the book, and probably, the end of my writing career.

Do not get me started on what Spitzer and his pals pay for acts that I am doing for free, and may I say, with a fair bit of skill and unfeigned enthusiasm.  Meanwhile, like a chump, I am writing books and getting paid comparably to a nine-year-old in a third world sweatshop. 

Any thoughts on what I can do with myself, career-wise?

I am considering the following:

  An office job, wherein I would perform various tasks that have very little actual importance, but which will cause great stress and a flattening of my rear end.  This job will provide benefits, vacation time, and will offer a 401k package that will make quitting impossible, once I start.

  Esthetician (which I would have to learn how to consistently, properly pronounce, should I pursue this field).  I get regular facials, and this seems a pleasant enough job.  I would need to go to school and get my license, but that wouldn’t be too hard or take too long.  This job would not have benefits, however, or a 401k.  It would also require weekend work and evenings, both of which I am loathe to give up as I do not like driving at night, and I enjoy spending my Saturdays and Sundays with The German and The Boy.

  Manicurist/Pedicurist.  Keeping with the beauty theme, I could also get my license to give manis and pedis, both things I actually enjoy doing, and do well.  The downside here is obvious: handling people’s feet and hands, no matter how gross/warty/smelly/offensive/callused/fungus-riddled.  This is a huge obstacle to overcome, and for a woman like me, probably insurmountable.

  BARISTA!  This is a good option, because I have a Starbucks within walking distance to my home, and I’ve heard that a part-time gig there offers bennies, which are currently costing us $1000.00 a month.  Maybe I could work 20 hours a week, and write on my off days.

  Or maybe I could start a small business.  Seriously?  I have some great ideas.  I also have a tendency to wane in enthusiasm as my great ideas become muddied with necessary details.  Hence, why I am more suited to writing fiction than living reality.  Waning of enthusiasm?  Blow something up!

Whatever.  I’ve got six months or so to figure it out.  Of course, if we’re figuring just on pure happiness quotient, perhaps what I need to do is find a job in a bookstore or a library, where I can surround myself with the silent worlds that others have created and remember that once upon a time, I made my own worlds, too.

I’m Back!

From vacation, that is.  And I am:

1. Exhausted
2. Dizzy
3. Sunburned
4. Dehydrated
5. Happy

Will post more later!