I’m here-ish. Long-short: house/pet sitting in undisclosed, private location. Lots of light, lots of solitude, lots of quiet; three things I all too rarely have. Add to those three, a triumvirate of dogs loving me. I have been in need of just such
ternions threesomes repair. Too, without revealing too much — which is unlike me, I know — a dear one got me a written invitation from one of my dream agents to send my novel. Now, I am 99% certain that invite was a nicety, but, I am going to send it. I had LIBERTYTOWN hard-copy-printed yesterday to the tune of $70 so I could tweak and cut and shape it ONE MORE TIME in an effort to make certain the story is told in as clean, as interesting, as truthful a voice as I can achieve on my own in this, my 675-double-spaced-page Bildungsroman. I understand that any decent agent and editor would also have suggestions and ideas — which I would welcome, but I’m hoping — not to be all Kander & Ebb about it — that maybe this time . . . . But, I wouldn’t want you to forget me between now and the day my dream agent signs me (in the Algonquin Lobby, I hope) and hooks me up with my dream editor (I have two of those, at least), so here is a blog entry on which I’ve been working. Not perfect — I work without a net or an editor — but, it’s one of the things about which I am thinking; as the cool-kids say: My feels.
SURRENDER TO THE MIX
If you are a follower, you know my rehabilitation from ostensible disownment by my family resulted in my having become designated birthday cake baker.
Sounds odd, but makes sense in ways far too complicated for a blog entry which – I am repeatedly told – no one reads past the first 300 words, so, here’s the elevator pitch version:
My disowning was tornado-like, unexpected and destructive, permanently altering the landscape, tearing off many a roof and bringing down many a wall, and we can never again live in the neighborhood we so long inhabited, it doesn’t exist (if it ever did) and some of us have gone missing, and while we might re-build, no one is fooled that it will ever again be the home it was. So, rather than pretend we are who we were or we didn’t do what we did (and didn’t) I bake elaborate cakes. The rest of the family eats them. None of us apologize or admit fault. I don’t think I will ever understand why they did what they did or how they could have done it, said it, whatever, and I have tried — really, really tried — and I am sure they feel the same way about their version of the events. None of which matters when what is left is this: Everything is blown away. Now, we survived to live in this tent-town, temporary shelter of “we’re all we’ve got” and it is as close as we get to healing.
There are worse ways to heal than Continue reading