It's been awhile

The more I write, the less I want to write.

It's been awhile since I've written anything here, but not for lack of trying. I just don't seem to have the wherewithal to write anything for myself once I satisfy my professional writing requirements. Truth be told: I'm sick of having to think... and type.

That's not to say that I don't have ideas free-floating in my mind; I just haven't felt like sitting down and actually fleshing anything out.

I'm such a bad writer.

Perhaps my saving grace here is that I've been reading a great deal more than usual. If reading is the barometer by which I measure my happiness in life (the more I read, the happier I am, usually), then I must be positively gleeful these days. The good thing about that is when I read voraciously, it usually helps my writing. Professionally that's a good thing. Personally, not so much.

Plotting the novel: The real reason writers are neurotic

Writing is more than just chasing ambulances and fire trucks and spending countless hours harassing the cops for information... or so I've read.

Last night, I finished reading Lisa Gardner's latest book, "Love You More," which was phenomenal. To be honest, I think the best part of the whole book was the acknowledgments, not because the substance of the book was bad, but because in her acknowledgments section, Gardner was much wittier and more candid than I would've expected from a suspense writer. I burst out laughing on at least two occasions while reading those two pages alone, although throughout the week I was reading the book, I did post a number of quotes as my status update on Facebook.

I'll admit part of the reason I so enjoyed this book was because its characters were Boston police officers and Massachusetts state troopers. And Gardner put both entities through the wringer. In retrospect (and for her sake!) I really hope they have a sense of humor. The whole time I was reading, I thought of my cop/trooper friends and it struck me that I could easily do this. I already write for a living, and I know I do that well. How much harder can it be to write a book?  The trick, according to Gardner, is to conduct research and learn "new and inventive ways to commit murder and mayhem," as she so eloquently wrote in the acknowledgments. "Oh, and, um, also spending quality time with law enforcement officials who remind me why a life of crime really isn't a good idea, and thus I should continue to hope the whole writing gig pans out." Haha. She said it so perfectly and I'll take any excuse to spend time in the company of the cops. They're a pretty fascinating group of people.

That said, I  have been toying with the idea of writing a novel lately, but I'm not sure what kind. Given that I've never written a book before, I can't really be squished into one category, i.e. suspense or romance, etc.. I love reading cheesy, girlie novels otherwise referred to as "chick lit" but I'd kill to write a suspense-type book like Gardner's... if only because I'd love to create some mahem and - ahem - kill someone. Figuratively, of course.

During the last few weeks (as always), I've been mulling over a few ideas, and after reading Gardner's acknowledgments (and subsequently, her website), I think I may have to bite the bullet and give it a go. This could be fun. I tend to have an active imagination anyway, so this might prove to be the perfect outlet. Maybe I can finally get what I want out of life, even if I am only giving it to my characters (although not without a little stumble here and there!). All I have to do is come up with an idea, throw in a few crazy plot twists, exacerbate conflicts and character development with sexual tension and, oh yeah, create a little mayhem... how hard could it be?

The power of positive thinking

Some say when you really, really want something, you need to set your mind upon getting it. Positive visualization and all that.

Last night, while watching reruns of Criminal Minds before bed, I was poking around various websites out of sheer boredom when I stumbled on HigherEdJobs.com. And I thought, "What the hell, it's been a good three months since I've tackled the fruitless task of conducting a job search, so why not?"

And there, I found it... my dream job (sort of!) right here in Springfield.

Because I have both a full-time and part-time job that more or less covers my living expenses, I have given myself the luxury of time as far as the job search has gone. In the last three years or so, I've applied to countless positions, some of which I really wanted, others I know I was barely qualified for, just to say I've been looking. But it's always been with the thought that I don't have to settle for something I don't really want... unless the salary is too good to pass up.

On a whim, I logged into HigherEdJobs.com and found an Editorial Assistant position open at Springfield College. The job description reads as follows:

Under general supervision, prepares written material for publication, performing any one of the following duties: copyedits and proofreads to detect errors in spelling, punctuation, and syntax; verifies facts, dates, and statistics using standard reference sources; rewrites or modifies copy to conform to publication's style and editorial policy and marks copy for design, using standard symbols; maintains photography files, selects photography upon request, builds relationships with photographers and assigns and assists in photo shoots; prepares updated drafts of text upon request; serves as compiler of Class News & Notes for the College's flagship magazine; utilizes advanced computerized word processing programs and techniques to produce documents and/or narrative materials.
This position requires a minimum of an A.A. degree or equivalent with a minimum of three years related experience preferred. Strong knowledge of Chicago Manual of Style, Associate Press style, and punctuation and syntax. Familiarity with Macintosh software programs that impact design (Photoshop, Illustrator, Quark) helpful but not essential to performing the duties of the position. Position requires: a) Utilizing computerized graphic programs or word processing in the development and formatting of reports and documents; b) compiling and preparing text from copy, notes, voice, or other format; and c) proofreading and editing documents in accordance with pre-set guidelines. 

If that's not the perfect job for me, I don't know what is. The added benefit, of course, is that the job is at a college -- which has been the primary focus of my search so far. Ideally, I'd like to go back to school and get my master's degree or another bachelor's degree, and working at the college level would likely only aid me in that mission. 

So, to whatever higher power is looking down on my life -- I want this job. I know it's perfect for me and I'm perfect for it. Let's throw a little luck my way this time, huh?

Life is good

I'm sitting at home tonight, on the couch with a book in hand and all I can think is.... I love my life.

The windows are open for the first time in nearly a week following five or more days of endless (sweltering) heat, and all the stale hot humidity has dissipated, replaced by a cool breeze blowing through the screen. It's raining outside and the sound envelopes the house, broken only by the occasional passing car and the hum of the trains moving along the tracks in the distance. As I sit here and listen to the world around me, it hits me: Life is good.

Admittedly, it's taken a while for me to reach this point. It's been five years since I moved here and I can count on one hand the number of times I've sat here quietly contemplating the fact that I lead a happy little life. And I do, I'll admit it. I hate loneliness, but I relish my time alone and tonight, I am enjoying it. Thoroughly. It's a luxury that, thanks to the fact that I'm not married and I don't have kids, I still possess... better enjoy it now.

When I first moved here (in 2006 — where did the time go?!), I called home virtually every night in tears about how much I hated it here and what a bad decision it was to move to Western Mass. I was 23 years old, fresh out of college living two hours away from my family and still naive enough to believe I could earn a good living doing what I loved to do: writing. For as many times as I've lamented my life decisions, I'll be the first to admit that it hasn't all been bad. I've met some interesting people along the way and have learned the value of living in a small, tight-knit community.

Today, I also understand the importance of alone time. It's great always being in the presence of others, but there's something to be said for the opportunity to do what you want, when you want to do it. Tonight, for instance, the TV has been shut off; in lieu of spending all my time in front of a stove cooking dinner, I was able to get away with simply heating up a can of soup; and the rest of the evening shall be spent on the couch with a book in hand. I may even turn my phone on silent and pour a glass of wine.

One day, I'm going to look back on my twenties, when I was single and free, with fondness. I know I'll miss having the opportunity to simply exist, without very many worries. I'll do what I can to enjoy it now. Let me just add that to tonight's To Do list:

*Read
*Relax
*Enjoy life

Done. What's not to love?

Writing: It's what I do, not who I am

I've learned something about myself today: I have ADD...or some variation of it, at least as far as the Internet is concerned.

This blog has been in existence for just over a year now and although I would love to have a funky design for it, I don't have the energy to devote to creating one. I'm not a techie; I don't understand HTML. The thought of sitting at my desk trying to finagle a certain look for my blog just tires me, so I'm not about to put the effort into actually doing it. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate a nicely crafted website, however.

My friend Kristin's blog is phenomenal -- both because of its design and because of its content. Her skills as a photographer blow me out of the water and her writing is so easy to read. Add to that her ability to design a website and, well, I'm green with envy.

I barely have the motivation to write here on a consistent basis, mostly because I write for a living and sometimes I think writing for fun is more tedious than enjoyable. I love writing and I still aspire to write a book someday, so the fact that I can't work up the enthusiasm to jot down a few thoughts now and then is concerning to me.

But now that I'm thinking about it, I would like to at least attempt to come up with a new blog template.

See? Anything to keep from having to actually write. 

Pausing to think..

It's been a considerably long time since I've written anything here, not for lack of trying. But life tends to get in its own way sometimes and I've been keeping myself so busy that I haven't had the opportunity to sit down and write... for pleasure, that is. Lord knows I've been writing enough professionally.

In November, I was offered a promotion to editor of one of my company's newspapers, which I happily accepted. Though I didn't officially start in that capacity until January, I did spend the end of November and the whole of December becoming familiar with the town by editing the paper on production day. When I took over in January, I immediately implemented some changes that (in my humble opinion) have made it an even better product than before. I still have my work cut out for me, however and the work has been keeping me going at a frenetic pace. One day I hope to slow it down, but for now I suppose I'm okay with it.

This week, Doc and I have been dog/house-sitting for some friends in a neighboring town who have traveled to Florida. I first met their Lab, Smokey, last month and fell instantly in love. In jest, I told his people if they ever decided to go away on vacation and were in need of a dog sitter, I'd happily oblige. Earlier this month, Smokey's Mom approached me to ask if I was still willing. While I was ready to accept her proposal on the spot, the sheer size of the dog gave me pause: He's nearly 130 pounds of sheer muscle. Despite his size, Smokey has turned out to be a gentle giant; one of the best behaved dogs I've ever met. I'm having a blast.

Puppy love aside, I'm also having a great time "living" with Doc. Having him around 24/7 makes me long for the future. Next month, he'll find out his residency placement and I'm waiting with baited breath to learn his (read: our) fate. Last night as I was falling asleep, I recall him saying something to the effect of: "If you move in with me..." or "If we move in together..." The rest of the clause isn't all that important; what I'm focusing on is those five or six words. That indicates some kind of commitment, right?

So that's where I'm at... that's the last three months of my life in a nutshell. 

Writer's Block

Now that I've got a new (read: slightly used) latop at my disposal, on which I'm supposed to write the next great American novel (hell, I'd settle for simply a novel, it doesn't need to be great at this point), I find I'm afflicted with the sickness that affects most writers at some point in their careers: writer's block.

I'm not sure I know what story I want to tell or if I have anything to say that's worth listening to and good grief! that small shred of doubt is wrecking havoc on my creativity. I've started — and promptly deleted — the beginning of three different stories. I have an idea currently swirling about my head that I have yet to tackle for fear that it, too, will turn into a dud. I feel like a failure already and I haven't even started yet.

Somebody help me out here, this is what I do for a living, right? I WRITE. So why does the thought of writing terrify me to no end?

Perhaps it's not the writing that's the problem; it's the potential for rejection. I'll admit, I'm fragile. I strive for perfection; I like commendations. If someone reads what I write and relates to it, I've done my job. If they enjoyed it so much that they feel the need to lavish me with praise, well then I've done my job well. Therefore, I dread the day I receive the form letter thanking me for my manuscript submission but alerting me to the fact that — hello! — it sucked. I simply can't take that kind of criticism.

As I write this, I can think of three or four writers whom I admire who have come out publicly to state that their breakthrough novels — the books that catapulted them onto the New York Times Bestselling list — were rejected by not one but several publishers before someone took a chance on them. It's such a classic story at this point it's almost cliche... and yet...

I can't even think of a possibility that doesn't include me publishing my book. Dare to dream, I say. (I live in a fantasy world, or haven't you noticed?)

There's just one problem... I have yet to write a book with which I'll risk rejection before making it big in the literary world.

The stress of it all may prove to be too much.

Maybe I should write about a struggling writer who longs to publish her manuscript who instead finds herself sidetracked by men and friends and pets and everything life has to offer in between hard work and smashing success...

I can see their rejection letter already:

"Dear Jennifer...We're sorry to inform you we will not be considering your manuscript at this time...or EVER, really. Frankly, your characters are underdeveloped and your plot line is too contrived. This story is unconvincing and basically unpublishable."

Really? Because it's pretty much my life at the moment...

Oh, the horror!

Writing out loud

The drawback to being a writer is the incessant need to write, to create. The more I put pen to paper (or these days, fingers to keys), the more I want to write. I have so much to say and yet somehow, I’m often at a loss when it comes to actually formulating cohesive thoughts. 

That is until today, when the most unthinkable thing happened…to me anyway. The power went out during a pretty intense thunderstorm and I was left without my connection to the real world: my trusty PowerBook G4. Well, I suppose I wasn't completely without because my Blackberry (a.k.a. my lifeline) was still working, albeit on 30 percent battery power. And the way I am with my beloved BB (that’s another story entirely!) 30 percent wasn’t likely to last long.

The thought of my potentially fleeting link to the outside world rendered me unable to process my surroundings in the moments immediately following the blackout (or was that the sudden darkness in my basement office? Who knows!). 

At any rate, that’s when it hit me… the sudden need to write.

I’m not sure what it’s like in anyone else’s head, but lately my inner voice is a constant narration – much like that of a first-person character in one of my beloved chick-lit novels (don’t judge). During my day-to-day activities I often catch myself thinking along the same lines as those characters, as though I’m telling a story. And as luck would have it, my inner narrator decided to go hog-wild right smack dab in the middle of a power outage. 

It would have been nice to have a working computer to capture it all, she thought. 

My mind went crazy. The words and thoughts and actions kept spewing forth; I couldn’t shut it off. Yet my hands were tied. I couldn’t write. 

OK, yes, I suppose I could have written – in longhand – but I learned long ago that my mind thinks a lot quicker than my hand can write and if I want to write at least semi-coherently, not to mention legibly, I need to do so with a word processor. 

Wow!  What did people do before typewriters and computers? If I was Jane Austen, forced to write my novels on loose-leaf paper by candlelight, well suffice it to say the literary world would be severely lacking right now. 

I went home and tried to take a nap, but with my mind operating in overdrive, that just wasn’t happening.  

What’s a girl to do? 

After two hours of hopelessly trying to focus my rambling mind, I grabbed a book from my coffee table and settled down to read. 

And that’s when it happened: the lights came back on. 

It was almost biblical.

And almost as sudden as the illumination of a light bulb, my creative thoughts evaporated into thin air. I had nothing of substance to write.

Oh well, there’s always next time, she thought.