What is real?

Yikes! I haven't blogged for nearly half a month. I can't believe I let the time slip by like that. If it makes you feel any better (and there's no reason why it would--or why it would change how you feel in any way), I was very busy:
1.) Potty training my 2 year old (I got peed on and bruised a bone in the process).
2.) Finishing the 5th draft of LitD (which I did this morning).
3.) Camping in the Appalachian Mountains.

Today's post is my response to Rachelle Gardner's latest post "Are You Afraid to Tell the Truth? In it, she writes:

"What if you were able to let go of your need to show the world only your best side? Your shiny, polished and edited side? What if you were to tell the truth about your humanness — those moments of selfishness and greed, those flashes of insecurity, the envy that overtakes you at odd moments? What if you were able to portray the world as it really is?"

And it got me thinking. About myself. Because, after all, isn't that the way the world really is? I've decided to reply with very little filter. My only blinking neon sign is that I mean no disrespect. To anyone. In the world. Ever.

So here we go...

I live in a world that is utterly focused around myself. I am the center of the universe--my universe. As much as I try not to be so egocentric, it's true. That's who I am. This is my world. Welcome. You're in it. You revolve around me.

The more I try to deny this, the unhappier I become. I try really really hard to make other people my center. I insist on making dinner, serving it, eating last (or not eating at all if there isn't enough time or food), and then cleaning up afterwards. It's because I don't want to appear selfish.  And then I get tired. And then I become deflated. And then, if I'm not careful, I get depressed.

The fact is: I am selfish. I am egotistical. I am sometimes falsely modest. This is the world as it really is.

Sometimes I screw with my universe just to see if the things in the universe will notice me.* But isn't that what I want? Don't I want my universe to notice me? Don't I want confirmation that I'm important enough for the universe to take notice of? But because I'm the center of my universe, it doesn't notice me.** And then I get tired. And then I become deflated. And then, if I'm not careful, I get depressed.

I disagree with one thing Rachelle says in her post. She writes:

"The deeper you dig down, the more you refuse to sugarcoat — the better you will resonate with your readers."

I don't know this is true. If you (I) tell the bare truth, people think there's something wrong with you (me). I had a friend tell me over coffee once how she hates getting together with this other friend. Said other friend "complains. And I want to tell her to get over it." But wasn't this other friend just telling it as she saw it--as it is in her universe?

And do people really want you to tell the truth? I don't think so. I don't know that it actually helps me resonate with readers more.

How many times have I read a blog--agent, editor, author, book reviewer--that says, "Sorry, this character is too snarky. This one is too whiny. This one isn't flawed enough. This one is too flawed for readers to resonate with." Shock. Some people are snarky, whiny, perfect, or flawed. There are all types of people out there. But readers don't want to read about some of them.

We want people to tell us what we want to hear. You're doing a great job. Don't worry. You're a great mom/writer/teacher/person/keeper of the universe. My addled brain wants to hear these words. But it also translates them as: I don't care that you don't think you're doing a great job. Get over yourself. Your fears are unfounded. You're not the center of the universe.

But I want to know my fears are valid. I want to know I'm important enough that my fears have merit. I want this too. I want both. I want it all.

So yeah, if I tell the truth about my humanness, I get called pretentious or a complainer. But does anyone call me real?

Maybe that's why I cry every darned time I read The Velveteen Rabbit. What is real?

*I'm hiding something here, because that's what I do. I only provide you with an edited version.
**Oooh, conundrum. I am the universe and I want the universe to notice me.

So, really. I want you to tell me:
What is real?

RTW - What song would you love to see a book based on?

Road Trip Wednesday is a ‘Blog Carnival,’ where YA Highway's contributors post a weekly writing- or reading-related question that begs to be answered. In the comments, you can hop from destination to destination and get everybody's unique take on the topic.

This Week's Topic: What song would you love to see a book based on?

My Answer: "Objects in the Rearview Mirror May Appear Closer than They Are" by Meatloaf
I have been saying since I was a teenager that I wanted this song written as a book.  It was my teenage angst song, and somehow fit perfectly into everything I was going through as a kid and made me feel like somewhere out there, someone understood me.  I'm not saying that I lost my best friend or made love to an angel in the back seat of a car.  It's just...this song spoke to me unlike any other.

Then, I decided I wanted to write the story, so at 4 o'clock this morning, I sat down and wrote.  A couple of things you should know:
1.) I switched genders.  I'm still not comfortable writing male perspectives.
2.) Isaac is the angel.
3.) Ginny is Kenny.
4.) I know "Bat Out of Hell" came out in the seventies and that OitRvMMACtTA came out in the nineties.  It's just Meatloaf will always be eighties to me.

I don't know if you want to read the lyrics, listen to the song, or read what I've written, so I've included all of it.  The video and lyrics are at the end. Here's my story:

"And when the sun descended and the night arose, I heard my father cursing everyone he knows. He was dangerous and drunk and defeated and corroded by failure and envy and hate. There were endless winters, and the dreams would freeze. Nowhere to hide and no leaves on the trees, and my father’s eyes were blank as he hit me again and again and again."

Even though I knew I had nowhere to go, I ran.  Mom sat there and let me. 

But he came.  Maybe the bruises weren’t enough.  Maybe losing Ginny was too much and he didn’t want to lose me too.  I’d like to think the last is true, but really, I don’t know.

I slipped on the stairs and fell.  He reached me then, but the ice was too thick and the snow too thin, and he fell too.  I got up and nearly dropped again, my knee slamming into the walkway.  I scrambled to my feet, but he had my hair and pulled me down again.

He said something then, but the wind or my pulse was too thick, so I didn’t hear it.

This time, I was lucky he was drunk.  I wrenched myself away, leaving behind a fistful of hair, but I didn’t care. I just had to get away.

I ran to the shed and grabbed my bike.  I didn’t look to see if he was still sprawled on the ground. My foot hit the pedal and I was gone.

The snow whipped my face and made it impossible to see. I was still on the road because my bike almost skidded out a couple times—it wouldn’t have done that on the grass—but even so, the bottom of the hill was steep.  Bicycles aren’t meant to be ridden in the snow.  I couldn’t stop.

The back tire slid from under me, and I skidded across the T-intersection.  It was the tree that finally stopped me.  Rather, it was my head against the tree that stopped me.  I lay in the darkness in a ditch across from my street, more stunned than anything else.

That’s when I saw the light.  And when it crested the top of the hill, I saw them.  The 1992 Mazda headlights.  He had come after me.

I was too tired.

He was driving faster than weather permitted.  Actually, if it had been summertime, he would have still been driving too fast.  Now the same weather that had made it impossible for us to leave the hill the day I was supposed to get my license prevented him from leaving it too.

When the Mazda started to spin, the back tires fishtailed first.  And then the truck was coming straight towards me.

I couldn’t get to my feet.  I scrambled into the woods, putting a tree between me and him.

There weren’t any screeching tires or loud bangs.  There wasn’t a moment of clarity, and the world did not slow. I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes.  Maybe that’s because I wasn’t going to die.

I felt the impact of the truck.  It didn’t hit me.  It didn’t even hit my tree, just a nearby tree. I waited for him to get out, but he didn’t.  I just stood there and waited.  And waited and waited and waited.  But there was nothing.

I should have walked to the cab, but I couldn’t.  I was rooted in the ground like the tree that maybe killed my father.

Finally, I reached into my pocket and took out my cell phone. Its screen lit up the ditch. I brushed the snow away on my jeans and then dialed.

“Hi, Isaac. It’s Caroline. I know it’s late, but can you come pick me up?”

I told him where to find me, and then I tucked my cell phone into my pocket and climbed from the ditch. I stood at the edge of the road and waited.

Exactly two cars passed before the third slowed.  Despite the darkness, I knew it was Isaac’s car.  He hadn’t brushed the snow off yet.

He had already rolled down the passenger window by the time he stopped, but I was in his car before he could say anything through it.

“Jesus, Caroline—”

“Just drive.  Isaac, please.  Just drive.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Just go, already.  Please.”

So he did, and I told him what happened. I didn’t cry. I just spoke.

By the time I was done, the roads were getting bad.  Real bad. He pulled his car into the parking lot of the old motel and shut it off, and we just sat there under the streetlight in silence for a while.

The snow covered the windshield again.  Pretty soon we were both in shadow.

I stared out the window, not that I could see anything.  The snow covered that too. I shivered.

“Jesus, Caroline,” Isaac said again.

I looked at him. He took his jacket off and put it around my shoulders, covering my sodden pajamas.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

He leaned over me and rummaged through his glove compartment. He dabbed my face with the napkin. I looked down.  There were dark stains on it.

“Can you grab the kit from under your seat?” he asked me.  I did.

He cleaned up most of the blood and then covered the largest gash with gauze. We didn’t say anything for a long time after that. I stared unseeingly out the window.

“You look a lot like her,” he finally said.

I looked at him. He was right. I did look a lot like Ginny. I always have.

He touched my cheek and tilted my face towards him. I shivered.  He dropped his hand and restarted the car.  The dashboard flickered on and music started playing.  In a few minutes, heat came pouring from the vents.

“Thank you,” I said. I handed him his jacket.

He shook his head, so I draped it over me again.

“Do you miss her?” I asked.

“Every day.”

“Me too.”

It was a silly question. Everyone misses Ginny. You can’t be that beautiful a person without being missed. But I still felt a pang of regret.  Then I felt a pang of jealousy—jealousy over my dead sister.

He touched the back of my hand. I didn’t look up.

“Caroline,” he said.

Then I did look up, and his lips were on mine. I froze.  Then I kissed him back.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this was wrong. It didn’t matter how long I loved Isaac.  Ginny loved him first.  And I knew he wasn’t kissing me.  He was kissing Ginny.

And then, I didn’t care anymore.

I wound my fingers through his hair and pulled him deeper into the kiss.  He came willingly. He unbuckled his seatbelt, and soon the back of my seat had been lowered and he was on top of me.

A song drifted over the stereo.  “And I think somebody somewhere must be tolling a bell. And the last thing I see is my heart, still beating.”

Because Isaac would listen to eighties music.

“Breaking out of my body and flying away.”

Isaac’s tongue crashed into my mouth, and I was gone.

"She used her body just like a bandage. She used my body just like a wound. I’ll probably never know where she disappeared, but I can see her rising up out of the back seat now, just like an angel rising up from a tomb."

Here's a link to the lyrics.

Here's the video:

Your turn:  What's your teenage angst song--the one that you feel sings to you and was written especially for you?

I Wrote the Wrong Book

I overthink everything.  Nothing new there.  So when someone says something to me, I usually mull it over for a really long time, and then I replay the conversation in my head until I've satisfyingly rewritten it into something much better than what it was.  In my replay, I'm wittier, I'm well-spoken, and I come up with a response that is so profound the Greek philosophers wish they were the ones who thought it.  Okay, maybe not the last one, but a girl can wish, right?

So my most recent Overthink began nearly a month ago (yes, I'm still thinking about it).  Because it pertains to my writing career--and current lack of one--I decided to share it here.

The initial comment:  "I'm telling you.  You wrote the wrong book."

Let's put aside the fact that it was said with genuine feeling and meant to bolster my opinion of myself.  That's aside.  It's gone.  I don't want to talk about that.  I get that.

Of course, no author wants to be told she wrote the wrong book.  I've put serious time into LitD.  I don't watch television anymore.  I lost fifteen pounds.  I haven't sewn a dress in ages.  My shelves of canned goods are bare, while the empty Ball jars in the basement are overflowing.  I put on fifteen pounds.  This is what LitD has done--is doing--to my life.  So when someone tells me I wrote the wrong book, I'm all like, "You wrote the wrong book.  So there!  Take that!"  Finger snap and everything.  Well, maybe not that. Okay, definitely not that.

Actually, I feel a little sad.  I *love* LitD, but now the seed of doubt is sown, and I can't stop thinking about how maybe all this time has been wasted energy.  You see, I'm the type of person who has to be perpetually busy.  I don't like lounging in bed after the alarm goes off because there's just too much to do.  And now that maybe I've written the wrong book, I can't stop thinking about how hours upon hours of work might amount to nothing more than someone else's really long marathon of the Bachelorette.

Want to know the other reason why I'm obsessing so much about this? Because a few days later, I got the same message in an email.  The person who sent it shall remain nameless, but here is a small piece of that email:

As I read LitD, I could not help but think that Celia was you. That you went into the darkness and came out a bonafide hero. How could that not be cool? So get the science fiction thing on the page (whether it's you or not). And then tell your own story. The strength of your character, the person you are inside is far more interesting and heroic. I am not shitting you now, either (just ask your husband. I'm sure he knows.). You are a remarkable young woman. The world deserves to see that.

And then, oh wait, I get another email from a different person about a week after that:

i got the sense...that you had an extraordinary childhood---like serious fear and trauma, and all kinds of stuff you didn't go into when you were talking about being a kid. i hope at some point that you write about it---as fiction, as memoir---whatever gets you into the material. because the great consolation in being a writer is that you begin to control your history, you use it and shape it and transform it. and you could make something really rich and deep out of growing up as april. sooner or later, when you're ready, that's the stuff....think about it, for after you're done with the current novel.

So maybe neither of these emails said I wrote the wrong book, but they say essentially the same thing: maybe I'm not meant to be a science fiction writer. Maybe I should focus on writing that other story, the one that I haven't penned.  There are many reasons why I haven't.  The biggest, though, is that I feel if I tell That Story, then there won't be any stories left in me to tell.  THAT would be...sad.

Now I think about it all the time.  Actually, I'm obsessing over it.  Like losing sleep obsessing.  Like getting sad and angry for no reason obsessing.  Ask my husband.  He'll tell you.  Or don't ask him, because that will be weird.  He'll have no clue who you are.  It's just that...I want to be so much better than I am.  I want everything.  I want it all.  And I don't want even a little bit less.

Here is part of my response to the second email:

I want to be fantastic for what I do, not for what was done to me. Think of Patrick Stewart.  Everyone knows him because he's such a fantastic actor.  His childhood wasn't great either, but people don't know him for that.  And he didn't become loved because of it.  People know it now, but really only after he made himself.  I want to make myself first, too.  

"They" say write what you like to read, and LitD is what I like to read, so that's where my energy has been this year.  Maybe it won't go anywhere, but maybe it will.  Maybe it will just be a stepping stone on to something better.  We shall see.

I haven't responded to the first email yet, because I just can't figure out what to say.  I guess I'll do that after this blog post.  It's only polite.

So--Is LitD the book I wasn't meant to write? I can't say yet. I *want* it to be the right book.  I wish beyond wish that it is the right book.  But to quote a fantastic novel--The world is not a wish granting factory.

This is where I get a pep talk from you, oh strangers of the internet world.

#8 Critique Partner Series - Tightening Up Sentences

I am in no way a professional.  I don't have a fancy education to back up writing (that is reserved for mathematics), but I do know what I like to read and I do know when I read something that doesn't quite jive for me.  So WELCOME to my CRITIQUE PARTNER SERIES! Much of my advice you can find everywhere else on the internet.  None of it is professional.  Annnnnd BEGIN!

#8 Critique Partner Series – Tightening Up Sentences
I took a short hiatus from my CPS because I needed to recharge after an invigorating week at the writers' conference.  Now I'm back, and having workshopped LitD, I want to take a moment to talk about one thing I learned.  Let's start with that lovely television series we all know and love:  Law and Order.  Now let's talk about the most well known part of Law and Order: the DUN DUN.  What I love about the DUN DUN is all the force packed into it.  You hear that sound and you know justice has been served.  

After workshopping LitD, the fabulous Paul Cody told me that my sentence structure and grammar were all where they needed to be.  The problem with my writing was my DUN DUN.  My sentences say, "DUN DUN...dun."

Here are a couple of before and afters:

Before: I think about it for a moment.
After:  I think for a moment.

Before: I inhale and few deep breaths before returning to my bed.
After:  I inhale deeply before returning to bed.

Before:  My thoughts break off when I hear a noise--something akin to a thud--from outside my window.
After:  I hear a noise--a thud--outside my window.

Before:  Perhaps she is lost and afraid to be out beyond curfew.
After:  Perhaps she is lost and afraid.

Before:  The boy shouts at her.
After:  The boy shouts.

Before:  She releases the can, and it rolls into the shadows.
After:  The can rolls into the shadows.

And so on.

Notice how each new sentence is more succinct.  Each says the same thing as before, but now they're better.    They pack more punch.  Justice is served.  DUN DUN!

My Question for you:
What are some of the things you do tighten up your sentences?

I've Come a Long Way

This post will likely bore you, but it's here for my own sake.  I make no secret of my hopes, doubts, fears, and excitement concerning LitD.  I spend countless hours each week on it, sometimes to the exclusion of all but my child and husband.  And every so often I start to feel like maybe, just maybe I'm wasting my time.  Then I feel a little better and I'm all let's-get-this-novel-published-yay again.  But between the depressive-and-you-think-you're-a-real-writer and the happy-jolly-sunshine-lollypops moments, I need to remind myself of how far LitD has come.

Well, here are the first six drafts of my opening.  (Note: I say I am only on the fifth draft of LitD, which is true, but there are little drafts within the big drafts.  If I had to count all the little drafts, I'm probably on the twentieth to two-hundredth draft.)  These drafts remind me that, yes, LitD has come a long way.  That, in itself, is worthwhile.  This is worthwhile.

Anything in bold is new, and anything striked out is, well, striked out from the previous version.

DRAFT #1

My name is Celia Mayflower, and I was an A student.   Not just any A student, but the A Student. I was what would have been called in the Older Days the class Valedictorian.  Not quite yet, as I hadn't graduated, but I was getting very close to graduation, and everyone--all my teachers, parents, leaders--all said that I was the A Student.  I wasn't an entirely creative student, but I don't think that really matters, at least not as a part of Town.  What matters is being able to be a working member of Society.

DRAFT #2

My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.  I live at 49 Parakeet Circle, Town #7.  I attend School #37, off Subway Station #64.  I am seventeen years old.  I have nearly completed Education Course A as a mathematics major, and I am set to graduate this coming July on the same day I become eighteen years. 

I discovered that my Society PIN matches my personal information when I was about six years old.  When I was eleven, I wrote a computer program that would perform a search of all PINs and personal information in Town #7 to determine how many other people in Town had matching PINs and information in the same order as my own.  I then visited the Public Records Office—all of our Society PINs and other personal information being public knowledge—and used the program to collect the information I wanted.  Having done so, I can assure you that there is not another person in Town #7 in which all aspects of personal information and PIN match.  I became dissatisfied with this knowledge when I was about thirteen years old, so I headed off to the Public Records Office again, ran my computer program again (with some updated code, having found a small mistake I had previously overlooked).  Still finding that I was the only person in Town #7 to whom this occurred, I expanded my search to seven randomly selected Towns in my Providence. Again, I saw that this phenomenon occurred to only me.  Disturbed with the results, I then rewrote my program to check that any given fields would match in any order, and I expanded my search to include additional information, such as birthdates and precincts.  Here, I was able to find exactly two people for which this occurred.  Chagrinned, I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, that the probability personal information would match with PIN is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance.  Of course, there are only two potential reasons that I can think of that would make this happen.  The first, is that when someone was creating my entry in the Registry, they determined for some unaccountable reason to make my information match.  The second, is that it is pure chance and I’m just crazily obsessed.  Actually, I don’t feel as if I’m “crazily obsessed,” but I can fully understand that the general population would believe me to be so; after all, only psychotic people are obsessed with numbers and probabilities and conspiracies and such, right?

DRAFT #3

I am finishing a short series of vampire love novels when Mother walks into my room.  Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine that had prevented her from being in the same room with me.  When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother was no longer at risk for death, so we too stopped worrying.

“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.

DRAFT #4

My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.  I live at 49 Parakeet Circle 7, Town 3.  I attend School 76, off Subway Station 4.  I am seventeen years old.  In July, on the same day I become eighteen years, I will complete Education Course A as a Mathematics Major.  I currently rank as the A Student for my class, an accomplishment of which I am extremely proud. 

When I was six years, I discovered my Society PIN matches my personal information.  When I was eleven years, I wrote a computer program to search all PINs and personal information in the database to determine the number of people whose information matches.  Having done so, I can assure you this phenomenon occurs only to me.  I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the probability that personal information matches PIN is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance.  Of course, There are only two potential reasons that would make this happen.  The first is that when someone was creating my entry in the Registry, they determined, for some unaccountable reason, to make my information match.  The second is that it is pure chance and I’m crazily obsessed.  Actually, I don’t feel as if I’m “crazily obsessed,” but I can fully understand that the general population would believe me to be so; after all, only psychotic people are obsessed with numbers and probabilities and conspiracies and such, right?

Anything worth learning is worth learning well.

I am finishing a short series of vampire love novels when Mother walks into my room.  Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine that had prevented her from being in the same room with me.  When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother was no longer at risk for death, so we too stopped worrying.

“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.

DRAFT #5

My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.  I live at 49 Circle 7, Town 3.  I attend School 76, off Subway Station 4.  I am seventeen years old.  In July, on the same day I become eighteen years, I will complete Education Course A as a Mathematics Major.  I currently rank as the A Student for my class. an accomplishment of which I am extremely proud.

When I was six years, I discovered the numbers in my Society PIN correspond with my personal information.  When I was eleven years, I wrote a computer program to search all PINs and personal information in the database to determine the number of people whose information also matches.  Having done so, I can assure you this phenomenon occurs only to me.  I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the probability that personal information matches Personal Identification Number is low.  In fact, it is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance.  There are only two potential reasons that would make this happen.  The first is that whoever created my Registry entry determined, for some unaccountable reason, to make my information match.  The second is that it is pure chance and I am crazily obsessed. 

Anything worth learning is worth learning well.

I am finishing a short series of vampire love novels when Mother walks into my room.   Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine preventing her from being in the same room with me.  When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother was no longer at risk for death, so we too stopped worrying.

“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.

DRAFT #6

My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H. I live at 49 Circle 7, Town 3. I attend School 76, off Subway Station 4. I am seventeen years old. In July, on the same day I become eighteen years, I will complete Education Course A as a Mathematics Major. I currently rank as the A Student for my class.

When I was six years, I discovered the numbers in my Society PIN correspond with my personal information. When I was eleven years, I wrote a computer program to search all PINs and personal information in the database to determine the number of people whose information also matches. Having done so, I can assure you this phenomenon occurs only to me. I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the probability that personal information matches Personal Identification Number is low. In fact, it is so low that what I had originally accounted to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance. There are only two potential reasons that would make this happen. The first is that whoever created my Registry entry determined, for some unaccountable reason, to make my information match. The second is that it is pure chance and I am obsessed.

Anything worth learning is worth learning well.

I am finishing a short series of love novels when Mother walks into my room. Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine preventing her from being in the same room with me. When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother would not die.  We stopped worrying.

“What are you reading now?” Mother asks me.

Excitement versus Fear -- Round 3

I'm notorious among my school's guidance counselors for being a "hard" teacher.  More than once, I've received reports back from students and staff that one of the counselors has commented about the difficulty of my Advanced Placement classes or the amount of work I expect in my inclusion classes.  I'm the catcher of plagiarism (yes, it happens in mathematics) and the upholder of responsibility.  There's even rumor that I'm not allowed to teach freshman honors geometry anymore because I'm "too tough."

I won't comment if there's any truth behind that rumor, but I will say that on more than one occasion I said to my honors geometry or AP students, "Sometimes effort is not enough."  This was usually my response to some student approaching me to ask why she got a certain grade.  "But I tried really hard," she would say.  She'd leave my office feeling I was calloused, and I would leave it hoping that in five or ten years she would understand the damned life lesson (and praying it would be a lesson--who am I to know for certain?).

The truth is, sometimes your best isn't good enough.  When the lifeguard says, "But I tried really hard and spent a really long time swimming to save you," but that lifeguard didn't make it there in time, it's not good enough.  And sometimes, after you've given your best, you have to give more.  You have to be better.  You have to be stronger.  Even when there's nothing more to give, you have to find it in yourself.  Sometimes you can't, but you don't know you can't unless you try.

That's where I am with writing right now.  I'm working on my fifth draft of LitD, editing line by line and word by word.  Sometimes, I spend twenty minutes just trying to find the right word.  Should it be "promise" or "say?"  And I'll cross it out a million times and rewrite it a million times, only to become frustrated with my lack of ability.  It doesn't matter how much effort I put into that one word; if I'm not a strong enough swimmer, there is no way I can reach the person drowning, and it's not going to mean anything in the end.

Maybe I can console myself with saying the current was too strong that day.  After all, it doesn't matter how brilliant LitD might be if it's not something that interests agents or publishers.  Maybe I can console myself with lifeguarding  in a pool instead of the ocean.  After all, it's a heck of a lot easier to get published if I self-publish, right?

Or maybe, I can keep swimming.  I can make myself a better writer. I don't need to be a hero.  I just need to be excited, because no matter how many books there are out there, I'm the only person who's written mine.  Yeah, there are a lot of people who say they could write a book, but how many of them actually have?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put it more effort.  This is my pep talk to myself.  What's yours?