The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is...

First, a little housekeeping! I did misread the calendar. Yesterday was the feast of St. Cyril...last Thursday was the feast of St. Aloysius Gonzaga. Think the man ever dreamed so many people would know his name every March? (hee hee) Can't imagine how I made such an egregious mistake, since my day gig is all about making sure to AVOID egregious mistakes. (I just love that word "egregious.") But, onward and upward. Was having an interesting conversation this week about publishers' interests versus authors' interests--and why in the world they have to be "versus" in the first place--when the notion once again reared its ugly head that publishers have all the control, authors have none, and that's why things sometimes turn into the messes they do. But is that truly the case? I submit not. Or at least, I submit that it doesn't have to be. But it can only change if we're willing to stop being so danged scared of our own shadows. For years, I've seen authors--both the unpublished and the already-published--walk around on eggshells, afraid of the slightest thing. They're afraid to ask an agent for a status report after six months without a word. They're afraid to ask an editor for a status report after a year (!). They're afraid to ask for changes in a contract. They're afraid to ask that a royalty statement be printed in English. They're afraid to say anything that might be misinterpreted in an e-mail, in an elevator, or even in the privacy of a conversation among friends. But most of all, they're afraid to be honest about a lot of personal experiences...when honesty might actually help a lot of people in the long run (including themselves). But honesty sometimes means that what you say could sound negative to someone, some time, in some instance. So, no matter how true it is, they hold back. Why? Because someone, some time, might overhear it, get offended, the next thing they know, they'll be "blacklisted" forever in the writing business. All that anxiety, and all so unnecessary. Some years ago, a prominent male author was in a public interview situation (a press conference? book signing? whatever) where news had just broken that he'd left one publisher to sign his next book with another. In the process of talking about why he'd left, he simply said outright that one publisher gave him a better deal than the other one. He hadn't felt that the first one was ready to go to the mat quite as strongly with his second book as his new publisher would. They'd offered more money, they'd offered him a better marketing plan, etc., etc., etc. The reaction from most of the marketplace? "You go, guy." The reaction from RWA? "OHMYGOD!" Rampant horror. Rampant dissing of the man involved, indignation that he would act so "unprofessionally," etc. Did the publishers care? Heck, no. They smiled, went about their business, and life went on. Now why the disconnect? It sounds sexist to say so, but I suspect it's because RWA is predominantly made up of females. And for some reason, the female mind seems to prize "niceness" above all else in the world--even in business. Males, as we all know if we live with them, put "niceness" way down the list of things to even think about, much less worry about, especially in the marketplace. (!) A man's world is dog-eat-dog, may-the-best-man-win, and if you don't like what I say about you...oh, well. Maybe you'll learn from it and do better by your next customer. Which is nothing more nor less than a) perfectly good business sense, and b) the way the free market operates. You treat me well, I'll stay with you. Someone else comes along who's prepared to treat me better...well, you just may lose me as a client. C'est la vie. No one holds a grudge against you if you take your business to Dominick's instead of Kroger's when Dominick's gives you a better deal. You can even go back to Kroger's when they have a sale, and the checkers will happily wait on you. They may even smile at you. In any event, they sure won't "blacklist" you or "blackball" you or consider you "less than a reliable businessperson" for shopping around to get the best deal for yourself. They'll be happy they provide the best deal, and they'll leave it at that. So why is the writing world, in so many circles, considered so different? "Publishing is a small world," is usually the answer that comes back. "It's a small community. You do something nasty to someone in it, and word will get around, and you'll appear less attractive to everyone else in it. And THEY'RE ALWAYS LISTENING!!!!!" (Note: in the real world, that last sentence is considered a treatable mental illness. 'Nuff said.) I can understand if you actually do nasty things, how they'll come around to get you. Even men will waste no mercy on someone who (pardon my French) screws 'em over. But a good healthy attitude of do-unto-others gets out of control when we start defining "nasty" as including everything that has the remotest possibility of offending someone, somewhere. --like asking a clueless question at a writers' conference. (Hello? Aren't writers' conferences supposed to be for learning? So how do we do that if we don't ask?) --like failing to "dress for success" when it's called for. (Like anyone really knows what that is, or when the instances are. But heaven help you if you actually think that blue jeans can be professional attire, anywhere, at any time.) --like (horror of horrors) daring to say out loud that Suzy Millionseller's latest book was less than stellar, and that you didn't much care for her previous two, either. --like (double horror) saying that the romance genre--or any genre of which you're a part--doesn't always hit a home run. That some books out there are just plain stupid. That some of them are pornographic, in the good old-fashioned sense of the word that we all "know when we see." And that, far from "empowering" women, many of these books set up women to believe that if they just play their physical card effectively enough, they'll "tame" an alpha man and make him their slave. (Yeah, right. Now there's a healthy basis for happy-ever-after.) --or, like (worst horror of all) daring to say out loud that one publisher was willing to pay you more than another, and so--nothing personal--you're jumping ship. Or that Mr. High Powered Agent may be high powered for some people, but he didn't do right by you. Or that you sure wish those royalty statements you get from Major Market Bow Down and Thank Your Lucky Stars Publisher were actually written in a language normal human beings could understand...so you could know for sure if they were really paying you what they're supposed to be paying you. Yes, there will always be stupid people out there in publishing, just like there are stupid people out there in all the other occupations we inhabit. And rude people. And snotty people. And people who walk all over someone else to get to where they're going. Those people deserve whatever they get. The majority of us, however, are not stupid, rude, cruel, snotty, or manipulative. Yet we can be made to feel any of those, or a combination of them, if we start speaking out too loud, too publicly, or too impolitely...by standards that would dismiss most churchwomen as impolite. And that's insanity. The reason authors have no control, quite simply, is because they take none. Because they're convinced it's somehow not "nice" to take the power. Or to ask someone else about it. Or to spread the word when they don't get treated well. I can tell you from this side of the desk, trust me...if you're good enough, and a publisher wants your work, you can ask for a lot of things, and you just might get them. Go for it. See what happens. And off the record, every editor I've ever talked with will tell you the same thing. But I don't know more than a handful of authors who truly believe it. Just as one example--we in romance celebrate that now, authors don't "have to" use a pseudonym at the big houses. Isn't that wonderful? Hardly. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves for not insisting upon it years ago--not celebrating when the publishers were finally "gracious" enough to give us what was ours to begin with. And the fact is, certain authors did always have that right...because they were willing to walk away if it wasn't given to them. In short? Abusive boilerplate contracts, bad royalty statements, sloppy bookkeeping, lack of promotion, or broken promises happen because no one says, "No, I'm sorry, that's not good enough." Or even "Wait a minute." It's because so many of us are so desperate to see our names on the cover of a book...we'll sell out for the proverbial "$1.49 and a kitten." And keep our mouths shut about the rest of it. But that's not just dumb; that's perpetuating a standard of behavior that would be considered bad business behavior in pretty much any other industry, among pretty much any other people. One of the few authors I've ever heard of who had the courage to say "No, thank you, that's simply not enough money," and hung up the phone, not only didn't get blackballed--she got Zebra calling her back in less than three minutes with a better offer. On a first-time contract. Without an agent. It can be done. It has been done. But when someone does it, we write it off as an "exception." As "luck." Or, worse, we react with horror instead of admiration. We diss the author in question, instead of taking a page from his or her book and being unwilling to give up the power we do have--which is the power of having a product that, like it or not, publishers need. If we all said "No" tomorrow, we'd all get better deals the day after tomorrow...because they've got to have product to survive. Yes, we need them to sell it. But they also need us to create it. So what are we so afraid of? Fear is a lousy reason to do anything, especially in our writing careers. Let's screw up our courage, determine what we need and what we're willing to sacrifice, and then stick to our guns. And let's encourage other people to do the same. Who knows? If they're really "always listening," maybe they'll catch on fast! Thoughts? Janny

So what day is it again?

If you are an alum of Gonzaga University… My calendar at home says today is your feast day! But all the online sources say it was last Thursday. Such is the nature of online information versus print versus… Sheesh! In other news, your favorite blogger (me) has been sidelined temporarily due to an extravagant workload in the day gig, as well as some past crises on the home front. Things are relatively calm at the moment, although I'm broke…still waiting on a freelance check. Will write more when time permits! Janny

Be Careful What You Pray For, Final Chapter...

or, That Sinking Feeling It’s been an interesting week. For awhile now, I’ve been in a writing funk, as you all know. Some people would pooh-pooh the idea of a funk if they’ve been able to write blog entries, and there’s something to be said for that. I can write blog stuff, I can write e-mails…I’m not totally blank. But for awhile I’ve been wondering if my day gig has completely wiped out my creative abilities. If I spend so much time fixing other people’s stuff and making sure it’s good to go that when I’m finally at the keyboard to do my own thing…there’s no “thing” left to do. The energy, the spark, and the creative juices are dry, because I’ve poured them out on someone else. It’s always been a thought worth considering. In fact, before I took this gig, I did some hard thinking about it, part of which was debunking and/or getting past the notion of “Those who can’t, edit,” and seeing the move as “selling out” because I couldn’t “make it as a writer.” The reasons for all that being untrue are myriad, and I won’t go into them now. But I sit now in a different chair, with a different perspective from behind the desk…for altogether different reasons. I've run into a couple of incidents at work this week that have left me feeling unsettled, and I'm considering carefully, and yet again, what I decided to do with my life way back when I was ten. That, after all, is when I first read a book about the publishing business and decided I wanted to “do that” when I grew up. “That” being, specifically, being a book editor. Which I am now. But which I’m now wondering about as a choice—if for no other reason than to figure out a better way to apportion my energies so something is left for me. (!) 'Tis a dilemma, to be sure. And I don't doubt that it's contributed at least a little bit to aforementioned writing funk. The only question now is, what's to be done about it. Thoughts? Janny

The View from the Other Side…

…of the desk, that is. The recent discussion on Agent Kristin’s blog about “the client from hell” versus “the dream client”— plus some recent interactions with one of our authors — got me thinking (and you know how dangerous that is). For those of you who wonder what things get under a writer-cum-editor’s skin when she’s wearing the editorial hat…let me give you a few: 1. Forgetting who I work for — namely, the publisher. Yes, putting together a book is a collaborative venture, and ideally, we all get along thick as thieves. But that doesn’t mean that designating me “your editor” equates to “your (personal) employee.” Calling me up and dictating to me the next tasks I need to do for you as if I’m a bloody clerk (!) will only set my teeth on edge. And trust me, you don't want your editor's teeth on edge. 2. Not meeting your deadlines, especially if it happens again and again on the same book. ‘Nuff said. 3. Failing to get required permissions for any use of copyrighted material before you send it in. That means photos, song permissions, and the whole shot. That’s in your contract, and it’s your responsibility. (See #1 above about trying to foist it off on me.) 4. Turning in any work that’s not final-draft quality. If you need four drafts to do your best work, resist the temptation to slide by with your third. Yes, I’m a great editor. No, that doesn’t mean I enjoy rewriting books for people. And no, you are not the exception. 5. Being incommunicado for any length of time at a crucial juncture. This includes when I’ve sent you proofs and I have a deadline for their return; when I have questions that must be answered for text to be correct; when or if you’ve written something that just plain doesn’t make sense. It’s difficult to understand in this day and age why an author wouldn’t have some kind of e-mail service, but if you don’t, please provide an accurate phone number or other means of communication by which we can actually, truly reach you. 5a. Doing any of the above, and then complaining that your book may not come out on time. 6. Thinking that because you bring in tons of money for the company, you have a free pass. Corporate types are willing to bow and scrape if you bring in molto dollars; however, those dollars do not filter down to your editor. I get paid the same thing whether you’re a wonderful, dream author or you’re a pain in the butt, and my editing will be the same high quality regardless. I just ain’t gonna like it nearly as much…and I may find ways not to take on your next project if you become aforementioned pain. Note: #6 applies doubly if you’re anyone who ought to know better. In our particular case, these people are often ordained and/or consecrated clergy and religious…who really ought to know better. Once again, ‘nuff said. Next time…what do I want as an author when I deal with an editor on my stuff? Stay tuned! Janny

A Thousand Pardons!

I have no excuse for such a gap between posts except...a copywriters' seminar on Thursday, housecleaning on Friday, a new assignment from my freelance job, singing in church on Sunday morning, the Memorial Day cooking-out, working on trying to write again, and celebrating my 25th wedding anniversary TODAY. (Or maybe more accurately, tonight, once I'm home from work. ) So other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, I haven't done a danged thing. Talk at you all tomorrow, I dearly hope! Janny

Be Careful What You Pray For, Third Part…or, No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

For years, I’ve enjoyed a certain ability to help people with their writing. I have some skill in editing, some skill in storytelling, a pernicious and truly frightening grasp of spelling and grammar…and I don’t hesitate to use them. But I didn’t come to this spot overnight. And no one does. Which leads me to a few words about an incident I had over the weekend. If you spend enough time online, you get to know people. Their styles. How they work, if they work, if they really care about writing or if they’re just hanging out. Doesn’t take much more than oh, say, three or four excursions into a chat with someone to tell where they are on the Writer Spectrum. Some of us don’t care if we write for anything but our own amazement, and that’s fine. Many times, these people who’ve decided to do this thing for fun are among the happiest of us (!)—but also, curiously enough, they can tend to be the most understanding of the ups and downs of the writing life, and just how hard it can be to make it in this business. Maybe that acute understanding is precisely why they don’t pursue it as a business/career. They know how hard it is, and they don’t want to work that hard. God love ‘em—they do us all a great service with their positive attitudes, their sheer enjoyment, and sometimes their safe shoulders. (Not to mention their occasional chocolate!) Then there are all the rest of us. We want to sell our work, to progress in the craft of writing so that we eventually get a) past the form rejection postcards, into the b) realm of longer notes, encouraging and sometimes even signed by an editor…and inviting us to send something else (!), and finally, c) to a sale. Or many sales (from my keyboard to God’s ears). Those of us in this group are also in a wide spectrum of ability and experience. We’re all over the place. But there are certain things we learn, over time. We learn that our high school English teachers didn’t necessarily know whether we could write. Those who thought we could, and those who told us we couldn’t, are often equally right. It’s what we start doing after high school that ends up counting. :-) We learn that if we’re ever going to grow as writers, someone besides our mothers and best friends needs to read what we do and offer us feedback. We learn that sometimes that feedback isn’t very polite, or doesn’t spare our feelings. If we’re lucky, we learn that our worst “enemies” probably help us grow the most. We learn that sometimes that feedback is just plain wrong, but it’s still worth listening to because it can often point to a potential reader problem. We learn which people in our lives are really good at pinpointing what will improve and strengthen our work, and which of them aren’t really good at that…yet. (This doesn’t mean they might not get good at it. This whole craft is a work in progress.) But above all…we learn that writing is work. Note: this doesn’t mean it’s not fun, or that it need be drudgery, or that it has to somehow “hurt” to be “real art.” Few things are more irritating than hearing either whining about how “hard” the “artist’s life” is, or how now that you’re “serious” about writing, “it’s not fun anymore.” If you’re hurting, see a helper. If it’s not fun, get out of the pool. Sometimes that’s the kindest thing you can do for yourself, not to mention everyone else. But make no mistake about the other side of this, either. Writing is work. It’s hard work. It’s the second-most fun you can have with your clothes on (music is first), but it’s also work. Succeeding in this work takes time. And commitment. And effort. It also takes something the athletes among us know well—something called coachability. And that’s where many people fall down on the job. They simply aren’t coachable. If you tell them their writing needs work, they tell you they’ve done that work. Only problem is, the writing shows no improvement. Which means that somewhere, there’s a disconnect. Somewhere in there, they’re lying to themselves. And that special form of denial is not a good place to spend your writing life. I had an incident over this weekend that illustrates this to a tee. A particular writer acquaintance of mine sent me a message late Saturday night asking for advice/help/etc. We had a long IM conversation, during which I got sent a link to the potential publisher she was thinking of…and then a second link that I thought would take me to another publishing site. Instead, it took me to a chat room where she was hanging out with her friends. Now, keep in mind, this is 11:30 PM and counting. And I’ve been up and on the road that day since 5 AM. I’m in fact in my hotel, winding down after Day One of some family stuff. Good family stuff, but still…tiring. I don’t mind talking writing for a few minutes before I go to bed. And that’s what I thought I was doing…talking one on one with this gal. For a few minutes. Instead, I end up in this room with these people yakking—people who obviously think I’m there for a visit!—and I’m wondering where the focus of the first gal went to. So after pretty much resisting sticking around in the chat room, I exchange a few other words of advice with her, and we call it a night, okay on both sides. Or so I think, until I get home from my trip, boot up my e-mail and discover this woman has written me to tell me that I have done something not even a destructive parent could…I have convinced her she has no talent. So after claiming 50 finished books, she is going to stop. She's going to destroy it all, and stop writing forever, because she obviously is never going to be published, because no one cares for anything she'd want to say. Boys and girls, can you spell overreaction? What had I said to so totally finish her off? That she needed to go back to her synopsis, strip back everything that wasn’t central to her story, and see what she had left. She had gone into numerous side trips, most of which were backstory, and I told her that. I also said something along the lines of, “No one is going to care about your characters unless you give us a reason to. So find those reasons. Tap into those. There’s your story, not all this detail about haunted castles and ghosts and curses and all the other stuff. Latch onto the story.” I had good reason to say this. She had supposedly sent this material to 30 other places, editors and agents, and she couldn’t figure out why none wanted it. So I told her. I wasn’t necessarily gentle about it, but neither was I brutal. I was frank. The way I always am…and most of all, the way this gal knows I am, because she knows me. And I probably was less patient with her than I could have been, had it not been 11:30 PM (when my body thought it was 12:30 AM!), had I not been basically led down the garden path into this chatroom, where I had no intention of being… …and if this whole thing wasn’t just another manifestation of this gal’s lack of ability to take advice and actually use it to improve. You see, she was going to use my editorial services, not too very long ago. She was going to pay for them and everything. (!) As soon as she got a certain check she was waiting on, we were going to go for it. That was December of 2005. She never executed that agreement. Prior to that, she sent me a query letter and synopsis and asked my feedback. I was glad to give it. Only problem was, prior to her getting the feedback, she sent the thing off, flaws and all. And then she was surprised when it was rejected. She has received critiques from many of us, specific, pointed stuff, aimed at helping her get better. Only when she submits her material to us again, supposedly revised…it’s no better. This woman claims that at times she’s spent 12 hours a day at the keyboard. But 12 hours a day at the keyboard is just exercise, and not very good exercise at that, if you can’t discipline yourself to stop believing your friends who say your work is “wonderful” and start believing people who are really trying to help you, even if what they’re telling you will only “slow you down” to put into practice. The fact that those people see the same errors over and over again should tell you something. And that something isn’t that those people are too picky. Nor is it that anyone is saying you have no talent. But raw talent does nothing for you unless you’re willing to be coached. Really willing to be coached. You also need to be willing to take the time to grow. Not to try to force it, to try to adhere to some timetable you have in your head, or the like. Goals are fine, but they take time to get to. And if you're not willing to give yourself and your work that time, you'll only spin your wheels. As my dh and I learned long ago in music school, it’s not just how long you practice. It’s how well. It’s how intelligently. If you claim to want publication, part of that intelligence is a generous dose of humility and patience to go with a work ethic that could shame a Puritan. If you can’t muster up the intelligence, the humility, the patience, the work ethic and give it all time enough to take root, for growth to occur…maybe the answer is that you really do need to quit the "business" end of this and just do it for entertainment. But the one thing you don't have the right to do…is blame someone else for that. Needless to say, I won’t be trying to help this person anymore. That’s a shame, but it’s also freeing. As I said to my own crit partner, “There may be a lot of clueless people in the writing world—but boy, is it nice to know I don’t have to fix ‘em all!” Amen, and amen. Life's too short to play denial games. If you aren't going to run with the big dogs, it's okay to rest on the porch. Just don't project onto other people reasons for decisions you make yourself...either by your conscious effort or by your unwillingness to do the work needed to get to where you say you want to go. Thoughts? Janny

Now if I just knew where New Scagglethorpe is...

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Empress Janet the Surreptitious of New Scagglethorpe Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Why I Love the Marx Brothers, vol. I

...was watching a bit of A Night at the Opera on my daughter's computer (I am a technological baby, and it never ceases to amaze me that we can watch movies on a laptop! Hello!), and came away wondering why it is that I can watch most Marx Brothers movies over and over again, to the point where I know most of the lines...but I still laugh. (Wanna see this in action? Just say “Help is on the way!” at the right time. Trust me on this.) There are a number of reasons for this that have to do with my personality, of course. I just love their brand of humor. I especially love Groucho. (Like, who doesn't love Groucho?). He can set me off with one arch of those classic eyebrows, not to mention the one-liners… Why aren’t people funny like that anymore? You have to wonder. Have we really grown so “sophisticated” as a culture that we can’t appreciate classic Marx Brothers humor? I don’t think so, because the last time I rented this movie from a video store, the guy behind the counter—considerably younger than I—took one look at the title and said, “Ahhh, one of the great ones.” After which we both said, in unison, “The stateroom scene!” I take heart that every new generation seems to rediscover the Marx Brothers, if they’re lucky enough to have smart parents and/or friends who introduce them…although it’s sad that they have to be “introduced” at all to this classic comedy. I mean, we have Comedy Central on cable that’s devoted to nothing but being funny, right? So shouldn’t they be showing those movies as routinely as breathing? They’re not—for reasons that baffle me, if indeed they have any—so it remains to those of us who “know” to introduce the kids to this kind of humor. And it seems to me we’re doing them a service every time we do. Why? Because those were the days when comedy was still fun. Because as double-entendre laden as Groucho’s flirting always was, it never crossed the line of decency. Because Harpo could fall all over a pretty girl—literally—and it was perfectly innocent. Because Chico was free to talk with an accent all the time—a good Jewish boy, faking a hard Italian accent (!)—and no one thought it “ethnically insensitive.” Above all, though, this kind of humor needs to keep being interjected into the marketplace to counter all the crap. Because in those days, they all knew they didn’t really need to use even one word of strong language to make anyone laugh. Because Margaret Dumont, God rest her, was the “straight man” to end all straight men. She didn’t need to use any phony devices to telegraph to you that “this is funny, so you’re supposed to laugh now.” You knew it was funny. You didn’t have to be told. Kids of all ages need to be reminded that you don’t have to say naughty words to be funny. That being funny doesn’t have to happen by means of being cruel to someone else. That “snotty” and “clever” are not the same thing. And that bodily functions cease being a source of humor somewhere before seventh grade, so if you’re still laughing at them… They need to know that before Borat said outrageous things for laughs, Groucho was saying better ones. They’re still better, and they’ll always be better, if for no other reason than you can watch a Marx Brothers movie and not feel like you have to take a shower afterward. Wish I could say the same for most of Comedy Central. Thoughts? Janny

Actually, there really was supposed to be something else here...

...but I couldn't get the code to paste it in right! And yes, it was one of those days. :-) Argh, Janny

Be Careful What You Pray For, Continued

To answer the questions about the career/job/stuff that I mentioned before... all I can say is, the particular thing that popped up and whomped me upside the head may not be as good as it looked to be at first. Long story short, I was reading Publishers Lunch (which as writers you all should, IMHO, if for publishing gossip if nothing else) right after having prayed for something to "shake up" my work life...and in the jobs section was an Associate Editor position at one of the five or so places that I literally would drop everything to join. After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I started buzzing around like crazy. I think I buzzed all afternoon. I was so buzzed I nearly went in and talked to my supervisor along the lines of "I'm looking at this new thing, how bad do youse guys wanna keep me?" This would not have been a great thing to do, but fortunately in my case, neither would it have been the disaster it might have been in other places. :-) Then I reread the job description and started to see red flags. One of them was a heavy emphasis on "direct mail campaigns" and marketing. Another was a mention of "helping editors with correspondence." (Hello? That's an editorial assistant or secretary's job, not an "associate editor's.") Another was mention of the need for proficiency on Microsoft Office software, Outlook, Excel, etc. Now I can tell you something about my job. It's NICE that I know Excel...but I don't need it. I use Outlook for e-mail, which is a piece of cake. I use Word, of course, for the bulk of editing work...which while counterintuitive in so many ways, at least isn't unworkable like so much other software I could mention. But the job description I answered for this position didn't ask about Excel, didn't mention direct mailing, and didn't talk about "assisting" anyone with "correspondence." So I broke down and sent an e-mail to the HR people at this employer, asking for clarification. They can do one of three things. They'll either ignore it entirely because it doesn't have the resume and salary history attached, so they won't even bother to READ it... They'll send me back a form e-mail thanking me for sending my application and telling me they'll only contact me if they want to hear more... Or they'll actually answer the questions I asked. If they do the third one, a) they really are a place I wouldn't mind working at, in that they treat people as human beings... and b) I'll actually have enough information to decide if I want to put in a resume in the first place. I suspect, however, that more likely the first or second will apply. Which, considering I wouldn't even do the job in the first place on anything but a telecommuting/remote/traveling basis anyway, probably means this thing is dead in the water. However, that doesn't mean that God isn't looking to perk up my work life in some OTHER way...something that this could lead me to, or through, to another turn entirely. So keep watching, and waiting....and I'll post if any other lightning strikes my bottle. Janny

A small collection of goodies...

Some wonderful stuff from cyberspace: Danielle Bean, Catholic mom and blogger, tickles the funnybone with this heartfelt question...who ate all the chocolate? I am a great Ann Coulter fan (her occasional off-the-deep-end stuff notwithstanding), and this is reason for hope. And another couple of reasons... And finally, a book that could change your life. It's still working on mine. Results TBA. Other than the fact that I'm a Bulls fan, and therefore, it's not a good day...it's a good day. All we need now is a four-game win streak. (Which if we can do it will make NBA history...which, I think, will fit this young, scrappy team wonderfully.) Surely we can do that against a team we beat three out of four during the regular season? (sigh) More later... Janny

Be Careful What You Pray For!...and some Good News, Indeed

Be careful what you pray for… …you’re liable to get it! 

More on this later, but suffice to say if you pray for something “new and exciting” to happen in your career, as I did yesterday during Mass, be prepared for just about anything to come your way. Some of it will leave you flabbergasted, a little confused, and more than a little dazed...and some of it may require you to do some heavy thinking. As I'm doing. :-) 

And be prepared to test anything that does come along, because Satan’s aware of our prayers, too, and he likes to counterfeit us and/or lead us astray if he can… 

 Meanwhile, there’s great news from the former-Prod side of the fence: another evangelical has found his way home! 

Of course, he's getting a lot of heat for this. As would be expected for a man in a high-profile position. 

And of course, some of the attacks are ridiculously simpleminded; they reflect nothing more in some cases than some very active anti-Catholic prejudices, warmed over and served up yet again. 

There are some very, very tired arguments out there against Catholicism--most of which are based on erroneous impressions, second-hand accounts, or half-truths. 

But the longer many people spend looking into Catholicism, the more they come to love it. And that's ALL good. :-)

Anyway, pray for HIM if you think of it. He'll need lots of us holding him up in prayer. 

And if you think about it, go to his blog and welcome him to the family, just as it suggests in this link. 

More later! Janny

You might want to...

...check these people out. Another market for those of us who write Christian, wholesome, clean, uplifting, positive...and so on, and so forth. They have a couple of contests going which I may be entering, and they are delightful people. :-) Be sure to tell them where you saw this link! http://www.sunpenny.com/index.html Janny

The answer at last!

Now, you really have to love this one...

Janny

Now, This is Cool...and True

...and it has been ever thus.

Hey, it’s not my fault! I come by this honestly. Really.

Ever since OSV’s friend Janet Smith used the phrase “genetically irritable” to describe her cantankerous nature—something I instantly identified with!—I’ve been pondering a question about who I am, and why I’m wired the way I am. The question usually goes along the lines of “Why am I so cantankerous?” Or “Why do I always seem to see things differently than the majority?” Or “Why am I always the one who says ‘the emperor has no clothes on’?” “Why can’t anyone else see this this way???” All these questions, I’ve been asking myself for years, because I have this interpersonal handicap. St. Paul had his thorn in the flesh…I’ve got mine. I don’t “do” group-think well. If a majority of people think something, almost invariably, I believe the opposite. (I’m probably the only person in America who, all through the OJ trial, kept saying, “He’s being framed.” That’s how bad this is.) 99% of the time, I never cared for the #1 hit songs on the hit parade (now, there’s a phrase that’ll date me!). I either liked the “B” side of the record (another phrase that’ll date me)—or I’d heard another cut from the artist that I liked WAY better than the monster hit. Or, a third possibility that occurred more times than I can count: I didn’t even like the artist to begin with. In some cases, “loathe” was not too strong a word. I’ve never watched Survivor. I’ve never watched American Idol. I consider such things a colossal waste of time. I never watched Seinfeld until my kids started watching it in reruns. Same with The Simpsons. And the jury’s still out as to whether either of those, or any of a thousand other hit shows out there, are worth spending time on. Ditto for the majority of movies that come out lately…and I love movies. But there are only so many bathroom or gutter jokes you want to hear when you’re past seventh grade. All that could be dismissed as just my tastes being out of the mainstream. But, oh, if it were only that simple. And if only I still got rewarded for “unique insights” with As on my papers, like I got in grade school and high school and college. But when you grow up, “unique insights” don’t make you friends. You aren’t “unique” anymore…you’re “out of step.” You “just don’t get it,” you don’t “understand,” you “need to loosen up,” or, in the worst case scenarios, you get called nasty names. In rare instances, you get credited for being a “conscience.” I got that a couple of times. It was wonderful. But it’s also lonely. Just ask Jiminy Cricket…we may have to “let our conscience(s) be our guide,” but that doesn’t mean we want to invite them over for drinks after the show. (They probably wouldn’t have liked the show anyway.) So what’s a contrarian to do? My life coach suggested some new ways to think. To try to get myself to understand and appreciate the group dynamics in my writers’ organizations, at work, wherever. To use that steel-trap brain of mine to think ahead about what I’d say and how I’d say it. To tailor my words so that other people are “right,” and I’m only being “helpful.” And I tried, really, I did. I still do. People have no idea how many bite marks there are in my tongue; I spend a lot of time reframing things before they even come out of my mouth. But what comes out, either of mouth or keyboard, invariably still is more contrarian than it is conciliatory. At last, though, I may have an answer for why this is happening. This may not even be a thorn in the flesh…as painful as it is at times. This may, in fact, be exactly what I’ve been called to be from the beginning, and if I start thanking God for it instead of trying to figure out how to “fix” it, there may be exciting things ahead. When did I come to this miracle conclusion? Well, Janet Smith’s tongue-in-cheek label helped. I won’t deny that. But then I realized this goes deeper even than a wry observation about how I’m “wired.” This goes, ladies and gentlemen, clear to my patron saint. Now, before you go running off to see who my patron saint is, I’ll save you the trouble. It’s Bartholomew. Otherwise known as Nathaniel. No, I’m not named either of those things, obviously. But Bartholomew/Nathaniel’s feast day is…my birthday. So in at least one sense, that makes him my patron saint. If I’d just remembered that, and put it together with the account we have of him in Scripture, I would have understood this hard-wiring of mine so much better. Walk back with me in time to the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry, when He’s calling the disciples. He taps Philip on the shoulder and says, “You.” What does Philip do? He runs to get his brother, of course. His brother…Nathaniel. What follows is one of my favorite passages in all of Scripture. For the first thing that Nathaniel says, when he finds out that Philip is so excited about this guy from Nazareth…is contrary. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” In that passage, that's pretty much a rhetorical question. It’s supposed to wake Philip up. Give him a whomp upside the head and tell him, “You ninny. That can’t be the guy.” (Or…”You ninny. The emperor’s still naked.”) I’ll leave you to rummage into the second chapter of John’s Gospel and read the rest for yourself, but I never fail to chuckle when I read those words. Because I’m right there with Nathaniel. I’m the one saying, “Wait a minute. Are we sure this guy’s for real? What did he say that convinced you? Who told you? How do you know?” And, blessedly, I’m also right there when Jesus looks at the contrarian and says, “You are without guile.” Jesus knows me. He knows what you see…is what you get. With Nathaniel, and with me. So, you see, I come by this whole thing honestly. It’s straight from Scripture, from my patron saint. And it’s not a flaw. It’s not a thorn. And I can stop trying to correct it. I can thank God for it. I can rejoice in being a contrarian…and see what happens next. Because the very thing I may have been looking at as a flaw, as a personality fault, or as a burden, may in fact be something else entirely. It may have been a birthday gift that, until now, I was too blind to see for what it is. It may be something truly special. Something that, now that I’m changing course and considering it a blessing…may turn out to be something so powerful it'll knock my contrarian socks off. How about you? Does this ring any bells? What “gifts” might you have…in disguise? Looking forward to unwrapping things further, Janny

Supporting Each Other…or...Not

Was perusing the blogosphere today and came across this on the BookEnds blog: http://bookendslitagency.blogspot.com/2007/04/writers-revenge.html …and read the comments. And was dismayed. But, sadder still, wasn’t shocked. Or surprised. Being discussed was the issue of writers who pick on each other, undermine each other, snipe at each other, turn on each other…etc. What you might call your garden variety of “Writers Behaving Badly.” And it seems everybody’s got a tale to tell in this regard. Some of them were legitimately brutal. Some of the perpetrators would deserve nothing more than to be kicked out of the creative writing realm and barred forever from any contact with students, mentorees, or even fellow writers. But then again, others fall into a gray area. The gray area of “What I consider legitimate criticism, or merely a business decision, you could think is abuse and bad behavior.” Or, worse, “What you consider bad behavior isn’t bad…it just didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear.” I’ve been on at least one person’s “Writers Behaving Badly” list in the past year. And I didn’t snipe at anyone to get there. I didn’t undermine a single other soul to get there. I didn’t pick on anyone. All I did was express a belief I had. A belief that, in my professional organization, as well as in the writing world in general, apparently isn’t “okay” to hold. Because I did that, according to many, many posters, the best thing that could have happened to me was pretty much unprintable. I’ve also had people jump down my throat for a legitimate critique after claiming that’s what they wanted. I’ve had people tell me, “My creative writing teacher says it’s fine not to punctuate anything or capitalize anything. That’s my voice.” (Answer to that one? Your creative writing teacher might be an incompetent idiot.) Or, “All the _______ (you name the genre) books I see have this in them, so why can’t I do it, too?” (Answer to that one? You did it, all right, but you didn’t do it well yet, and I’m trying to help you do so.) Or, “How dare you tell me this isn’t good enough to get published? Big Name Vanity Publishing Company (or Small Penniless Press) says I’m the next shining star!” (Answer to that one? Follow the money. ‘Nuff said.) So consider this a cautionary note from one side of the trench…not to necessarily jump onto a bandwagon too fast when you’ve only heard one side of the “crit groups stink” or “only readers count, other writers are just jealous” sentiments. For every person who knows how to take legitimate criticism and work with it, there are a hundred who think you’re being “mean” or “dumb” or “arrogant.” And you’ll get labeled that way…and talked about that way…and sometimes, that kind of talk can hurt your career. It can certainly hurt feelings. Which is what some of these complainers forget: that the people they at times take such pleasure in vilifying are also human beings, with feelings, and with the same desire to succeed, and to look good doing it, that they have. Yes, protect yourself. Yes, have the guts to stand up to an abuser and tell him or her to take a long walk off the nearest short pier. But don’t let a few bad, rotten apples in the field scare you off letting anyone see your work, critique it, edit it, or brainstorm it with you. No one knows how to improve a writer like another writer. If you want undiluted praise, give your stuff to your friends. If you want to improve, however, odds are much better of doing so if you share it with another writer and mutually learn from the experience. My take, Janny

Serendipitous Sadness

I always hate it when I go to look up a musician…and find out he’s no longer with us. At first that sounds a little weird, I know. If I was such a fan of the person, wouldn’t I already know that? Not necessarily. Sometimes you lose touch, for one reason or another. The band breaks up, the artists fall off the horizon temporarily, they go into realms of music I’m not particularly interested in, yatta, yatta. We get busy, we move on, and then…sometimes…we get a jolt. My two latest ones have come online. I have to admit, I still don’t always think in terms of any of my favorite artists having online presences. I’m still in the dark ages when it comes to flitting around the cyberworld, in many ways, one of them being searching for people. It always feels vaguely like a violation of someone’s privacy to go clicking on links with their name to see what the sites look like. (I know, “Get over it.” Not to worry. I am.) Anyway, sometimes you go looking for things and find out other things that you wish you hadn’t learned. I found out about the death of Johnny Cunningham (Celtic fiddler extraordinaire) while doing a Google search, down various avenues, looking for Silly Wizard CDs. For those of you who don’t know who Silly Wizard was, you’ve missed one of the great musical experiences of all time. Fortunately, you can still hear it, as most of the Silly Wizard CDs are available through normal channels (except, of course, their best one, A GLINT OF SILVER, which when I last saw it online was going for something like $75!). Anyhow, in efforts to find AGOS in something other than pricey mode, I started entering Google searches of band members’ names—sometimes, you can come at these things through a back door—and learned, to my dismay, that Johnny had been felled by a heart attack not too very long ago. I blinked back a tear and said a prayer for him, and I dearly hope that when I enter heaven, I have a certain wild-eyed Celtic fiddler on hand to greet me. That will truly make heaven even more heavenly. But this week, I got another one of those jolts. One a little closer to home. If you know me for any amount of time at all, eventually you learn that I was, am, and probably always will be one of many truly die-hard, hardcore Cryan’ Shames fans. They were the only band I ever went to see more than, say, twice. (!) They were the band of my teenage years, and extra special in that not only were they a fabulous bunch of musicians, but they were from the Chicago suburbs…some of which I rode through on a regular basis. Remember those wonderful teenybopper days when just being within the same general air space as your idols made your day? Well…I can attest to many wonderful days being within these guys’ general air space. Yeah, I made a fool of myself over them more than once. And of course, I had a major crush on at least one of the guys in the band…that went with the territory. Bands and crushes went together, especially for a girl with a big brother who played in a series of garage bands himself, and thus paraded a motley group of guys in and out of the house in front of his baby sister anyway. My crush was on a certain bass player. Not one of the original guys, by the way—one who joined them after their first hit album had come out, when they went through a slight personnel shift. This guy played lead guitar, but he wasn’t averse to playing bass, and the band was smart enough to sign him on. That’s how Isaac Guillory came into my favorite band and into my life. Okay, “into my life” is an overstatement, maybe. He never knew I existed. But I sure knew he did. Tall, dark, handsome, and a virtuoso musician—what else could I ask for? And if he had tweaked one little finger in my direction when I was, say, 17 or so…who knows how differently my life might have turned out. (Makes my heart feel like a teenybopper’s just thinking about it!) Suffice to say for a couple of golden years in there, I was in pretty much teenybopper heaven any time I could go see the band, stand stage right (where the bass player normally set up) and watch him work. It gave me a pure joy that I’ve never quite gotten over. When I say pure joy, I mean just that. There’s an element of female who hangs around rock-band concerts looking for something else entirely; that wasn’t me. In fact, the very thought that those girls who hung around with the band didn’t care about the music—they were just after…er—that—horrified me. (The fact that guys in a band were usually looking for girls who were after that was one of the great disillusionments of my teenage years as well.) Call me naïve, but I really thought all those girls were there for the music. I certainly was. If it came wrapped up in a great package, all the better. But I wasn’t drooling over this guy because I wanted to notch a bedpost with him. I have a literally visceral reaction to music, and that’s all the high I needed at that point. I loved to watch those long fingers of his play bass as if it were another melodic element in the band, instead of just being continuo…and the fact that he was easy on the eyes only made life better. Well, you know what’s coming. Once again, I was doing a search—not even sure why, this time. His name had just popped into my head, and I began wondering what had ever happened to the guy once the Shames called it quits as a regular playing/touring gig. I caught up with him once on a Donovan album, which was singularly underwhelming; that’s because overall Donovan is underwhelming anyway. But Isaac? Isaac, unfortunately, is no longer with us either. This time, felled by cancer that “had gone undetected for too long.” Apparently, this happened on New Year’s Eve of 2000. One can only imagine, and feel for, that suffering. But as far as legacies go, if that counts, the man left a staggering one. A wife, four children, and—even better, as far as us musicians go—an array of Google sites that unhesitatingly called him the best guitar player on the planet. So not only was the guy good-looking…apparently he really was as talented as I thought he was. Which is an affirmation of sorts, even in the sadness of wishing I’d have had a chance to hear him in one of his later guitar concerts before the axe fell. Apparently, they were truly special. I know he was. And I’ll miss him. I can only hope he’s playing accompaniment with Johnny even now, rehearsing for when I get there. (Hang in there, fellas. There’s a soprano in your future.) R.I.P., Isaac. And thanks for all you were. Janny

Was Jesus Ticklish?

Yanno, maybe this seems like an odd question to ask in Holy Week. But every once in awhile, I get to thinking about weird questions like this, and I think it’s a unique meditation in itself to give yourself a chance to think about it. 

In my personal files on the computer at work, I have some precious and wonderful pictures of Jesus laughing. Someone sent me one of those a long time ago, and I couldn’t resist going to the website where more are featured and just drinking them in. I especially loved the ones where Jesus is clearly teasing people, especially kids, and having fun with them. It’s a side of Jesus we don’t think about too much, but I think we could stand to. 

I do acknowledge and agree that when I see Jesus with my own eyes for the first time, as He is, I will not “teach Him to dance” or sing or shout or cheer (no, not even “Go Blue!”). I’ll be dumbstruck, as well I should be. I have a feeling that that first lightning-glance of Him will be something so terrifically wonderful that it’ll rob me of any capacity for speech. Hard to imagine as that may be, I really think it will. (!) 

But while we’re here on earth, it’s also not a bad idea to keep remembering that He was one of us. 

I have seen other speculation in other places, curiosity about how He lived as a human being. And there are some patently ridiculous superstitions out there under the guide of “reverence” that, were they not completely silly, might be utterly tragic. 

There’s one slice of devout Christians who actually, truly believe that Jesus’ life was earthly…but not really. They believe, for example, that Jesus’ clothes grew with Him. So Mary made the one outfit, maybe when he was walking, and it just kept growing. She never had to make more clothes again. (At that, I can hear Mary, in her best Jewish-mother voice, saying, “WHAT!?”) 

Some people don’t go so far as to attribute magical/miraculous qualities to His clothes, but they attribute them more to His person. As in…Jesus didn’t sweat. Or get acne. Or get dirty. Or skin His knee. Or fall out of a tree. Or spill, break, or mishandle anything. He didn’t go through the adolescent-boy stages of not being able to walk through a room without knocking things over. And heaven knows He didn’t have to put up with His voice squeaking at puberty. He lived a human existence…only not quite so gritty, up close and personal. Less messy. To which I would say, in my best Jewish-mother voice, “Horsefeathers!” 

I believe in a Jesus whose clothes got dirty, who outgrew His sandals, and who probably—yes—even got acne. I believe in a Jesus who knew what it felt like to have a tummy bug. I believe in a Jesus whose eyes watered in bright sun—and who even got sunburn. A Jesus who was chilled when the desert winds blew cold. Who got splinters, especially in His line of work, and knew how to dispatch an unwanted insect or snake from the house if Mom needed that done. Who got sore feet, even blisters, maybe, from walking all those rough roads. And—in my blatantly realistic moments—I find myself wondering why He came in an age and area of the world where there wasn’t even indoor plumbing. 

But I also believe in a Jesus who knew how to party. Heck, He had to have been fun to be around. How else would He have been at Cana, not to mention all those tax collectors’ houses for dinner? He had to be an “ordinary guy” in many ways—a carpenter’s son who knew how to mingle with the working people in the neighborhood. 

What did people fix for dinner when Jesus was coming? 

What were His favorite foods? 

What after-dinner games did they play in His day? (The image of Jesus playing charades is something worth contemplating in itself.) 

Did He help with the dishes? 

What kind of sense of humor did He have? Did He love puns or slapstick? 

Did He make plays on words? (I’d bet He did, considering how many of them there are in Scripture.) 

What tickled His funny bone? For that matter, what tickled Him? 

Maybe thinking about Jesus this way isn’t important. Maybe only picturing him as an infant, an itinerant preacher, and a Savior died and risen is all that’s important. But I don’t think so. 

We can certainly consign Jesus to a “human” experience that’s more ethereal than real. Some of us consider that Jesus’ humanity is best seen in those poor, wretched, ill, imprisoned, hungry, cold, thirsty, and naked among us…and we react accordingly. And there’s nothing wrong with that. 

But in our zeal to minister to Jesus as He appears indirectly, let’s not forget that He really was, directly, one of us. Personally. 

Human, in all its dirt and “ouchies” and irritating moments. 

Think of what a wonder that is! In the history of religions as we know them, this was, and remains, an act unprecedented in its impact. It’s actually considered sacrilege in many faiths to believe in a God made man. Yet we have Him. Like us, in all things but sin. 

All things. 

Which means that, as we sing Alleluias this Easter, we need to listen in between for Jesus’ voice joining in.

For His cheering us on in our delighting in Him. 

That will tickle Him, for sure. 

So if we listen close, we just might hear His laughter. 

It’ll be there. 

Count on it. 

Janny

Keeping the Fire, Making the Magic

It’s been an interesting several weeks (months?) in the writing life, and your comments and observations about the “non-competitive life” post have been encouraging. The consensus seems to be that one keeps on because one never knows what effect one’s work is having on the greater world. This seems at first to be a little grandiose, to say the least. I mean, whom do we really think we are, anyway? Are we really going to change the world with our words? Are we really touching anybody? The obvious answer may not be the most accurate one. Because on the surface, it seems like we’re not getting very far, whether we’re writing away and collecting rejection letters, or singing away and not getting solos. The kicker is, the more lasting effect we may be having, we can’t see. At least not obviously. But we may be able to “see” it, or at least grasp some of it, if we reflect for long enough. Now, I’m not talking about the eternal effect of what we’re doing. It’s a given that if we’re Christians, and we’re trying to do our lives to the glory of God, we’re going to have at least some lasting treasure accumulated in a heavenly bank account, and I for one plan to write checks on that with glee when the time comes to cash in. It's the temporal effect I'm talking about. Sometimes we can’t see that effect, because all we can see are the ways in which we haven’t “made it.” But the bottom line is, everything we do affects someone in some way. For proof, all we have to do is think about ourselves, and how we got into writing in the first place. Wasn’t it because someone wrote something that meant something to us? Wasn’t it, sometimes, because we had stories to tell—but it took someone special to “give us permission” to tell them on paper? Wasn’t it because someone in our academic world, our friendships, or our families—or all of the above—said to us one day, “You know, you really ought to be a writer"? That’s the temporal effect we’re having, whether we realize it or not. If we put any writing out there in public…if we lay ourselves and our aspirations out there for the world to see…if we counsel, mentor, guide, or edit one other writer along the way…we’re having a temporal effect, and it’s a good one. That, too, shall count toward the heavenly checkbook. (Yippeee!) But it’s nice to consider that it also counts here on earth. And while we may not have thousands of people applauding us for those efforts…someone, somewhere, is benefiting from them.And they’re passing it on. And so on. And so on. Mind-boggling, isn’t it? Whenever I coach a school musical (of which I’ve done a few), or a performance of any kind, I always try to put into my pep talk the following sentiment: Remember when you go out there that not everybody can do what you’re about to do. Very few people can put themselves on the line the way you’re going to. They either don’t have the talent, or they don’t have the courage. You have both, and that’s why you’re going out there. But remember, most of all, that somewhere in that audience is a kid who’s never been to a live performance of this kind before. A kid who’s going to sit there and watch and listen to you…and be enthralled. A kid who’s going to come out of this performance this day saying, "I wanna do THAT!" Someone did that for you, and that’s why you’re here today. So when you go out there today…remember that kid. Perform for that kid. Make magic for that kid. In the end, that’s all that matters. So make the magic, as only you can. Someday, someone else will be where you are now, eternally glad you did. I think if we could all give ourselves that pep talk, preferably on a daily basis (!)…it’d make the rest of this feel a lot better. I’m going to try to remember it myself, and I hope you can, too. Now, let’s go make magic happen! Janny

Now, this is fun!

What Poetry Form Are You?

I am heroic couplets; most precise And fond of order. Planned and structured. Nice. I know, of course, just what I want; I know, As well, what I will do to make it so. This doesn't mean that I attempt to shun Excitement, entertainment, pleasure, fun; But they must keep their place, like all the rest; They might be good, but ordered life is best.

Experience the fun for yourself...

Janny

Just another ordinary day in the workplace...

What's It Like?* (*the noncompetitive life, that is)

Yesterday I was e-mailing an associate when I came out with the thought: You know, I spend more than half my waking hours teetering on one edge of rejection or the other. What do people's lives look like who don't compete for anything? Would I even know how to live a life like that? And it started me thinking. Especially since I sang an audition last night and didn’t get the solo. Not that I haven’t been through this gut-wrenching experience before. Heck, if I’ve been through it once, I’ve been through it dozens of times. It’s part and parcel of a business like music…or writing. But at what point do you say enough is enough and stop trying so hard? Or is it ever a good idea to stop? And then what does your life look like when you do? I have to confess: I don’t know what that kind of life would look like anymore. I’m not even sure I can wrap my mind around it, because I have lived my whole life, in one sense, on the edge. No, I don’t do daredevil stunts (well, okay, I like rollercoasters)…I don’t spend 18 hours in an operating room fixing things that other people consider incurable…I didn’t embed myself in a war zone to be on the “front lines” of any particular battle. In short, in a way, I don’t “do” anything dangerous. But in a bigger sense, “dangerous” has many forms. Emotionally, I’ve been in a danger zone for most of my life. Some of that wasn’t of my own making…but in the realm of competitive professional “chances” I continue to take—it is. I put myself on the line on a regular basis, doing two things most people will never do: I sing in public, and I submit writing for publication. And the great majority of the time, those to whom I am submitting or auditioning for a “step up” say NO. There are gigs where you have an assured route to success in both of those endeavors, of course. If you go to journalism school, and you’re reasonably coherent, you will probably be able to latch onto some small newspaper, broadcast outlet, or (now) a web site, and work your way up the “ranks” in the field. Sometimes, with a few breaks, the jobs start coming looking for you; that’s the best place to be. Same goes for music…to a point. You go to a good school, you study with good teachers (this kind of element is much more important in music than in journalism, from what I’ve seen), you sing or perform with certain performing bodies…and you get a gig. Or two. Or a dozen. And then, once again, the gigs come looking for you. There’s also a difference between wanting to be a success at something and wanting to be the BEST. Wanting to stand out. To be a star. And, with the amount of talent I’ve been given, I feel I owe it to God, to myself, and to the world, to get to darn near that last level. Not worldwide fame, necessarily—but substantial achievement. From whom much is given, much will be required. But in both the fields of singing, which I am in, and novel writing, which I’m also in, the gigs that come looking for you are way fewer and farther between…and stardom is almost statistically impossible. Yet I feel I have to try to get there. And that’s what turns this into agony at times. That’s what makes one wake up, look in the mirror, and say, “What in the world am I doing to myself?” You see, sometimes, you do everything right, and the right things still don’t happen. Or they happen in small ways, but you never “get over the hump” and get the Big Success. You keep giving yourself pep talks, you keep trying, you keep chanting to yourself that it’s a “numbers game,” and the odds will eventually be in your favor… …but this goes on for years. Then decades. And the odds never change. You never quite get to that real success, as you’ve defined it. You never get to that point where you feel you “should” be, where you “ought to” be, where you’ll have given all you have and “the universe” will have rewarded it. Then what do you do? When is it time to step off the edge? To back away from it? To stop deliberately putting yourself through those highs and lows? Some people say if you’re in the highs and lows in the first place, you’re going at the thing wrong. That it truly is, simply, numbers. Or it’s “who you know” (or, in the case of music, more likely “who knows you”). Or it’s dependent on things you can’t possibly control (which it is), so just keep showing up. But when does “showing up” become an embarrassment to you and to others? What’s the point at which people stop admiring your persistence, and just wish you’d go away? When have you moved from “persistent” to pathetic? I, for one, am tired of moving through life with a figurative hat in my hand. “Please, sir, may I have some more?” I’m tired of trying to act “professional” and cool as my heart gets broken…again. I’m starting to wonder if I’m fooling myself about the level of talent I actually possess. But most of all, I’m scared. Scared on one hand that if I stop, I’ll have come up the proverbial “one step short” and “just miss it.” Most of us have had that drilled into our skulls so much that it’s part of our marrow now. We can’t quit, even if we’re tempted to, because we’re haunted by the image of stopping just short of the pot of gold. And I’m scared on the other hand that reality, and age, will finally catch up with me…and I’ll run out of “one more steps” to take. In the case of singing, your body’s ability to produce beautiful sound DOES eventually take a hit. If you have excellent training, which I did, that hit doesn’t have to happen too early. But it does happen. It will happen. Even I had excellent training a little late in life. So my breaking point may come that much earlier. On the writing front, obviously, the same physical limitations don’t apply. But once again, the rigors of repeated trying and failing take their toll on one’s creative spirit. Eventually, one starts to go from “wow, this is a great idea” to “well, maybe it’ll fly.” The passion leaves. The fire is gone, and you lack the flint to start it up again. I’m starting to wonder if my breaking point, in both areas, is coming already. Or has come, and no one’s had the heart to tell me. And if I’m moving into that “pathetic” realm, and just don’t know it. The feedback I’m getting on the quality of what I do—in both worlds—doesn’t say so. But the gigs I’m not getting are telling a different story. The question is…what do I do if I stop competing? What becomes of my talent? Have I let everyone in the world, including God, down? What’s next? Ideas? Janny