Lack of Self

October 20, 2014 / Lisa / 4 Comments

I’ve been invited to join authors at a local library event.

The result? Immediate self-doubt, the sense of not belonging, of not being good enough, and an immediate need to run to my favorite author/source of support for such events, Susan Schreyer, for hand holding while I wipe my sweaty brow and shake in my shoes.

The thing is, once the event happens, I’m fine. I have no stage fright, I have no problem speaking to crowds, I love doing this kind of stuff, and I have a blast.

It’s just the weeks leading up to it that’s horrible.

Here’s a prime example. We’ve been asked to provide questions we’d like to be asked, random facts about ourselves, and questions for the other authors. For random facts about ourselves, I submitted the earth shattering news that I once tried sandpaper to get rid of freckles after uncles told me freckles came from walking too close behind cows. I sent in my responses, then read what others submitted and wallow in self recrimination because theirs seem so well thought out, so ‘real author’ like.

And when I look at their author photos, they all look so professional. Then there’s me with those freckles that didn’t give way to sandpaper.

I absolutely detest those days leading up to an event. I even find it hard to write because I feel like a fraud. I don’t belong. I’m not a real author. All those horrible negatives that creep in. And let me tell you, it’s not just a looming event that make me fall victim to that nasty inner critic. It doesn’t take much at all, especially when I sit down to write, to bring up that weight of ‘I’m not good enough’. I know the thoughts are stupid, I know I’m not as bad as I think I am, but I can never escape that little voice saying ‘maybe you are’.

All this means that for the next couple weeks I’m going to be full of doubt, resisting the urge to moan my fate to Susan, struggling to string words together, and generally miserable. Then I’ll go to the library and have a blast and come home castigating myself for once again being a fool. I’ll feel empowered, enthusiastic, and impatient to write. Until another invitation comes in.

So what makes the difference? What makes me recognize the beauty of writing, the excitement of telling a story? What makes me react so differently?

Being around writers and readers. Having an environment of those who thrill to the power of a new book, a new tale to read, a new challenge to write. Even doing an edit job for someone else gives me that sense of enthusiasm to jump back into writing. I don’t think of it as a support system because, to me, a support system means a close group of regulars. I have that, in Susan and close friends (you know who you are) who are always there. What I’m talking about here is something different. I can go to those friends and know they are going to shore me up. But being around writers and readers isn’t a shoring up, it’s a sharing of something mutual. Those people don’t know me, the enthusiasm doesn’t come from loving me, it comes from loving the same thing. Does that make sense?

Between now and The Event I’m going to struggle to write every single word in my work in progress. But I know in a couple of weeks, that same work in progress is going to be inundated.

How silly we are sometimes.

November 2nd, 2:00 – 3:00, Snohomish WA library. Come share the enthusiasm.

Confession

October 15, 2014December 22, 2014 / Lisa / 2 Comments

I have a fascination with obituaries. No, this isn’t a Halloween post. I go to newspapers online and read them regularly. Having grown up in the area, I recognize old family names and sometimes even the person. Sadly sometimes this has been the only way I’ve learned of the death of someone I knew.

Here are the things that fascinate me though.

The names. Obituaries run the whole gamut from plain John Doe to multi-hyphenated, multi-cultural, multi-syllable names. I’ll see a beautiful, unique name for a woman who died in her late 90s and wonder what the story was, how she got such an unusual name for the time period of her birth, what her parents were thinking, how much she was teased or envied in school. And what she thought. Did she wish for a change, was she proud or embarrassed?

The photos. Sometimes I wonder which family member was allowed to pick the obituary photo out. Some make me imagine the result was a huge knock-down all-out fight in the funeral home. Photos of an elderly person who died are rarely current, but most often of their early days. Why? Was someone ashamed of wrinkles? Photos of elderly people looking every inch their age, and every inch proud of it. The kind of old person you’d want to hang out with. Photos of young people that are heartbreaking – those hopeful expressions looking out on a whole life ahead of them.

The wording. A while back there was an obituary flying around social media that had been written by an elderly man before he died. Wish I could find that again as it was honest and hilarious. Some obituaries are stilted as if from a funeral home template. Someone just filled in the blanks. Some make the person sound so wonderful, kind, and perfect, that you want to gag. I’m sure, when reading those, that either the family member was severely biased or seriously hiding some deep dark secret. A secret I now want to know.

And finally, my greatest source of frustration: the cause of death. I see this person’s photo, I read their name, I read the testimony. I now feel connected in a small way. But I have no idea how they died. The story is incomplete. When the person is elderly you can assume simply old age. Although I remember the shock reading the obituary of a 89-year-old woman’s death from base jumping. I’m sure the family listed that cause of death out of pride. And rightly so.

Another place where the cause is rarely listed.

When the piece, though, says ‘died unexpectedly’ I’m lost. Sometimes the obituary will say that in lieu of gifts donations can be made to a cancer society, or a mental health agency, and I have the clue I need to fill in that lost feeling. But it’s like reading a story with no ending. And then I find myself wondering, what’s the big secret? Was the person killed in an act of violence? An act of stupidity? An act of futility? I start imagining scenarios that might match the name, age, and photo. Heart attacks, fishing accidents, drug deals gone wrong, a sad, long illness, and so on.

And I don’t want something basic, like ‘died of a sudden heart attack’. I want something like ‘Died of a heart attack while climbing Mt. Ranier’. When there are no details I imagine the cause being ‘Died of a heart attack while eating a king size candy bar sitting in front of the TV.’ An obvious reason not to post the cause for the whole world to see.

I think what the fascination boils down to is reading tiny short stories. Little snippets of someone’s life. I end up with a brief moment of connection, empathy, loss for having never known the person, and loss that the stranger is now gone from the world.

And I end up with no end.

What’s the story of this rather creepy angel?

Cave Life

September 29, 2014December 22, 2014 / Lisa / 6 Comments

Elizabeth Peters once wrote that there was something about a pair of hairy legs next to you in bed, even if they were attached to someone completely useless.

Last week there was a discussion between myself, another woman, and a couple guys in uniform, about why so many women like men in uniforms. The person I was with said it was because the men represented safety, someone who knew what to do in an emergency and could take care of you when zombies attacked. I said it was because I coveted their guns.

Another woman, a while back, told me she thought my husband was ‘hot’ because he looked like the type who would know what to do when ‘the world went to shit’.

All of this has made me think about something other than writing. Such as:

Hey, I know what to do when the world goes to shit. I know what to do in an emergency. I might be terrified, but I know what to do. In most emergencies. I admit to not knowing how to replace a transmission in a car.

The kid.

But hey, I got ‘Firefighter of the Year’ once. My pantry is stocked. I can bake bread. I know how to shoot. I may not be able to hit much, but that’s why I have a shotgun.

But if I’m honest, I do feel safer when Art is around. More secure. I do trust him completely to hold it all together. He told me once on a fire I was nervous about, that I was his highest priority. I asked him how he’d tell me apart from everyone else in bunker gear. His response – he’d look for the shortest firefighter.

I am not someone who believes women are helpless little women, and I dislike it when women think that. One of the stupidest things I heard a woman say, during a boat fire at Disneyland, was ‘I don’t know what to do, I’m a woman!’. Seriously. She said that. While the boat’s engine belched smoke and the boat was full of children. While she was the tour guide responsible for those children that she ran right by to get to the far end of the boat. My husband put the fire out.

So if I feel self-sufficient and capable, why is there still that tiny piece of me that wants the scruffy guy to save the day? I mean, I don’t even read romance novels. And obviously there are a lot of women who think the same way, even if we are ashamed to admit it. Look at the post-apocalyptic movies out there. How many have women saving the world? I wish there were a few more.

Is it some sort of inherited genetic programming from cave-man days when reliance on the hunter meant survival? I’ve read that the male who could guarantee survival of offspring was the preferred one.

Is it that women are not as independent as we think we are? I refuse to admit that. Not only because I don’t think it’s true, and for reasons above, but also because there are plenty of guys out there who wouldn’t have a clue how to fish.

I don’t get it. I can stand on my own two feet, but admit to admiring a man in a uniform. Heck, I’ll admit publicly to admiring scruffy men no matter what they’re wearing. Just like I admire a nice looking truck when it goes by.

Seriously though, I wonder what the reason is. My personal opinion is that this has nothing to do with gender or uniforms. I think it has to do with companionship, a sharing of responsibility, a person to take away our fear and tell us it’s all going to be okay. A deep-seated desire to not face life alone.

What are your thoughts?