The difference is I shall live.
Logically, I know this surgery is common now. This doctor has been doing it for years and years, but for me it is TERRIFYING. There are a million things to do to get ready: a house to clean, affairs to put in order.
But today I’m just terrified.
I feel dizzy–am accomplishing nothing.
Pretty lame I know, but at the same time, I have posted on days when I felt brave. There have been days when I just cried, but still didn’t feel this fear. I certainly didn’t tell you about it.
Would it be honest if I didn’t post when I feel like a coward?
I recently was ordered not to drive. With extreme vertigo, my sitting at the wheel is more an act of terrrorism than transportation. My friends and coworkers already have put out so much support that I have chosen, as much as possible, not to bother them about rides to work. After all, I’ve ridden public transport in about 10 countries, this small-town bus service should pose no problem. Takes 20 minutes to drive from one end of town to the other.
Actually riding the bus is a different story. I checked the schedule, wrote down my transfer point and times … and waited. The first day, the transfer bus never came. I ended up walking over 3 miles to arrive at work 10 minutes late. The second day, I picked a different combination of buses that left me waiting at the transfer point for over an hour, then waved down my original bus when it passed again. He called the transfer driver who went off route to pick me up.
The bus schedule in our small city is a mystery novel.
In actuality, the driver goes to Stop A early for one regular, he waits 5 extra minutes at Stop B for another to get off work. They don’t slow or stop when they get ahead of schedule. It’s no wonder that the low income people of this town don’t take the transit bus.
When I contacted the city director of transit, his solution was to call the dispatch office when I go to a bus stop. They will make sure I eventually get picked up.
–and all I was thinking was how can I use this in my fiction.
Not just the physical bus never arriving, but the feeling of helplessness as I stood at he transfer point, the feeling of power gleaned from walking because, “Sir, I would rather walk and make myself late tan pay you another dollar to do so.”
Anger, drama, frustration and embarrassment. Fun elements for fiction.
Since its opening while I lived in the neighborhood, The Menil Collection has held a very special place in my heart. Impossible to convey in photos, the gallery itself is master work of vision. I love wandering around the porches outside, meandering through the exhibit halls.
So I’m especially honored to be featured at their upcoming literary show, The Houston Indie Book Fest.
I will be presenting a workshop at 11am on “Seven Steps to Bring Your “Finished” Book to a Publisher. The focus is on making your book the very best it can be, from understanding relevance to pitching in the right places.
I hope you will tell everyone you know to drop by, especially by 11am. I will give away one autographed copy of DISTORTION at the beginning of the workshop. uh, Yes, you have to be present to win.
But we’ll all be winners, sharing a warm day of art and words at my fave inspirational mecca. See you there!
Posting for my b-day: I guess at fifty, I’m supposed to be a successful, responsible adult with the big house, the fast car, and maybe even a younger lover on the side–isn’t that the stereotype? Instead I’m a fledgeling author who regularly forgets something “important.” I do share a small house with a younger man,(by six whole months!) who I married over 20 years ago–he was younger back then too. And we currently share a boxy Honda. My station wagon died before me; perhaps a good omen?
Round birthdays lead to square self examinations, except maybe I don’t feel the need just now. I’m kinda satisfied, sorry.
Sure, maybe it would have been nice to know what I know now–at say 25 years of age … Or would it? Mistakes have made my life, tragedies have defined it. I needed to hit the dirt now and then to force me back in line. Otherwise, I start to get cocky and full of myself.
Earlier this week, I got a present from Mother Nature, a brain tumor, benign one. So what am I supposed to do, lay down and get depressed? I refuse. Face it, loads of people have cancer, Leukemia–I pray for my cousin with lupus every day. Sure I prepped for this birthday by working out and losing some weight, but perhaps this “gift” is just one more reminder to stay humble, to look around me. Like most people on a health kick, I had started to pressure my husband and friends–because I love ‘em. Still, that’s fricking annoying.
I confess that when I first got the news I spent a day laying around feeling sorry for myself. I stopped writing, felt too much shock to imagine the scenes of my plot. Now thanks to friends locally and online, I’m ready to face this as just one little obstacle. My husband has blessed us with great insurance, my doctor shared a great specialist.
At fifty years of age, I’m still growing up. My second book is in the works, my little, messy house presents fewer complications than a big one, my Honda uses less gas than a Bugatti, and my younger man will not cheat on me, never has, as I will never cheat on him. Not very exciting, but it’s worth a lot. So is knowing the world doesn’t revolve around me, but I have the power to impact it.
I’m looking forward to each new minute, hour, day. Hope you are too.
I’ve had a ball this weekend researching things like “curtain motion detection,” glass-breakage alarms, and the debate between on- and off-premise monitoring. Museum security is an exact science that requires constant adapting (due to exhibits that change from flat paintings to 3d sculptures to fabric collage), plus a touch of redundancy ( a patron accidentally leaves a paper Mac-sack in front of a sensor). Fact is, things like perimeter surveillance and blanket motion sensors fascinate me.
From every source, however, I read the one thing that foils even the best security system is the low-tech threat.
More menacing than the cat burglar slipping in through an air vent, the thug who stays behind at closing time can pose a surprising threat to the system. Most museums have a work time after closing when motion alarms have to be turned off to allow for the staff to clean up, build displays, plan the next show, etc.
Impertinence ranges from “museumspotting,” where dimwits who have nothing better to do simply cross over boundaries to take their photo while laying on, conversing with, or kissing the exhibit, to just reaching into their pocket during museum hours and spray-painting a Picasso “for revolution” to actually deciding to put their own artwork in the museum as in the case of Banksy below.
Whoda thunk that the real problem was keeping art OUT?