Physiology, or, This is more than 3-times-the-charm, or, I'm over this crap

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but my main day job is retail, so picture a basic retail shopping center.

I was at work, walking to the rental car (long story short, southerners don't know how to drive in snow) to sit in quiet during my break, when I heard tires screech and a thud, I turned in the direction of the sound and saw a car bounce back from hitting the curve as it turned into the lane I was walking.

I thought to myself, "I've clipped curves like that before." I felt embarrassed for the driver. As I began to turn back I noticed the car speed up as it headed for some cars.

"That's weird. They're not slowing down-- oh god, they're not slowing down."

If you've never seen or been a part of a car accident, please believe me, everything slows down the way you've always been told it does.

The crash had a plastic popping sound and not really metal crunching. Parts flew everywhere. (In the  moment I don't know why I cared and tried to mentally process why it didn't sound like it was supposed to sound. Whatever that means.)

I'm running to the crashed car. I feel like my legs are in thick weighted boots. I'm walking through the thickest air ever created. The phone is in my hand is a brick (I can't even process it as MY phone). It takes an eternity to push 4 buttons.

I approach the car. Half of the front of the car has merged with the car it hit. For a minute the only things that exist are me and this smoking car. I come closer and in the window from the smoke a hand appears. My primal brain says, "Car explode." A firm voice in another part of my head says, "Open the door." As I reach out to the handle, primal brain says, "door hot," another part of my brain asks, "door locked?" The door handle is cool plastic and the door swings open smoothly. The lady is sitting in the driver's seat. She looks like she's about to fall asleep. She mumbles something about the car skidding.

I'm on the phone with the emergency dispatcher. I tell the driver not to move. I tell a man who's approached the car, "Be careful. It looks like coolant on the ground." (God, there's a lot of coolant. Coolant's pink, right?)

The driver is saying her leg hurts. I'm talking like I have lead on my tongue, the dispatcher is telling me to calm down. I'm answering her questions. I give what I think is the correct address (I'm better with landmarks. I give landmarks. The local police know where we are.), No, I don't know a pole number, we're in a parking lot (what the hell?).

I'm telling the driver not to move again, and at some point reach into her car and put the car in park (Wow, what an unusual gear box). Primal brain stopped talking. The "smoke" was apparently the chemical reaction from the air bag and quickly dissipated when someone opened the passenger door. Another lady brings a blanket or something for the driver. I'm pacing, completing the call with the dispatcher and waiting for the police. (I feel like I want to cry, but not a good time to cry. The driver needs help. No time to cry. Important stuff first. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deeeep breaths. This lady needs help. Help this lady. Help. Her. First.)

As time sped up to normal, the total damage was the driver's car, plus 3 other automobiles, including a minivan that was parallel to the store but ended up facing the store by the time the owner emerged to discover the damage. It was at the tail-end of the lunch rush and the weather forecast was calling for a good chance of bad weather. By the smallest probability I was the only one walking on the far end of the lane. I consider myself an armchair anecdotal statistician. The Vegas odds of a pedestrian not getting hit would have been obscene.

Later, a few employees came up to me and commended me on stepping up the way I did. I wanted to tell them, "That is the slowest I've ever moved in my life," but felt uuber weepy, and just smiled. I received a very grounding hug (Still didn't have time to be super weepy. I was at work. Had to work. Work.)

It occurred to me, or at least has occurred to me now, the people who run into fires and jump into raging rivers often comment about not feeling like they did anything extraordinary, probably because they too felt like they're moving slow as a snail and it’s a miracle they were able to do what they did.

I get it.  I don't think I did anything anyone else wouldn't do, but I get it.

So my point for telling the story is that, one, I needed to tell it. It's cathartic. Two, later, when I was processing what happened and what I was feeling (I'm an analytical empath.), it occurred to me the feeling of fear that the car might blow up and being in survivor-helper mode did not feel as the terror of writing, or, more specifically, as submitting a story for publication.

Because health scares, an emergency water ascent, and surviving my twenties weren't enough.

Aren't I a funny little human.

So now, after I've processed as much as I could to FINALLY cry, the demon sitting in the corner, the one who slipped all those subtle notes of "You can't be, do, or have_________ because of __________." just sits there, arms crossed, looking sullen because it knows I know the only way to break the cycle is to keep walking through hell. To get use to the heat. To realize it is bearable. It's not that hot. To think of it as warm (I'm a SOUTHERNER, for Pete's sake. Heat is our THING. We OWN it. It's our JAM!) People who support me will hand me glasses of water (Ice cold water with pellet ice in a pint glass is the awesomest, bestest, greatest thing and is worthy of horrible grammar.) You just have to say, "Hey, man. It's hot and I'm thirsty. Can you hook me with up with some water."

Easy peasy.

The Written Word, Or, Punctuation, Or, Unconscious Marketing

This post is quick.

I don't wish to point out a particular company (because that's not my point), but one commercial makes my husband laugh every time he sees it. Sure what's going on visually adds to the humor, but what really seals the deal on the guaranteed laugh is the speaker's inflection on a particular word. The emphasis of one word can turn a grown man into Pavlov's hyena.

My point is, to me, there is a certain level of immersion in commercials so subtle and unconscious, you don't realize you're drawn in until you're already in the middle (or at least somewhere off to the side). The same goes, I think, with great fiction, especially great dialog. The function of a word or phrase in italics, or a comma versus a period, or (Oh, dear, sweet baby Jesus) em dashes can convey who a character is and isn't and what a character says and doesn't say, are bigger deals than you may think. They border on the magical.

Great punctuation in dialog is like the Ninja Illuminati of Show/Don't Tell.

Don't get me wrong. I appreciate and acknowledge Place and Time. I know Frodo can't travel a shopping mall in 1066 Europe to kiss Rapunzel and kill the dragon.* I think Dialog is the corset** that keeps the story from sagging to its knees while the strings of Setting keep the corset on.

See people. I can do descriptions.

*With the exception of fan fiction or a gaming mod.

**French for, "Great posture, but not allowed to breathe."

Reaching for Traction, Or, Red Staplers? I Didn't Get Any Memo about Red Staplers! Or, Catharsis

So this morning I happen to stumble upon an online discussion about the best way to blog (e.g., Blogger, WordPress, etc.). Many authors gave their 2 cents. I think the part that still continues to poke at my brain is the fact that there are SO MANY options with caveats. And while I am grateful for the choices (I consider myself progressive), I really just want to say, "You know what, people? I just want to freakin' write, okay? I just want to write my stories, publish them, so I can get them out of my head. I already feel like I'm in high heels* dancing backward and NOW you want me to wear a blindfold while wrestling a Komodo dragon?"** PFFT!

Freaking awesome.

My inner nonconformist is cheering me on and encouraging me to drink more coffee.

But I didn't go all ranty during the discussion. I shared my 2 cents and was grateful for all the new information.

More options. Noigitot.***

I don't consider myself a luddite, and even if I did, my husband's love of all things electronic would balance it out (He has a tablet I call "Second Wife." He's got a Kindle Paperwhite he occasionally sees on the side. I'm cool with it.)

Now that my "ranty" seems to have exhausted itself, I really have to acknowledge that adding social media to the mix pulls me out of my writing closet and exposes me to the sun. I see the logic in having a human presence as oppose to being "faceless" and hoping my disembodied awesomeness will draw worldwide readership. No. No, Ma'am. That dog don't hunt.

Noigitot, the hamster wheel that is my brain.

In the end this is really me struggling with feeling comfortable using social media to display my wares. I understand it on a lazy level (just enough to get by). I need to up my A-game so I don't feel like a freak when I post something. Weird form of self-therapy? Yep, I think so.

So this is your warning that you will "see" more of me in the future. It's fun working out my anxiety for all to see.

Maybe I am into exhibitionism after all.

*I do not own high heel shoes. My chiropractor would probably quit me.

**I wouldn't bet Vegas odds on me winning at Komodo dragon wrestling.

***Pronounced "Noy-gee-tot." I think it's a curse word I remember from watching "The Pirates of Dark Water." If "twerking" exists, I think "noigitot" should too. Just puttin' it out there, people. Don’t shoot the messenger. Also, as a child I slipped on black ice and hit my head so take that information for what you will.

Exposed (or Yes, that IS a trench coat and, Yes, I am dressed underneath)

I'm waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

I'm learning to be okay with my fears in regard to letting people other than people I know read my work.
The thought of that feels like standing naked in a spotlight, at night, in a cold, wet drizzle, with a slight breeze, in front of an old brown brick wall (No, I don't know why a brown brick wall, I'm just going with what my brain is projecting)... and it's muddy. Not standing-in-puddles muddy, but that kind of muddy where you think to yourself, "Hey, that look like the consistency of face-mask mud." Instead of rifles just out of line of sight, there are people (with my face, I'm sure of it) waiting to jeer in all the colorful ways people jeer when they read bad fiction.

Defensive humor, don't fail me now.

It feels like I'm running from a saber-tooth tiger.
When I read the critiques from my writing group I was grateful for the points they made, but it felt like a rabid woolly mammoth, foaming at the mouth, joined the chase (I like to be chronologically correct when I'm half-wake and over exaggerating.)

Most of my waking life I've been an editor, so I'm usually at the receiving end (how appropriate) of manuscripts that (hopefully) have been through all of this; The plot holes mostly filled, grammar and punctuation have been sorted out, adverbs and passive voice have been kept to a minimum, consistencies are consistent, etc. But there is something to be said when you've been immersed so much in your own story, that even though you're grateful for another set or 3 of eyes pointing out the obvious abysses in your story, there is an irrational bit of your brain that thinks, "I really wish humans were more in tune with this whole mind-meld thing. It'd make my life easier." But that's lazy and not really a lot of fun.

So as the coffee begins to take effect and my humorous nature throws a house coat in my general muddy direction, I will pull up my big-girl panties (comfy working undies), turn on some writing music, and get to work.

Avalanche

I'm going to publish my first manuscript early next year. So you're maybe thinking to yourself, "So. Yeah. That's great." For me and many other 1^st-time publishing writers, that's a really big deal.

I remember transcribing for a project and the interviewee talked about how after he wrote and published his first book, the other dozen books just flew out of his head (Okay, he may have said half a dozen books and he may have also said something a little less poetic than "flew out of his head.").

If I was taking the coward's way out, I'd have quite a list of reasons not to write at all (especially with everything going on this year), much less actually have the gall to think I'm going to publish anything. But to be perfectly honest, I'm done being a coward, or more specifically, I'm done creating and living off excuse after excuse as to why I can't do or be or have ____________. I have all around me personal, professional, and spiritual examples of pressing on in the face of less-than-ideal circumstances and not only did they survive and thrive, but their contributions are an avalanche of inspiration for so many.

I've had a lot of fun sharing my stories with the writing group helping me polish my works. I appreciate their input and I am glad when I recognize my ego being an Ego. I'm grateful for the surge of energy that comes from feeling unstuck after I get back a critique.

So my Avalanche of Appreciation is to all who are not perfect and know they are not perfect, and embrace their imperfections. We still trudge on anyway.