Some People Don’t Get It
I was out and about Sunday and saw a lady struggling to get a fruit tree loaded into the back of her car. This was a twelve foot tree, root ball and all. It stuck out of her car window in the rain and cold. Now think about it. It’s January. Sure, I live in Texas but who’s the sap at home who is going to have to go out in the yard and dig a hole to plant this sucker? And what was the pressing need that had her out in terrible weather when we’ve had beautiful days before and after for plant shopping? This was no young woman either. No way was she going to be able to help get the tree out of her car. I had visions of her driving around with this thing sticking out of there for days on end, looking for help. No, don’t smile. It was sad. Really. This lady didn’t get it.
Lesson two. A few feet further on, the wind whipped a woman who was decades younger but many pounds heavier as she struggled across the parking lot. She was obviously into fashion, but hadn’t looked in a full length mirror. I don’t know about you, but I always check the front and back view before I head out the door. Here’s the thing. Tights with high boots are in now and a cute look. With a tunic over it. The tunic must cover your butt and tummy. I repeat, MUST cover those areas. Even skinny minnies know this. Those of us with problem areas sure don’t want to show the word our butt crack. So we should wear a heavy sweater over those tights. A LONG heavy sweater. Not a clingy short one. Enough said. And where was this gal’s coat? Okay, so maybe she was from up North and forty degrees felt like a Spring day. Whatever. Please get a clue and look in a mirror.
Now we come to Gerry. There are a lot of things I don’t get. See, I’m not just the harsh critic of others. I seem to make the same mistakes over and over again. Like, instead of attacking the mess in my closet, I’m thinking of running to Ross or Marshall’s and buying yet another pair of black pants. Oh, yeah, and what about those too tight jeans? I hate myself for wanting a larger size again. I gave away my fat jeans last year. Since I don’t dare ask for them back at the Goodwill, I’m sorely tempted to rush out and buy elastic waisted Granny pants. I wore some that were too tight the other day and I SUFFERED. Seriously. By the time I drove home, I’d unsnapped and unzipped just to breathe. Thank goodness I didn’t have a wreck.
Then there’s the issue of what I’m doing right now. On the Internet, blogging, avoiding attacking the book I need to write. I KNOW what the story is, what I need to write, but I can’t seem to get to it. Somehow I have convinced myself I’m on vacation. That I need to publicize MORE TO LOVE and that all this other stuff is necessary. But it’s not getting the book written. And this is an old pattern. I tend to put things off till the last minute. Tell myself I work well under pressure, with a deadline looming. When will I get it? I could do a better job, craft a finer story and not be so stressed if I just got down to business right now. What am I afraid of? That I won’t know what to write? I’ve done it before, I can do it again. Right? Um, yeah, sure. I guess. Well, now you know my secret. Authors tend to have the same problem when starting a new book. It’s called terror. Like jumping off a cliff without a safety net. Because, while lots of you love our work and take the time to tell us so, there are always a few who deride it, hate it even, and let it be known. Do we dwell on the good stuff? No way. We let the negatives and doubts eat at us. We worry that we really do suck. That any success we had was a fluke, never to be repeated. So we stall, poised on the edge, afraid to start again.
Don’t worry. I know this is temporary and I’ll get over it. An email from my editor usually is the slap up the side of my head that helps me come back to reality. I get it. I have a contract, responsibilities. And if I keep thinking I need my own fruit tree? Well, let’s just say I have my own weaknesses. I’m not a heroine in a romance novel. I’m more like the woman with the tree, convinced her hero at home will plant it for her. Or the girl in the tights who thought she looked darned good when she left the house. And maybe she did. I’m in the pissy mood I get when I know I’m avoiding what I need to be doing, you know? Can you relate? Experts say this is the most depressed time of year. I believe it. But I’m getting over it. Because what are my options? I choose to count my blessings, finish reading that good book I couldn’t put down till late last night, then actually open the document for the next Glory book and get going. Right after I buy a new pair of elastic-waisted black pants. What can I say? I’m not totally cured.