Author: Writer guy

Duck

Writer guy

Lived in heads down revision/read/reread mode for a few days now, an effort which is progressing well. The drop date for the Final Three slid back a week, but I can live with that. I have to, actually. Open House is Sunday, so for the fifth weekend in a row, it’s another no day or one day off type of deal. But my job should not cause further any delays.

One lesson I learned recently about finding time for writing is to force myself through chores on work nights. Loading up Saturday and Sundays with tasks shirked during the week virtually guarantees I’ll have neither energy nor the enthusiasm for it. And that’s a shame, because I can get a lot done in ten hour tears. So instead of letting household duties fester, I tackle them after work, even if doing so cuts into downtime, or infringes on the one or two hours reserved for writing. At worst freeing up the weekend means dedicated time for relaxation, taking pictures, hiking, etc.

Soon as I finish the novel edits, I’m going to turn the site upside and down and revamp the design. I meant to upgrade to the latest version of WordPress for the past month. Haven’t coded in forever, so diving in headfirst will be interesting.

Wrote down a list of places to submit The Stash—a short story I wrote in late August. One very unlike me, very horror. Contests seem like a natural fit for it, because at worst they guarantee responses—a treat in publishing—and on the winning end come with a check and publicity. But there’s a few magazines that make sense to aim for, too.

And then?

Writer guy

Finished the draft six days behind schedule, but acceptable given developments of late. The next step is to read through the manuscript start to finish twice and revise as necessary–this should take about seven days–and hand off to The Final Three.

More on this later. Right now, I’m wiped out. But happy.

Wrong Number

Writer guy

Due to poor Cingular coverage in St. Louis my Treo spent most of last weekend roaming, probing for a signal that twas never to be. The constant search ran the batteries down in twenty-four hours instead of the normal ninety-six. Natch, I forgot to pack a charger or shut off the phone. Nothing like a funeral to bring out the absent mindedness streak. With a standard phone running the batteries down to zero would not be an issue; data and system settings persists in memory. Tragically, the classic Palm operating system deals with power deprivations in an irksome manner. Older Palm phones reset themselves. And not to the most recent operating state, either. They revert to day one fresh from the box brand new.

Besides my call log—a handy feature when retrieving someone’s number or the last call attempt—and a ton of pictures, nothing was irreplaceable. Except my contacts. If you haven’t heard from me lately, that is why.

Now I realize how dependent I was on the type ahead phone listings. Dialing these days is like coming home to find the front door swinging into the foyer. Oh sure, the place is still there, but it’s different.

After my grandmother’s funeral something interesting happened at the cemetery. An older couple dressed in Cardinal’s gear cruised up in a bus sized SUV. The woman tied two massive helium filled balloons—officially Major League Baseball sanctioned inflatable novelties, of course—to a bush enveloping a three-foot high brown marble headstone. She sauntered back to her car, turned on the stereo, and cranked Queen’s We are the Champions across section forty-seven.

Later when I mentioned this scene to my stepfather, he quipped, “There’s your victory parade, right there.”

He may have been right, because I witnessed the festivities downtown the following afternoon. Cemetery fans did put on an impressive showing.

The Returning

Writer guy

As a family we laid my grandmother, Cecilia Hilliard, to rest on Saturday, October 28th, 2006. Never believed I might say this about a funeral, but the ceremony was beautiful. Nearly every family member played a key part in the services. Some presented flowers, others served as pallbearers, and a few read scripture. Seeing us unite reminded me how important she really was to us, and how perfectly our coordination reflected her wishes that we all come together by choice and by love.

When my aunt asked me to deliver the previous entry as grandma’s eulogy, I was humbled. For some reason, the priest was very old school and would not sanction the reading of the piece anywhere except the tail of the service. A curious edict, especially since both my aunt and mother decided that based on the structure and flow of the services they designed the eulogy fit best earlier. But the priest was having none of it.

My relatives spared me the back room negotiations, which was a good thing, because another surprise decision bumped the piece back even later than the programs indicated. Up to the moment I crossed the altar, I was uncertain whether or not it was really a go. Or if the priest might inveigh halfway through. He did not.

As I read, I realized that my grandmother had bestowed one last unexpected gift. By writing her eulogy, Grandma’s passing gave me an opportunity to see my writing reach a group of people I care about.

It was the sort of real-time feedback that comes so very rarely for a writer, where the time ticks by in isolation, and the signposts are slim and none. A comment I’ll never forget: “You said what we were all feeling but couldn’t find the words to say.”

And I thought to myself, that’s as good as I can do.

And it’s good enough.