Fans will recall an earlier post about Larry, the Zombie Mouse, Leader of the Ravaging Hoard of four-legged fur butts that call my house their own.
Well, I successfully waged war on the furry hoard and they have retreated from the field. But Larry lives. He has taken to darting from the living room, across the kitchen floor, and into the wall space behind the stove. Always at 6:00 a.m. when I am at my most vulnerable.
At least I think that's where he goes. I see him start from the living room. I know he makes it to the roll-away dishwasher in the middle of the kitchen. But he always seems to disappear after that.
Unless he is taking a ride in the old pizza box that I keep forgetting is stuck under the dishwasher, he is disappearing into an unknown black hole. An alternative verminous dimension where he is the king.
He taunts me. His furry little sprint is just to show me he has no fear. (Although he does move dang quick when he catches my eye.)
He has thrown down the gauntlet of startlement. He messes with me before I have had coffee.
This means war.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The Rain Came Down, Chapter 1
Here is the intro to my new story: "And the Rain Came Down"
She remembered how her heart stopped beating. Her breath caught in her throat and never left her body.
Time just stopped flowing and all that was left was the image in front of her, burned into her brain. The sight of her husband, looking physically crushed by the weight of the burden he had to pass on to her.
It was difficult when all things stopped. He was frozen in time, the words choked out, the deed done. No going back. Sean was gone, he said. An accident, he said. Something about the boy’s bike, no helmet, a car.
Her husband couldn’t get all the words out before time stopped. She felt sad for him. It was obviously important, what he had to say. It wasn’t fair time stopped him in midsentence. He was forced to hold it all in.
She looked around the room. Everyone there was frozen, her mother, the policewoman, all of them.
She turned and walked to the kitchen and realized it was silent. No humming refrigerator, no fan, no clinking ice maker. She realized the water wouldn’t flow from the tap in the sink. So she put down the glass she had taken from the cupboard. No use trying to get a drink.
Her favorite window over the sink showed a frozen moment of a perfect summer day; a bird on approach to the bird feeder, a bumblebee laboring toward a potted rose in the planter under the window. They were motionless, suspended. She smiled. She wanted to go outside and look at things. To walk in this lost time. She wrapped the stillness around her like an old fuzzy robe, warm from the dryer.
But then she heard the thunder. Zeus clapped his hands right over her head. The sound split her in two and she felt the rain, a deluge, pouring over her, so cold. She couldn’t see through it and her outstretched hands groped for the counter. But it was too much rain. The thunder exploded again and she fell to her knees. The rain fell and time flowed. She heard the thunder screaming, screaming her son’s name and she melted into nothing. And the rain came falling down.
She remembered how her heart stopped beating. Her breath caught in her throat and never left her body.
Time just stopped flowing and all that was left was the image in front of her, burned into her brain. The sight of her husband, looking physically crushed by the weight of the burden he had to pass on to her.
It was difficult when all things stopped. He was frozen in time, the words choked out, the deed done. No going back. Sean was gone, he said. An accident, he said. Something about the boy’s bike, no helmet, a car.
Her husband couldn’t get all the words out before time stopped. She felt sad for him. It was obviously important, what he had to say. It wasn’t fair time stopped him in midsentence. He was forced to hold it all in.
She looked around the room. Everyone there was frozen, her mother, the policewoman, all of them.
She turned and walked to the kitchen and realized it was silent. No humming refrigerator, no fan, no clinking ice maker. She realized the water wouldn’t flow from the tap in the sink. So she put down the glass she had taken from the cupboard. No use trying to get a drink.
Her favorite window over the sink showed a frozen moment of a perfect summer day; a bird on approach to the bird feeder, a bumblebee laboring toward a potted rose in the planter under the window. They were motionless, suspended. She smiled. She wanted to go outside and look at things. To walk in this lost time. She wrapped the stillness around her like an old fuzzy robe, warm from the dryer.
But then she heard the thunder. Zeus clapped his hands right over her head. The sound split her in two and she felt the rain, a deluge, pouring over her, so cold. She couldn’t see through it and her outstretched hands groped for the counter. But it was too much rain. The thunder exploded again and she fell to her knees. The rain fell and time flowed. She heard the thunder screaming, screaming her son’s name and she melted into nothing. And the rain came falling down.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Sins and fears
There was an interesting homily on Sunday about the sin of shame. Father Odo (no, he is not from Deep Space Nine)spoke about using your fear and sense of shame to keep you from acknowledging a wrong you had done, a wrong to yourself or others, and it really got me thinking.
The things we do to ourselves, the choices we make, are the most pain-full and often we don't even realize how bad we hurt. It is easy to focus on the injustice from another and to nurture a resentment or a lifetime of resentments based on one incident.
But I started to look at myself and all the injustices, the fears, the guilt, the negative talk, that I heap on myself each day like business-as-usual. And I realized how much pain I feel because I am afraid to talk about these things. Not only am I afraid to talk about them, I am afraid to change. I will keeping stabbing myself with sad choices rather than feel the pain of postive change. Changing hurts. It means really looking at yourself and acknowledging that something in you is broken. It hurts to mend, to repair, to slip-up and have to start all over.
But the sermon really got me thinking about how my fear and shame of bad choices are the real demon in my life. I isolate myself from those who care most because I am too embarrassed to admit I am not strong in some things. I am afraid I will lose their friendship if I share my fears. So I step back first and lose them for sure. Brilliant.
I believe a sin is anything you put up between yourself and God. A sin is something that keeps you from having a connection with the divine. And you can best experience that connection when you love yourself. So if I trust that I am worth loving. If I believe in my faith and accept that nothing is so bad it can't be forgiven by a greater love than there is nothing I need to be ashamed of. There are only things I need to mend, I need to change, I need to let go.
One of the best quotes I ever read said, "Resentment is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die." I am tired of resenting my "enemies", tired of resenting myself for all my faults. Tired of resenting life for being so painfull.
I am going to call my friends and tell them what is going on. Let them know that it isn't about them, it is something I have done to myself. And I am going to believe that I can survive my choices, good or bad, that I am worth divine love.
I think it's time for a cup of coffee. Here's to happier times.
The things we do to ourselves, the choices we make, are the most pain-full and often we don't even realize how bad we hurt. It is easy to focus on the injustice from another and to nurture a resentment or a lifetime of resentments based on one incident.
But I started to look at myself and all the injustices, the fears, the guilt, the negative talk, that I heap on myself each day like business-as-usual. And I realized how much pain I feel because I am afraid to talk about these things. Not only am I afraid to talk about them, I am afraid to change. I will keeping stabbing myself with sad choices rather than feel the pain of postive change. Changing hurts. It means really looking at yourself and acknowledging that something in you is broken. It hurts to mend, to repair, to slip-up and have to start all over.
But the sermon really got me thinking about how my fear and shame of bad choices are the real demon in my life. I isolate myself from those who care most because I am too embarrassed to admit I am not strong in some things. I am afraid I will lose their friendship if I share my fears. So I step back first and lose them for sure. Brilliant.
I believe a sin is anything you put up between yourself and God. A sin is something that keeps you from having a connection with the divine. And you can best experience that connection when you love yourself. So if I trust that I am worth loving. If I believe in my faith and accept that nothing is so bad it can't be forgiven by a greater love than there is nothing I need to be ashamed of. There are only things I need to mend, I need to change, I need to let go.
One of the best quotes I ever read said, "Resentment is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die." I am tired of resenting my "enemies", tired of resenting myself for all my faults. Tired of resenting life for being so painfull.
I am going to call my friends and tell them what is going on. Let them know that it isn't about them, it is something I have done to myself. And I am going to believe that I can survive my choices, good or bad, that I am worth divine love.
I think it's time for a cup of coffee. Here's to happier times.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
On death and dying
I am dying. Seriously. I only have another 40 years or so (or maybe not). It's a bit of a shock, I know. I thought I was immortal, but it turns out I'm not. I guess there are people out there who are immortal. They always seem so shocked at the end. Like they thought they had a "Get Out of Dying Free" card and it was revoked.
I have seen a lot death in my life: loved ones, friends, friends of friends. Sometimes it has been peaceful, and sometimes, sadly, it has been violent. But always, throughout it all I wonder that we are all so shocked that people die.
Where did we get the notion that it is such a surprise? Why do we act with such angst and drama? Why aren't we prepared and aware that this is GUARANTEED to happen.
Carpe Diem! Seize the Day! But do so knowing that eventually you will find out where Charon's boat goes. Everyone does.
We don't lose a fight when we die. Obituaries always say, "lost a battle with..." or some sort of statement of defeat. Like life is a battle and we can beat death if only we had tried a little harder.
It's not a battle. It is a journey, but that perspective is usually lost.
I am afraid of death because everyone around me tells me to be afraid. They say: It is too much of an unknown! Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Quick, grab a belief system and pray for happily ever after!
I am anxious about the fact of my eventual demise. We fret over the ambiguous, the question mark, the thing unexpected. But, I am tired of the surprise everyone feels when they realize death is a part of life. I am excited and anxious, and a little lonely, thinking about it all. What a door to walk through.
Like most, I want to be 150 years old and die in my sleep. But I have no control over that.
I just hope that whatever the circumstances, I don't feel too taken aback. I would like to make that particular journey nodding my head and saying, "Here I go." I don't what to go saying, "What the hell was that?!" I want it to be accepted and not a huge surprise, no matter how it goes.
So, no news is good news. I don't have an early ticket to ride, so don't panic. But we all have tickets on this train. So, I'll see you there someday.
I have seen a lot death in my life: loved ones, friends, friends of friends. Sometimes it has been peaceful, and sometimes, sadly, it has been violent. But always, throughout it all I wonder that we are all so shocked that people die.
Where did we get the notion that it is such a surprise? Why do we act with such angst and drama? Why aren't we prepared and aware that this is GUARANTEED to happen.
Carpe Diem! Seize the Day! But do so knowing that eventually you will find out where Charon's boat goes. Everyone does.
We don't lose a fight when we die. Obituaries always say, "lost a battle with..." or some sort of statement of defeat. Like life is a battle and we can beat death if only we had tried a little harder.
It's not a battle. It is a journey, but that perspective is usually lost.
I am afraid of death because everyone around me tells me to be afraid. They say: It is too much of an unknown! Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Quick, grab a belief system and pray for happily ever after!
I am anxious about the fact of my eventual demise. We fret over the ambiguous, the question mark, the thing unexpected. But, I am tired of the surprise everyone feels when they realize death is a part of life. I am excited and anxious, and a little lonely, thinking about it all. What a door to walk through.
Like most, I want to be 150 years old and die in my sleep. But I have no control over that.
I just hope that whatever the circumstances, I don't feel too taken aback. I would like to make that particular journey nodding my head and saying, "Here I go." I don't what to go saying, "What the hell was that?!" I want it to be accepted and not a huge surprise, no matter how it goes.
So, no news is good news. I don't have an early ticket to ride, so don't panic. But we all have tickets on this train. So, I'll see you there someday.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Crazy like a fox
Too bushed to boogie these days. The idea of actually writing something is too exhausting. It is enough just trying to get through each day. Excited about the weather though. Gonna get the camper on the truck and get the heck out of Dodge. Maybe I will take my notebook and an idea will come to me on the road.
Being a writer is hard work. If you don't jot down a few thoughts when you get the chance they back up in your brain like a creative drain clog and pretty soon life just isn't flowing like it should. Writing is very important to good brain function and overall sanity.
I do so much editing at work, my English major brain is Swiss cheese by the time I get home. Need to work on those kid book ideas that are languishing. Gotta prove to my kids I can write down the goofy things I say and get paid for it. They think I'm just a crazy old lady. I have to show them that crazy can make you big bucks or at least be deeply satisfying.
Stay tuned.....
Being a writer is hard work. If you don't jot down a few thoughts when you get the chance they back up in your brain like a creative drain clog and pretty soon life just isn't flowing like it should. Writing is very important to good brain function and overall sanity.
I do so much editing at work, my English major brain is Swiss cheese by the time I get home. Need to work on those kid book ideas that are languishing. Gotta prove to my kids I can write down the goofy things I say and get paid for it. They think I'm just a crazy old lady. I have to show them that crazy can make you big bucks or at least be deeply satisfying.
Stay tuned.....
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
The Daily News
The sun is returning and with it some measure of the small scrap of sanity I once had. It has been a long and difficult winter. I feel like Laura Ingalls Wilder, a pioneer who once suffered seven months of a non-stop blizzard with no supply trains able to get through.
How do we replenish ourselves after the 30th school-related virus is brought home, and the electricity bill is late again, and work is at times rewarding and at times a struggle to get through the day with your brain intact?
There is a health club across the street from my house that I have yet to visit, even though I have an active membership.
I have a physical therapy routine to perform every day to increase the warranty on all the metal in my back that I keep postponing.
I have skis that have not touched snow once this winter.
Whaddup with that!?!?
This winter was a bust for me. One long hibernation of body and soul. I need to go fishing and camping and take a nice long vacation. That's how to refuel.
I don't think the supply train is going to make it here in time for winter, but it should pull into the station come springtime. I can hold out till then.
How do we replenish ourselves after the 30th school-related virus is brought home, and the electricity bill is late again, and work is at times rewarding and at times a struggle to get through the day with your brain intact?
There is a health club across the street from my house that I have yet to visit, even though I have an active membership.
I have a physical therapy routine to perform every day to increase the warranty on all the metal in my back that I keep postponing.
I have skis that have not touched snow once this winter.
Whaddup with that!?!?
This winter was a bust for me. One long hibernation of body and soul. I need to go fishing and camping and take a nice long vacation. That's how to refuel.
I don't think the supply train is going to make it here in time for winter, but it should pull into the station come springtime. I can hold out till then.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
All that glitters is not good
As God is my witness, I forgot what glitter can do.
A late night project to produce 24 handmade valentines for my daughter's first grade class induced a sense of delusional creativity. I lost my mind and actually sent my husband to the store for supplies - including glitter.
I did not remember the Valentine's Day of 2008, or the Christmas of 2009, when other honest and loving attempts at handicrafts resulted in a sandstorm of glitter infiltrates that still end up in Sunday dinner and places on my body I won't even mention.
My theory is glitter is a nanite conspiracy. A clever alien plan to take over the world, one kitchen table at a time. We are mesmerized by the pretty colors and shiny snowfall of these minute creatures. With a bottle of Elmer's glue in one hand and glitter in the other, we are certain we can make something pretty enough to cause world peace.
But the opposite happens. It actually becomes a tracking device, a frustration, a bio-hazard. You suddenly know where everyone has been by following the glittering road. It ends up in the toothpaste, the sheets, the butter in the fridge. It's in the casserole, on your fork, in your hair; it gets into everything!
I was storming at my husband that night over some minor infraction and he broke out in laughter saying, "It's hard to take you seriously when you have glitter on your face."
The nanites are succeeding. They are driving us apart. Divide and conquer. Laugh and the nanites chortle about the success of their plan.
The children are in on it. They plead for the glitter, beg for it, promise to choose wisely in their use of it. But it is a diversion. They are double agents. The glitter bomb explodes.
I even know of a woman who mistook a bottle of glitter hairspray for a feminine hygiene product. Nervous about her doctor appointment, she freshened up. The gynecologist took one look and said with a nervous smile, "How festive!" She didn't understand what he meant until she was in the shower that night.
Beware the glitter. Beware.
A late night project to produce 24 handmade valentines for my daughter's first grade class induced a sense of delusional creativity. I lost my mind and actually sent my husband to the store for supplies - including glitter.
I did not remember the Valentine's Day of 2008, or the Christmas of 2009, when other honest and loving attempts at handicrafts resulted in a sandstorm of glitter infiltrates that still end up in Sunday dinner and places on my body I won't even mention.
My theory is glitter is a nanite conspiracy. A clever alien plan to take over the world, one kitchen table at a time. We are mesmerized by the pretty colors and shiny snowfall of these minute creatures. With a bottle of Elmer's glue in one hand and glitter in the other, we are certain we can make something pretty enough to cause world peace.
But the opposite happens. It actually becomes a tracking device, a frustration, a bio-hazard. You suddenly know where everyone has been by following the glittering road. It ends up in the toothpaste, the sheets, the butter in the fridge. It's in the casserole, on your fork, in your hair; it gets into everything!
I was storming at my husband that night over some minor infraction and he broke out in laughter saying, "It's hard to take you seriously when you have glitter on your face."
The nanites are succeeding. They are driving us apart. Divide and conquer. Laugh and the nanites chortle about the success of their plan.
The children are in on it. They plead for the glitter, beg for it, promise to choose wisely in their use of it. But it is a diversion. They are double agents. The glitter bomb explodes.
I even know of a woman who mistook a bottle of glitter hairspray for a feminine hygiene product. Nervous about her doctor appointment, she freshened up. The gynecologist took one look and said with a nervous smile, "How festive!" She didn't understand what he meant until she was in the shower that night.
Beware the glitter. Beware.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Fish wrap
So I have been out of the loop for awhile. How ya been? No pithy observations today or wise words on lemurs or sleep disorders. The world is at sixes and sevens (have to look up what that means) and it is hard to focus on the lighter side. Although, the newspaper cartoons Zits, Dilbert, and Baby Blues help a lot.
But my newspaper did away with my other favorite comics. Seems like the paper just takes the comics from the lowest bidder. I am sure the new, cheap, use-only-to-wrap-fish cartoons are helping with the brutal bottom-line for newspaper managers, but it demonstrates the art of diminishing returns as readers become even further disenchanted with the paper and drift away.
I guess I am ready for an iPad and to go fully electronic with the Sunday funnies and the news it comes wrapped in. At least I can carry an iPad from room to room without having to balance a keyboard in the process. Nothing out there has had a screen big enough for me to read, so I welcome Steve Jobs' new creation. It has a niche in the market, at least for me. Hopefully for others as well, as I really need the price to come down before I can afford one.
Until then, I will continue to read what is left of the paper news and funnies and scan the headlines for something remotely relevant to my community and my life. Oh, and the newspaper has one superlative function that my (someday) new iPad doesn't: it can mop up my spilled coffee. Steve needs to think hard on that one. Maybe I can purchase an app or add-on for iPad that will serve the same purpose.
But my newspaper did away with my other favorite comics. Seems like the paper just takes the comics from the lowest bidder. I am sure the new, cheap, use-only-to-wrap-fish cartoons are helping with the brutal bottom-line for newspaper managers, but it demonstrates the art of diminishing returns as readers become even further disenchanted with the paper and drift away.
I guess I am ready for an iPad and to go fully electronic with the Sunday funnies and the news it comes wrapped in. At least I can carry an iPad from room to room without having to balance a keyboard in the process. Nothing out there has had a screen big enough for me to read, so I welcome Steve Jobs' new creation. It has a niche in the market, at least for me. Hopefully for others as well, as I really need the price to come down before I can afford one.
Until then, I will continue to read what is left of the paper news and funnies and scan the headlines for something remotely relevant to my community and my life. Oh, and the newspaper has one superlative function that my (someday) new iPad doesn't: it can mop up my spilled coffee. Steve needs to think hard on that one. Maybe I can purchase an app or add-on for iPad that will serve the same purpose.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Kirk to Enterprise.....
So, now I can blog from my phone. What a hi-tech advancement. Now I can type 25 times more slowly, increase my error rate by 75%, and sound even more insane.....I like it!
Monday, January 11, 2010
Happy New Year?
Happy New Year to all, those far and near!
Best wishes for today and the rest of the year.
Best wishes for today and the rest of the year.
Monday, November 30, 2009
To Sleep Perchance To Drive
Here I am! Sorry I haven't been around for awhile. I got lost in my middle-aged confusion and have been tagging walls in risky neighborhoods all the while thinking I was typing away here at blog-central.
So, if you want to see any of my posts from the last 30 days you'll need to head to the corner of 94th and Devine. (or was it Baker Street & 112th?) to see what I have been up to. I seem to have ended up with some kind of tattoo from my street adventures. I think I have joined some new health club involving hand guns and running very fast.
Ah, well. My mind has taken to wandering without me. My doctor says it could be a form of narcolepsy called cataplexy. I asked him if he meant a multiplex of cats, as I have certainly been under that type of influence before. He is a very humorless man. I am lucky I got out of there with my driver's license intact.
Sleep disorders are a cruel joke. When you have sleep apnea or narcolepsy, you are very, very, very sleepy all the time. But sleeping at night is the worst way to resolve the issue.
I have found that a short doze while driving is much more stimulating than a straight eight hours could ever be. Those rear-end collisions will wake you right up in the morning! Hoo-ya!
All you want to do is go to sleep, but when you do everyone starts yelling and screaming. All of a sudden there are sirens, personal escorts in uniform, and tow trucks, oh my! How I am supposed to get any rest with all that going on.
So, when I do go to bed at night I am wide awake. Sleeping in bed does no good, so I read, and eat, and clean house until the sleeping pills kick in. Then I have another tossed salad kind of night and wake up sliced, diced, and completely unrested off to begin another day of slumber at work, I mean, in the world.
The auditory hallucinations are the best part. You hear your name called a lot. It can be nice and make you feel like a celebrity, but if the voices also say, "Put your hands on your head!", it is not a hallucination - trust me.
Ah, but I am the Queen of Hyperbole! Methinks she does exaggerate too much! But I swear, I feel like all of this will happen if I don't get at least one good night's sleep this month. My kids are not infants anymore, but my body is still on the every-three-hour standby mode.
Maybe menopause will cure me. Maybe I'll just get even crazier and finally write a best-seller. Now I bet I could sleep at night after THAT happens.
So, if you want to see any of my posts from the last 30 days you'll need to head to the corner of 94th and Devine. (or was it Baker Street & 112th?) to see what I have been up to. I seem to have ended up with some kind of tattoo from my street adventures. I think I have joined some new health club involving hand guns and running very fast.
Ah, well. My mind has taken to wandering without me. My doctor says it could be a form of narcolepsy called cataplexy. I asked him if he meant a multiplex of cats, as I have certainly been under that type of influence before. He is a very humorless man. I am lucky I got out of there with my driver's license intact.
Sleep disorders are a cruel joke. When you have sleep apnea or narcolepsy, you are very, very, very sleepy all the time. But sleeping at night is the worst way to resolve the issue.
I have found that a short doze while driving is much more stimulating than a straight eight hours could ever be. Those rear-end collisions will wake you right up in the morning! Hoo-ya!
All you want to do is go to sleep, but when you do everyone starts yelling and screaming. All of a sudden there are sirens, personal escorts in uniform, and tow trucks, oh my! How I am supposed to get any rest with all that going on.
So, when I do go to bed at night I am wide awake. Sleeping in bed does no good, so I read, and eat, and clean house until the sleeping pills kick in. Then I have another tossed salad kind of night and wake up sliced, diced, and completely unrested off to begin another day of slumber at work, I mean, in the world.
The auditory hallucinations are the best part. You hear your name called a lot. It can be nice and make you feel like a celebrity, but if the voices also say, "Put your hands on your head!", it is not a hallucination - trust me.
Ah, but I am the Queen of Hyperbole! Methinks she does exaggerate too much! But I swear, I feel like all of this will happen if I don't get at least one good night's sleep this month. My kids are not infants anymore, but my body is still on the every-three-hour standby mode.
Maybe menopause will cure me. Maybe I'll just get even crazier and finally write a best-seller. Now I bet I could sleep at night after THAT happens.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Half full...
My glasses are dirty, my back hurts, my blog guilt is high, my Mommy guilt is off the charts. I am worried about my husband, my kids, myself, the dog, and the rest of the world in that order. I don't sleep well. I don't eat right. And no one understands me. Life as a technical editor is one large slog of being misunderstood and underappreciated.
Technical editors and writers make others look good. We are the ghost writers of life, and as such walk the halls of clear communication unacknowledged and invisible. As a ghost writer the prose is crisp, the thoughts divine, and the credit...zilch.
I wonder how tough life is for William Shatner's ghost writer. Shatner has produced more books than any Trek celebrity ever; all from his own creative genius of course.
Oh, I like Bill. I am a big fan and always will be. But, my point is about the writers. We all go to the same metaphysical pub and cry into our virtual beer about how our author just doesn't understand us.
We never leave them (well, only upon point of death) because we like being ghosts. We like standing in the aisle at a book store with that self-satisfied smirk on our faces. "I know something you don't know," we whisper to the patron next to us.
We are the Kings and Queens of the bestseller and memoir world, but uncrowned, dethroned, and expelled from the Kingdom upon publication.
Ah, well. It could be worse. We could be the high profile authors who go to bed each night empty inside envying us. They envy the ghost writer who can say things so well. The author has lived the life, but we can give it immortality.
We are Gods.
Technical editors and writers make others look good. We are the ghost writers of life, and as such walk the halls of clear communication unacknowledged and invisible. As a ghost writer the prose is crisp, the thoughts divine, and the credit...zilch.
I wonder how tough life is for William Shatner's ghost writer. Shatner has produced more books than any Trek celebrity ever; all from his own creative genius of course.
Oh, I like Bill. I am a big fan and always will be. But, my point is about the writers. We all go to the same metaphysical pub and cry into our virtual beer about how our author just doesn't understand us.
We never leave them (well, only upon point of death) because we like being ghosts. We like standing in the aisle at a book store with that self-satisfied smirk on our faces. "I know something you don't know," we whisper to the patron next to us.
We are the Kings and Queens of the bestseller and memoir world, but uncrowned, dethroned, and expelled from the Kingdom upon publication.
Ah, well. It could be worse. We could be the high profile authors who go to bed each night empty inside envying us. They envy the ghost writer who can say things so well. The author has lived the life, but we can give it immortality.
We are Gods.
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