Tag Archives: Blessed By Light by Marilyn Jaye Lewis

I Didn’t Get That Memo!

Man, what a whacked out day, already. And it’s only 9:17am.

I’ve been up since 3am. My body was exhausted but my mind was just up and racing and didn’t want to turn off. I stayed in bed until 5:45am , hoping I would fall back to sleep but it never happened.

One nice thing that did happen while I was laying there is that Doris jumped up on the bed and visited me — that was the first time she’s done that since Daddycakes died. So that was really sweet and I’m glad I was awake for that. But mostly I was just laying there thinking about life. Not in a bad way, just in that way that was teetering on “bad.” And I really wanted to just be done with it and go back to sleep.

Instead, I got up and fed the cats, and now it’s all these hours later, and I’ve had 3 cups of coffee so I’m wired and thoroughly exhausted at the same time. And I’ve been sitting here in front of Chapter 20 of Blessed By Light for over 2 hours already, waiting for the Muse to appear but — nada.

Nothing’s coming. I’ve even tried begging: Just one WORD. Just the first word of the second paragraph of Chapter 20. Anything to give me a thread to follow.

But, literally, nothing is there.  Just an empty void.

I have 2 muses. One is human and alive and living in the world  – you know who he is because I’m always blogging about him.  And I was hoping that perhaps one of his Red Hand Files newsletters would go out this morning, because I always get inspired by those, but – zippo there, too.

The other muse is the Muse. Capital “M.” The one from that great beyond place who is dictating Blessed By Light.

Neither muse is around today. It’s like the whole world is empty. Like some huge meeting was called that the whole world is attending right now and I was the only one who didn’t get the memo. So here I sit, waiting. While everyone else on Earth – physical and nonphysical – is off eating free doughnuts and finding out something really, really important that I remain oblivious to.

Usually I don’t mind waiting on the Muse. He’s already delivered 19 chapters plus one paragraph for Chapter 20, so I know he’s not going to simply abandon the book. But I’m on my 3rd day of getting nothing, not a single word, and I get antsy.

I really hate getting antsy. That’s when my mind starts dipping into really unproductive places and then I have to focus my energy into not thinking stuff like that.

Nothing is more frustrating than having to force your mind to stop thinking about something.  Because that “something” just becomes a larger and larger magnet for your unproductive thoughts.

I think it’s best to just walk away, and go spend some time in the huge storage closet in my guest room. Because in there is a suitcase full of all the songs I wrote over a 25-year period. And a file case of all the many papers I wrote when I was in Divinity School; papers that garnered me a Magna Cum Laude GPA but a rather unceremonious adieu when it was uncovered that I believed in a radical Jesus Christ instead of the one I was supposed to believe in. And there are 3 bookcases in that closet, filled with 40 years of my journals and all the books I’ve written or edited or contributed to, including the various languages they were translated into…

You know, a way to force myself to relax and realize that today is not the day that I will suddenly stop writing FOREVER.

The Muse, or muses, will return. They always do. I must remind myself of this today. Okay. Thanks for visiting. See ya, gang. I love you.

Muse-luring doughnuts!

 

 

 

A Contemplative Evening in April

It’s been a strange day. Not a bad one, just that everything kind of keeps making me stop and think and then weigh everything.

My “Mr Stagger Lee.” tee shirt arrived. I’m not entirely sure what compelled me to buy it, but I just suddenly decided I had to have it.  Not a single solitary person for hundreds of miles from here will have any clue what it means, but I do. To me, it stands for everything about a truly artistic mind (Nick Cave’s) (no boundaries) that I love.

Mr Stagger Lee, Nick Cave, T-Shirt

It fits fine. But I’m still not used to having boobs. You know, I look in the mirror and think to myself; What are those? I still expect to be sort of flat-chested bc I always had modest breasts, up until I was in my 40s. And even though I only weigh about 5 pounds more than I weighed at, like, age 39, my boobs are just way larger than those 5 pounds should indicate.

When I was 6, I can remember just being barely tall enough to be able to see my naked, flat-chested self in my dresser mirror in my bedroom in Cleveland, and wishing and hoping really really hard that one day I was gonna have super big boobs. Like the girls in my dad’s Playboy had. But I was always just a 34B. And then it was like, at age 43 or something, God suddenly remembered what I’d been wishing for at age 6 and went, SHAZAM, here’s those boobs you wanted… Man. Overnight.  I kinda liked it the other way.

But oh well. The tee shirt arrived. And it fits. And no one will have a clue what it means, or they’ll think of the Lloyd Price version, which is also really good, but Nick Cave’s vision just blows everything else out of the water, although it’s now way too politically incorrect for most of America.

Then I wanted to call the veterinary offices about Daddycakes’ remains and a little plaster paw print that they were going to make for me. When I looked at the invoice to find their phone number, I saw that they had listed Daddycakes’ name as “stray cat”. That broke my heart. He was so much more than a stray cat to me. He lived in my home for 7 years and woke me up every single morning, always so happy to be pouncing on top of me. And then the lady on the phone told me that he wasn’t ready yet, that it would likely be the end of the week. Which meant that my little cat’s body is still in some dark refrigerator, 30 miles away from me. And he’s been in there for well over a week. It made me sad.

Then Blessed By Light has taken a really unexpected turn, plot-wise. Loyal readers of this lofty blog know that this unusual novel is being dictated to me straight from the Muse, so I never know what’s coming next. And Chapter 20 got underway Monday afternoon and I was really stunned by what came out. And it is going to make the entire chapter very intense, very sad, and, well, contemplative. And I sat with the opening paragraph all day today, tweaking it just a little and I kept asking the Muse, “Are you sure about this? This is really where you want to go?”

I’m guessing this is where he really wants to go, but he hasn’t put in an appearance all day. So it was one of those days where I just did minor tweaking and a little tightening here & there, but wrote nothing new. Even though I know that something huge is coming.

So it’s just one of those evenings. Not sure what to do with myself. When the chapter just sits there on the laptop and nothing new arrives.

One cheerful thought on the horizon, though: stuff with Peitor Angell and our new production company out in LA, Abstract Absurdity Productions, is really going great. All I have to do if I get too frustrated is think of that, of how much Peitor makes me laugh, and I smile.

Peitor in Italy a couple weeks ago

Okay, well, thanks for visiting, gang. I hope you have a peaceful evening, wherever you are in the world. I leave you with one of my favorite peaceful songs of all time. I love you, guys. See ya.

To Heaven in a Hellcat!

I don’t know about you guys, but now that the full effect of that full moon is over, I feel 100% calmer around here.  The intensity as well as the giddiness have subsided. Yay.

Good thing, because I have a lot of work to do around here, and I need to focus.

Sandra, the actress I write for in NY, texted yesterday that she’s doing the Shakespeare Festival in NYC for 1 month, then another one-week gig back in Florida, and then she will be arriving here. Yes, HERE! In the Hinterlands! To begin rehearsing the one-woman play I wrote for her, Tell My Bones.

(The director of Tell My Bones, while also based in NYC, is the Artistic Director of a professional theater company in a town 20 miles from here and will also be here in the Hinterlands all summer. Except that he lives in a staggeringly lovely, palatial home with something like 7 bathrooms, privately tucked away at the end of a 3-mile driveway, hidden behind many, many tall trees; whereas I live in sort of the pioneer era; I do have indoor plumbing, heat and electricity but that’s about it as far as modern conveniences go in this 118-year-old house. And I have a wonderful little raccoon living in my 108-year-old barn. Anyway, the director has an incredible theater-rehearsal space right there in his home, naturally, which is where we will rehearse.)

So that means one less 11-hour drive (each way) to NY for me this year. I have to say I’m relieved about that.

However, this little reprieve brought on by Sandra’s Shakespeare Festival run means that I have this sudden chunk of time to complete Blessed By Light, and even have it off to potential publishers before Tell My Bones gets underway. (With The Guide to Being Fabulous on the heels of that.)

Hence the need for focusing around here.

The editor in NYC finished her final edits on the first 19 chapters of the novel last evening and sent them to me.  So I will begin writing Chapter 20 today. I don’t envision more than 10 more chapters before the book is done.  So completing it reasonably soon is doable.

The editor made my day again yesterday with her concluding comments. She said, “This pulses with passion, love, sorrow — damn! Congrats to you. Nobody writes like you.”

And I have to say that this made me feel intensely relieved because, as loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall, Blessed By Light, while it has lots of erotic stuff in it, is unlike any of the other novels, or even short stories, that I’ve written thus far. And “thus far” now entails 30 years. It’s sort of an unusual point in my career to begin writing so differently. And I had no control over this sudden change; the novel simply began coming out back in late August and all I did was try to keep up with it, you know?

Oh, something really cool happened to me yesterday afternoon.

I will preface this by saying that my dream car is the Dodge Challenger Hellcat. I really want one of those cars (in fact I write briefly about the Hellcat in Blessed By Light), but readers who know me even only slightly, know that I already have a problem with speeding when I’m on the highway. And I’ve never once gotten a speeding ticket, or even a parking ticket for that matter. And owning a Hellcat would probably just be too much of a temptation, you know? (It goes up to 210 MPH.) The Sheriff and the Highway Patrol would probably be all over me then. You know, they do target certain cars and a Honda Fit (what I currently own) is not one of them.

Well, yesterday I discovered that a young guy I know casually out here in the Hinterlands, has a brand new HEMI Challenger! Holy Shit! His is black and I really like the purple ones, but still. I couldn’t believe it. After asking him a little bit about the legendary speed of the car (he barely touches the gas pedal and he’s going 145 MPH), he told me that if I wanted to, he would let me drive it out on the highway.  Of course I said yes. OMG! I’m so excited.

Hellcat. My dream car.

Well, all righty, gang! I best get going around here. You know, today is the final day to stream Distant Sky Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds Live in Copenhagen for free. I am so tempted to watch it again, but Jesus. I really gotta work. But don’t let me stop you if you haven’t seen it yet! God, it was good.

Have a great Monday, wherever you are in the world.  I leave you with this: The most depressing although truly beautiful song about a fast car ever written!! Thanks for visiting! I love you, gang. See ya.

Wow, Looks Like A SUPER Happy Easter!

For these two, anyway! (Have you seen any of these XXX Bunny videos? They’re so funny. Well, it’s hard to laugh through some of it. Actually, it’s hard to know how to react since they’re pretty hardcore but the guy’s always got that ludicrous bunny head on the whole time.)

Yeah, well, okay. For some reason, I’m just feeling really silly about Easter this year. Not the part about Christ dying, or any of that stuff. But just my overall feelings this weekend are silly.

(And as an aside, if you are into the Secret Gospels – the Secret Gospel of Thomas or the Secret Gospel of Mark specifically – you have to wonder if maybe Jesus the man would have found XXX Bunny videos rather engaging. Honestly, the secret gospels are more interesting to me than 90% of the accepted Gospels. The kernels of truth within them, that seem to be hiding in plain site, I believe point closer to the direction of Jesus the man than anything else does. Except, perhaps, the Beatitudes. One point of interest, to me, anyway, is the role of Lazarus in the Secret Gospel of Mark. The concept that we achieve salvation through sin. I know that I’ve always kind of felt that to be true.  Anyway, check out the scholarly writings on the Secret Gospel of Mark, if you’re interested.)

I guess the nonstop stress I’ve been under with so many darn writing deadlines since September, is needing an escape valve, finally, so here it comes.

And perhaps it also has to do with that “Pink” Moon this weekend (a Blue Moon, but for some reason because it’s a double-full moon in April, it’s called a Pink Moon). I’m usually really sensitive to full moons, but with this one, I’m going from feeling intense to suddenly finding everything silly.

Oh, and I have to say that last evening, a total stranger – a woman in her 60s, I think – came up to me and gave me a big hug. She was so nice, so friendly. She was with her husband. She said, “Don’t worry. You’re going to make it! You just looked like you needed a hug.”

It was so nice, because I actually did need one at that moment. I was probably thinking something confounding about Nick Cave, but honestly, I don’t really remember. I just know I needed that fucking hug! And suddenly there it was!

That’s another nice thing about living out in the Hinterlands. A total stranger can hug you just because they think you need one and then you’ll never see that person again.

Another thing I love about the Hinterlands is how people, just in general, express how they feel. Especially on their bumper stickers. I tend to find that I don’t agree with anything written on bumper stickers. I’m not sure why that is, but I do find it interesting to read what people feel so passionate about that they feel they have to broadcast it across their bumpers. (Usually truck bumpers, or the back window of the cab of the truck since, out here, most people drive trucks. They also own a heck of a lot of guns.) Across the cab window of one truck I saw recently, there was a decal that said, in huge letters: Shoot Your Local Heroin Dealer. That was pretty passionate, I thought. And entirely unexpected.

We have a terrible opioid epidemic out here in Ohio. This past Christmas, I was driving along the highway on a very chilly, grey day. It looked like it would snow at any moment and I turned off down this short road that I drive down a lot, and suddenly there was this small truck, sort of like a box truck that you rent when you’re moving. And it was parked at the weirdest angle at the side of the road.  It just looked eerie. And when I drove past the driver’s side of the truck, the young woman was slumped down a little over the steering wheel and she looked dead.

I dialed 911 and they came right away. It was breathtaking how fast they came. And then I drove on. I don’t know if she was dead yet or not. And all through Christmas I wondered about her. Who she was. If they’d managed to save her or not – just in time for Christmas. And if they had saved her, I wondered if she was pissed off about that or not. Maybe she wanted to die. And I wondered if her family was happy she survived or if they’d kinda been wishing she’d die and be done with it. Opioids really destroy homes and families and lives. So who knows what was going on there.

I know from my own experience, that during my first suicide attempt, when I was 14, my life was just so awful.  Yet, underneath my unconsciousness (this was after about 16 hours already), I could hear a voice from God or the Universe or my Higher Self, telling me not to die. And I struggled so hard to regain consciousness. The nurse in the Emergency Room was the kindest person I had ever met in my whole life.  That’s the kind of angel who can really help you pull yourself back in from the abyss. I don’t recall too much of what happened, but I do remember her saying, “Come on, Marilyn, who’s the President of the United Sates?” and I kept replying “George Washington.”

But she did pull me through and obviously, I’m still alive. However, the truth is that my life got a whole lot worse for several years after that. And I often wondered what I was still alive for. And so maybe the woman in that truck at Christmas already knew there was nothing ahead of her but more bad stuff. I don’t know.

I do often think that, if I were capable of believing in vigilante justice, that awful year in my life of being 14 (after my boyfriend was killed), could have been salvaged somehow by simply shooting the guys that raped me; shooting my parents for being so disgustingly ugly in that courtroom during the custody fight; shooting my mother’s lawyer for being scum. You know, BAM. GAME OVER. Stuff like that. But we have these rules here that encourage us to rely on laws that let horrible lives and horrible people just drag on and on, forever, right? We’re not supposed to just shoot everybody, contrary to what life in America is like these days. But I feel sometimes that if some sort of concrete justice could have been done, then maybe – well, who knows.

All I  know is that once in awhile, an angel appears and is so kind that she can make you hang on, at least until the next moment of kindness finds you. (For me, that next moment came 6 years later, when I met my first husband in Brooklyn, before we were married, I mean.  Just meeting him. He was so incredibly kind to me.)

All righty! Wow. I do indeed digress! I wanted to post about something entirely different:

The feedback last evening from the editor regarding my new novel, Blessed By Light, really made my whole night.  She had a list of minor edits and then she said, “Marilyn, you’ve written a fascinating book.”

Yippee ki yi yay!! And so on me go!

Okay, I gotta get ready for my call with Peitor in Los Angeles because we are working on one of our scripts here this morning. I hope you have a terrific Holy Saturday, wherever you are in the world!!

I leave you with this, just because I’ve been listening to it a lot lately! Enjoy. I love you, guys. Thanks for visiting. See ya!

Exciting day here!

As soon as I finish posting this, I’m going to go plant myself in front of my iPad and watch the free streaming of Distant Sky Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds Live in Copenhagen. 

I think that’s going to be a really nice way to kick off Good Friday, right?  (If you’re not a Nick Cave fan, that comment will be meaningless to you. However, Nick Cave has a very interesting relationship with Jesus. I’m not entirely sure what it is, but it’s there; a relationship running like a wildly un-navigable river beneath his life . At least, that ‘s what it looks like from the outside.)

Anyway. I’m excited to watch the movie.  I’m guessing you can still sign up to stream it. It’s free all weekend.

I’m also excited because tomorrow, I resume working with Peitor Angell on our micro-short comedy videos. Working some more on the scripts. He’s been in Italy for a really long time and he is finally back in L.A. and I will have his complete attention for maybe 2 hours.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that when I was in L.A. with him back in early December, he and I formed a writing-producing company, Contextual Absurdity Productions. Just for creating & producing micro-short comedies.  (5-15 minutes in length.)

Peitor is primarily a music producer and composer, and we have been close friends since my singer-songwriter days in NYC – 35 years ago already. And I have to say that I am so looking forward to getting back to work with him on these scripts because he makes me laugh so hard. And I really need that right now. He makes me cry, I laugh so hard. And, with my steadily advancing age, I also have to try really hard not to piss myself. I’m not always successful there, because, man, he makes me laugh just so hard.

It’s all absurd, dark humor. The scripts we’re writing, I mean. Getting back to it will be a welcome change to all the sadness around here.

Although I have to say, when I was feeding all the cats this morning, down in the kitchen, handing out their food bowls to their happy little selves, I felt Daddycakes behind me, in the spot he was always in when it was feeding time. I truly felt him.  To the point that I was surprised when I turned and there wasn’t a cat waiting there.

I do really believe his essence is with us. And that gives me a sense of quiet joy.

Of course, loyal readers know that ever since last year, when I moved into this old house here in Crazysburg (118 year-old house in a 200 year-old town), I have been astounded by the amount of spirit activity that goes on around here. As if not only my house but the whole town is some sort of friendly portal. I have never once felt afraid, but I am positively sure that I will never bring a Ouija board into this house, because I think that would be truly overwhelming. I think the spirits would be lining up around the block to get a chance to come through on the board. I really do. And I’d kinda rather not know for sure just how many spirits there are in this house or in this town.

However, my other novel-in-progress, Down to the Meadows of Sleep, is all about this town and its spirits. I do love living here.  Wish it weren’t quite so far from the airport, but oh well.

Okay, gang. Gonna go stream the film now. Then get back to work on Blessed By Light.

As always, thanks for visiting. Have a meaningful Good Friday, in whatever way works best for you. I love you, gang.  And I leave you with THE most beautiful version of The 23rd Psalm ever, which was the theme song to one of the funniest shows, ever. Okay, guys. I’m outta here. See ya!

He Is Risen – The Cat, I Mean

I know, it’s sacrilegious, especially the day before Good Friday. But I’m an ordained minister, gang. Jesus already knows full well that I’m full of sacrilege. (Hence, I have no church of my own; no flock to lead. And not ever likely to get one.)

First, though, I need to tell you that late last evening, the director was finally able to get back to me about my revisions for the staged reading script for Tell My Bones.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that for 2 months, I labored over how best to take the director’s comments and not only revise my overall play, but also trim it down to under 30 minutes for the upcoming staged readings in Rhinebeck and NYC. And by “labored over,” I mean that I was truly near tearing my hair out. I really struggled.

But I was finally able to get the revisions to him, right on schedule, late last week. And last night he wrote and told me that it was “captivating”, while staying true to my original script and that he loved it. And that now we have to begin.

So that truly excited me, gang. “Captivating” is quite a cool and entirely unexpected word. It gave me those butterflies down in my tummy! It’s the beginning, now, of such a very long process: 3 staged readings in the NYC area, then it transfers to Florida, for a staged reading there (and hopefully an actual run of the play), before it transfers back to NYC, Off-Broadway. We’re literally looking at years (plus, multiply that whole scenario by the other play we’ll be doing in Toronto) — it is a long, drawn-out process, indeed. But I am so excited, and so happy. I’ve already been working on both these plays (with/for Sandra Caldwell) for 7 years.

Anyway, the part about Daddycakes being “risen”…

I awoke this morning around 6 a.m. I turned over in bed and saw Doris sitting in the open window, looking out at the dark street (there is a screen, btw), and right next to her was Daddycakes, standing with his two front paws on the window sill, also looking out at the street.

He was really there, gang. I really saw him. Of course when I looked away for a moment and looked back, he was gone. But I could tell his spirit was free now and that he was visiting us, part of his little clan again.

It really made me feel peaceful. I could feel it intensely – that his spirit was so free now and happy.

When each of my past cats has died, they always, without fail, make one final visitation to me from beyond, to let me know that everything in their new world is okay. Usually I only hear them or feel, but this time I saw Daddycakes. I really did. It was so lovely. To see him happy there, with his daughter.

Okay. I’m gonna get started around here today, gang. Gotta get back to Blessed By Light. The editor, and the edits, are almost done and I will soon be getting started on new chapters. Only about 80 pages to go and the novel will be complete.

Have a wonderful Thursday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting! I love you, gang. See ya.

(Oh, and in case you were wondering yesterday why on earth I had one lonely CD of Anne Murray’s amongst all that Nick Cave and Tom Petty stuff, here’s why! Listen and enjoy, folks!! This is such an addictive song!)

 

 

 

It Was One of those Nights

I awoke at 2 a.m. and could not fall back to sleep until 3:30. Primarily thinking about Daddycakes and feeling like I didn’t do enough to save him and wondering if he was somewhere in the afterlife, angry at me for letting him die when he should have been in the prime of his kitty life.

It’s just so different when you’re dealing with rescued feral cats. They make the rules, because they are wild animals, and then you — or me actually; I am the one who has to try to figure out if I step aside and let them have their own connection to God’s world, or do I try to intervene somehow and make a decision about life and death?

Playing God, basically.  It got to the point where the cat was simply suffering too much and my heart couldn’t handle it so I had him put to sleep.

Then of course, by feeling guilty for the decisions I made regarding him, it means I think I am God: I should have known better, or I should have known more about that cat’s life or death and the quality of it or lack of it, and just done all sorts of different things that I can’t even imagine at this point.

Honestly, how can we possibly know those things?  We make those kinds of decisions through whatever filters we have in our brains that tell us we have answers to these sorts of questions and that’s not really saying very much at all. Because we don’t know how to create life; we know how to do away with it. We simply make a decision. And that’s not saying anything at all, in the scope of what is nonphysical, I mean.

Well, I finally made myself stop thinking about Daddycakes, and instead decided to worry about the novel.

I went to the grocery store late yesterday afternoon – always an investment of time because I live in the middle of the country and the grocery store is about 4 towns away.

It was a glorious spring day. It really was. The countryside was turning that tiny spring green.  Birds everywhere. Daffodils blooming in the most unlikely places. (And you know that a person had to plant those; daffodils don’t just spring up in the middle of nowhere along the highway. And that makes me love people, because I know I’m one of the passing strangers for which those daffodils were joyfully planted.) And all along the way, the farms had all their little baby calves out now, finding their footing in the green pastures.

It was just so beautiful. A testament to the renewal of life.

I’m guessing I was listening to something by Nick Cave, but I don’t recall what. It’s always either Nick Cave or Tom Petty. My little Honda fit is overflowing with CDs by either Nick Cave or Tom Petty and one single CD of Anne Murray’s Greatest Hits. (Inside my house is another story. In there, the world overflows with music of every possible stripe and persuasion. But for some reason, none of that makes it out to the car.)

(And to see me getting into the car is ridiculous: “Oh my god, what I am going to listen to?” If I’m going to the Dollar Store, it’s a 3-minute trip and the music is not so crucial. But everywhere else I go to from here in the middle of nowhere, is a journey. It requires a soundtrack. If I’m going far, far away, like to NY, then it’s hands down Tom Petty’s LIVE Anthology, because traveling on Interstate 80 is intensely American and so you need that American rock & roll; 3-minute awesome songs about falling in love or falling out of love, or chasing a dream and that’s basically it. It could not be better or more clear cut.

(But other journeys require Nick Cave, but he can be so dicey because you never know when he’s going to throw you under the fucking bus. Which is what I love about his writing, but it can get harrowing. You can be driving along at 95 MPH, which is what I tend to do out here on these highways, listening to “Where Do We Go Now But Nowhere?” and at first you’re thinking, man what a song. Then the next minute, you have to pull over, grab your revolver from out of the glove compartment and shoot yourself because it’s just too fucking horribly SAD.

(Or, I guess, you can just turn the music off. But that’s the dilemma: you’re on a  journey that requires a soundtrack; you’re not supposed to turn it off. So I’ll sit there in the driver’s seat, engine on, looking at all the CDs and trying to figure out which one will not cause me to  want to shoot myself while going 95 mph?  Sometimes I sit there for several minutes, not going anywhere and driving myself insane.)

Anyway, I get to the grocery store, and in the parking lot, I get a message on my phone from the editor in NYC who is editing my novel, Blessed By Light.

She sends me updates, chapter by chapter, because it’s much easier to manage that way. And while all her comments thus far have been very positive, this particular message says: “This chapter kicks ass. Kudos.” Followed by comments on the next chapter: “Excellent chapter. He seems distraught, guilty, tired. Beautifully written.”

And while this made me feel good in the grocery store parking lot, at 3 a.m., alone in my bed in the guilt-ridden dark, all it did was make me wonder about the previous chapters, which were only “good”. Shouldn’t they all kick ass? Shouldn’t they all be beautifully written? Should I start all over from scratch? Am I a total failure now? I used to be a good writer.

You know, I start to doubt my sense of pacing, my sense of building a story arc, my sense of anything at all because I’ve suddenly forgotten what reality is even for. If I ever even knew, I mean.

Death does that to you. Even tiny little furry deaths.

Well, it’s another glorious spring day here in the Hinterlands. I’m going to give it all another shot and see how this day turns out.  As usual, no guarantees but I am tying so hard to be happy.  I have a wonderful novel in progress, that is sometimes good and sometimes it kicks ass.  I need to count my blessings today.

Have a good Wednesday, wherever you are in the world.  Thanks for visiting. I love you, gang. And I leave you with this! See ya.