White-girl Rapper

"After all, computers crash, people die, relationships fall apart. The best we can do is breathe and reboot. And when that fails a little gizmo called a zip drive can provide a surprising amount of comfort."

I love "Sex and the City". It's one of my catch-all, fail-proof ways to get happy when I'm not.

The problem is when my life starts to mirror it.

There's an episode where Carrie's computer crashes, and she loses everything she'd written, for years. You watch this episode, laugh, and assume it will never happen to you.

You're wrong.

It will happen to you. One of these days, your computer will die an early death, and you will lose everything. Whether it's music, pictures, or five years worth of writing that you could never begin to recreate, you'll lose it.

I did.

Last week my computer died. Not for long, as I was able to save it's rotting carcass for a bit, at least until I can get a new one, but all of the data I had on it was wiped, completely. Not even my computer geek could get more than a few symbols and snippets of words from it.

Losing that much writing, that many starts of books that you swear you'll go back to at some other point, is painful. It feels like someone close to you has died. Like you've died.

Needless to say, even now, a week later, the sensation that I might burst into tears at any second is still very present.

Luckily the current project was on my little thumb drive, so at least I didn't lose that. But the rest of it...It's just gone.

Moral of this story? Back yo shit up.

Inkygirl has the perfect comics for me.

Procrastination is the fear of success. People procrastinate because they are affraid of the success that they know will result if they move ahead now. Because success is heavy, carries a responsibility with it, it is much easier to procrastinate and live on the "someday I'll" philosophy.

I'm convinced that Denis Waitley lives in my head. Because when I read things like this, I see myself so clearly in them, that honestly, they had to have been written for me.

Which incidentally reminds me of something that's been going on at work lately, which doesn't put me in a better mood.

Of course, that's not the point.

The point is, I've given myself until tomorrow at bedtime to send my novel (finished or otherwise) to Ali's agent friend. So what am I doing?

• I'm creating another blog for work stuff.
• I'm working too many hours and not writing during my shifts (not entirely my fault).
• I'm spending all day at my inlaws, and not bringing my book with me to work on.
• I'm updating this blog.
• I'm signing up for SHINE Online, a blogging contest kind of like NaNoWriMo.

I am not, however, writing.

Procrastination, and the fear that fuels it, is my ball and chain, dragging me down into the depths of "you'll never be good enough, so why bother?"

And now, I think I'm going to go take a shower, instead of writing. Or cleaning the house, which will force me to take off time from writing to do tomorrow.

Today is not a good day.

With friends like these, who needs enemies?

There's a girl at work, Christen, who I like.

Most of the time.

Sometimes, she screws up her personal life so effectively that I want to revoke her decision making privileges.

But, that's not the purpose of this blog.

The purpose of this blog is to illustrate just how oblivious people can be.

The girls at work know that I'm writing a book. They know that I'm on a deadline. They know that I'll be writing at work, between customers, because our boss is awesome enough to let me use the computer there. Christen also knew the store was dead last night.

The perfect time to spend four paid hours writing, right? Not so much.

She didn't leave until I did. That is, nine o'clock. Four hours after her shift was over.

I tried to write, I did. But when you've got a hyperactive 22 year old yammering in your ear (despite the fact that she knows you have work to do, and can see you attempting to do it), it's very difficult to get anything done.

It's not like I didn't drop hints. She was in the back, eating, still talking, and I said "Hey Christen. Writing here. Put food in your mouth and shut up." She laughed, and kept talking.

*headdesk*

So basically by the end of the night, I told her that she'd wasted four hours of my time.

I think she thought I was kidding.

Stranded in Disco, Screaming

I was stranded in Disco. I went to dozens of darkened places with enough flashing lights to drive the average person mad. I felt lost in the pulse of sheer panic.

I haven't the faintest idea what Martha Reeves was talking about when she said that, or honestly, even who she is. (Though I'm sure someone will tell me and I'll feel a bit of a prat.) But looking at that quote, particularly in conjunction with the picture attached, it makes perfect sense.

There is a literary agent that wants to see my writing.

Now you feel the same panic that I do. Or you don't. Either way, I'll explain, so if you understand, feel free to let your attention wander.

The idea of being an author is a lovely one. There's a pretty picture of me sitting in a quiet room, or on a terrace overlooking some beautiful city, with a mug of steaming tea at my elbow, joyously typing on my computer, working on the next Great American Novel. It comes easy, and the people that I interact with know me as "The Writer", and there is adoration that flows like ambrosia from the gods.

It doesn't work like that.

It's hours and days and months and years of second-guessing, self-loathing, sketching out suicide attempts on the coffee collars of the thousands of cups that I've used to completely ruin my insides and give me an ulcer. It's writing and rewriting and throwing pens across the room to relieve frustration. It's having invisible sword fights with broom handles to the the choreography right, though no one will notice if it's wrong. It's creating languages and magical limitations, which you'll probably never use and throw out anyway. It's being sure that, no matter how hard you try, it will never go anywhere, and that has to be okay with you, because it's "not about the reader". Which inside, you know is complete and utter bullshit. You write so that it's read. Not so that it'll take up space on your hard drive. Anyone that says different is a lying moron.

And then there comes the time when you have the chance to have someone read it. Not a friend, or a family member, or some random person you met in a writing group on the internet. But someone real.

A literary agent.

The most powerful and terrifying person in publishing. Because if they don't like it, there's no chance in hell of anyone else seeing it. The buck, as they say, stops with them. Which is a phrase I've never really understood, but that's beside the point.

They say you don't need an agent to get published. Which, I suppose is true. But, you also don't need a paddle to get down a river in a canoe. I'd love to see someone try and stay away from a waterfall with their Jedi mind powers though.

Agents are important. Agents are the author's paddle. I want a paddle. I want the help, because I'm not strong enough to make it through the waterfalls by myself.

She's a friend of a friend (which further solidifies my belief that it's not what you can do, but rather who you know), and apparently Ali has talked me up hardcore to her. No pressure, thanks Ali. Agent chick asked me questions, seemed excited, and somehow made me promise that I'd send her something by the end of next week.

Fuck me.