Krissie: All About You

Photo on 3-18-13 at 7.41 AM Are you getting tired of this? It’s March, it’s in the teens, a two day whopper of a storm is coming, and I’m feeling so fucking blaah that I can’t think of anything. I haven’t been writing, I haven’t been swimming, I haven’t been eating well, the house is in chaos. (Banging head against the wall).
Tim calls it March madness. Winter is so freaking long in Vermont that we get a major case of cabin fever around now. Even though I’ve gotten away to NJ (and more snow) a lot, and Richie and Tim got out to Portland, it’s still weighing down on us.
Oh, shit, Richie said it was four below zero this morning. That’s crazy.
Sigh.
Well, I did get my colonoscopy. You cannot imagine how that hung over my head.
But somewhere I have to find the energy to do what needs to be done, what I want to do. And facing a two-day storm that’s going to paralyze everyone isn’t the way to start.
Okay, time to smack myself upside the head. Pull up my socks. So I’m trapped in the house for two days? A perfect time to write, and to work on organizing my office.
I bought lots of healthy food so there’s no excuse on eating crap. I can do what I need to do, and that’s what I’ll do.
I’ll spend the storm in my office, working. That’s really the most important thing I can do right now. I’ll get back to swimming next week.
One thing at a time. This week I’ll concentrate on writing. That’s the most important thing, and I always feel better when I write.
So. I don’t know if the rest of you have a terrible case of the blahs, but let’s not push too much.
What one thing do you want to accomplish this week.

Krissie: Making Books

Photo on 2013-01-29 at 08.00 #2 In between my wifely duties I’ve been making books. In this Brave New World of electronic publishing we no longer write our books and send them in and wait to see whether they sink or swim. Nowadays we make our own as well, thanks to the glorious advent of epublishing. I’m not crazy about the work, and I’m going to train my computer-savvy and art student daughter to do a lot of it, but here’s what’s been going on.
First, there’s the short story. I was invited to be part of www.lunchhourlovestories.com, a wonderful site where all sorts of interesting authors like Teresa Medeiros and Barbara Samuel and so many others I can’t even begin to mention, are publishing short stories to keep you occupied during your lunch hour, all at the delightful price of $1.99. What I’ve read so far have been fabulous.
So I said sure because I had several orphaned pieces of writing — beginnings that never went anywhere or ones that got shot down. In particular, I had a story that was going to be an off-shoot of the ICE world, and set up a whole new spin-off series. Well, my agents hated it (too much violence and the rest was just sex) Jenny and Lani had doubts (nothing but violence and sex). Hey, I like violence and sex! Continue reading

Krissie: Update

Photo on 1-10-13 at 10.24 AM #2

Okay, so the scale was up a couple of pounds after ten days of no sugar and fats. Go figure. Undaunted, I’m soldiering on. Back on the old meds (effexor) because Cymbalta was making me a little squirrelly. Richie’s got bronchitis but I’m doing okay, and today I get to play. And go to my shrink.

And I finished the revisions! Except the editor, whom I like (do I keep saying that) seems to think I’m going to do another round of revisions. I beg your pardon?

Nevertheless, the book is off (god bless email) and now I can figure out how quickly I can get down to Crusie’s. I need a break.

Krissie: I’m baaaack

this is what I looked like last time you saw me, wearing the Disney sweatshirt and trying to finish the book. Finished the book, all hell broke loose and I went into a total meltdown. Such a total meltdown of screaming (mostly on my own) that my voice is still husky. I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anything permanent — it almost felt like it was bleeding.
Here I am this morning, after I went to take today’s picture and saw the last one. Sally cut my bangs and I’m not sure what I think but what the hell. She was taking care of me, so I let her do what she wanted. She put makeup on me and fed me and comforted me.

So here’s the story and there are many parts to it. Maybe I’ll skip over the rough parts. The scoop is, as you know, I’m fighting off a really deep depression. Plus, when you’re working on finishing a book it’s called Deadline Dementia and you’re a physical and emotional mess.
Unfortunately my son chose that moment to not only freak about about the reality of his testing report (he has severe learning issues. He scores very high on verbal skills, reasoning, and something else — I forget. So his LD is mostly invisible unless he tries to write or do math. He’s got ADHD and is severely dyslexic but lots of other stuff as well. And he was facing it. Which god knows is hard, because we’ve always tried to pump him up and shield him from hurtful stuff. To make him feel he could do anything, not tell him all the things he can never do. He’d been to vocational rehab and he was freaking.
But he started attacking. No excuse for it. It was verbal and emotional abuse. And he has to stop it. But he couldn’t, the more I asked him to stop the more he went on, and I finally snapped and started screaming at him. First to get out of the room, and then I just kept screaming, and then I ran out of the house in my socks and drove to where Richie was.

Lots of drama. Lots of tears. Lots of apologies. Tentative re-ordering of things. Plans are being made.

The thing is, I’ve been so protective that in his entire life I’ve never even snapped at him. Definitely never yelled, and no one’s seen me freak out like that. It’s happened twice in my entire life. When I was in my mid-thirties, fighting with infertility, going through intense treatments, my toxic cousin got pregnant and decided to do a number on me. So I drove to a quiet place and screamed (because people told me it would release tension). It didn’t — it made me sick.

The second time I was in the car, parked in the driveway, and my sister had asked me to read my nephew’s autopsy report before she did. I did, and started screaming. You don’t need to know.

So it was bad. But the next day Sally took excellent care of me, Lani and Jenny took care of Refab, and my son apologized, which is amazing. But this isn’t about my son. We can talk about that another time — in the meantime let’s talk about me.
So the next day (yesterday) I rearranged my living room (shoved the piano, the couch around). When I finish I’ll take a photo so you can see. But it made me feel wonderful. Today I’m going to finish the cleaning in the living room (figure that’s the place I’ll be spending most of my time in), do a little in my bedroom and do some sewing (before seeing my shrink).
I’m finally realizing that the book was gone, and it was good. I’m still feeling depression drag at me — so many things I’m supposed to do that I don’t want to do (career stuff), such severe money problems. But one massive source of stress is gone. (Of course, because it was so late, I knew the next deadline would need to be adjusted. I asked, and the book is due on December 15th. I laughed).

But I’m getting to do all the things I refused to let myself do. Nest. Fix up my house. Decorate for Christmas (Alex is coming to help tomorrow).

So we’ve got a lot to talk about in the days. I still want to talk about Depression Lies and everything people talked about that day.
And I need to talk about anger, which frightens me (clearly). So that when I freak it’s way out of proportion and I don’t know how to deal with it.
I want to talk about children, in particular wounded children and how we deal with them, what helps and what doesn’t.

And most of all I want to talk about Christmas because I gotta tell you, I love it and always have. Don’t know why because we had our share of Christmas horrors. But I just freaking love Christmas. And I’m finding “found” presents and ones I can make and I really don’t have to work unless I want to until Christmas is over, because I have had A Hard Time. Officially.

So, lots to talk about. Crusie’s feeling better, Lani’s cat came home, things are falling into place. Maybe they’re falling into place for me too.

Once can only hope.

Krissie: All About You

Gird your loins, it’s now officially Advent (yesterday was the first Sunday), the other start to the Christmas holidays (I did manage to sneak an hour to go to church, then rushed out afterwards and went back to work). Fabulous ideas for Christmas presents yesterday. We’ll talk a lot about that this month, because I looooove Christmas.
BTW, I bought this t-shirt at Disneyland, on a wonderful day with Barbara Keiler, Jill Smith and others, after the RWA conference. (At least, I think that’s when I bought it). I just thought it would make me feel cozy and happy today, since that was a happy day. (And while those fools went on a scary ride I sat and waited and saw Anthony Head and his two daughters being escorted around the park).
Anyway, I got two things today. Finish the revisions and then gather loads of good will stuff. Enough to fill the back of Sally’s Subaru. Then tomorrow we take them, go shopping, and treat ourself (I want a pedicure). She’s taking care of me, bless her.
And I want/need to rearrange the living room. That’ll cheer me too.
Nothing but Good times ahead.

How about you?

Krissie: Losing My Religion

Lots of food for thought yesterday, and I can’t decide whether I want to talk about happiness or my epiphany, but I promised the epiphany, so here goes.
I’m a writer. I know that comes as a shock to everyone, but it’s more than a job. It really is who I am. Writers have told me they wouldn’t write if they weren’t paid for it, that they could turn their back on it. Writers retire. My BFF Sally spent hours trying to argue with me that being a writer is only a small part of who I am.
Nope. I am a writer, I come from a long line of writers (well, maybe not that long). I wrote “novels” in fifth grade on up.
All my life I wanted children, I wanted babies. And yet, when I was going through the unending pain of infertility, I never once offered God a bargain where he could take my writing if he’d just let me get pregnant. And trust me, you make a lot of bargains.
My sexual fantasies are in words, not pictures. Everything I do is in service to writing. I go to movies that will inspire me, or I go see something different so that the break will inspire me. I live and breathe story.
And it’s been eluding me. Enough that I feel like I won’t ever be able to write again. That I’ve finished with it, over, it’s lost, gone. I’ve been wondering whether it’s age, but realized that was crap. Some of my favorite writers are older than me and still writing wonderful stuff. I tell myself I just don’t have any new stories to tell.
That’s wrong too. Less than a year ago I was brimming with so many ideas I was desperate to write that I decided I couldn’t ever die — I just had too many stories to tell.
And suddenly, for the first time in my life, that’s gone.
It’s a combination of “that which shall not be discussed” which is career issues, and the depression, and being horribly late with a new publisher. I always had faith in who I was, knew who I was. A writer.
And now I don’t know any more.
It’s a combination of circumstance and depression. In the past, circumstance would at least remind me that my depressed thoughts were just thought.
Now circumstance is reinforcing those thoughts. Or at least not giving me any respite.
So the hopelessness of this current depression comes from losing everything I thought I was, I thought was true about me. I guess it’s like being a nun and finding out that god is that man behind the curtain, pulling levers, and not the great and beneficent Oz.
I don’t know if that helps, but at least I understand it a little better. So much of this is out of my control, and being depressed and having cosmic temper tantrums won’t change it. It feels like nothing will.
Okay, there’s time to talk a little about yesterday. Acting A Zif. Which is when you act “as if” something is true, sort of “fake it till you make it” kind of thing. I suppose my best bet is to try to summon up enough energy to shut out those voices and pretend. Because right now it doesn’t feel like the depression talking, it feels like the truth.
Anyway, the revisions are moving, and I’m enjoying some of the book. So back I go, armed and dangerous, ready to finish this. I wish I could sleep during the night and stay awake during the day. I wish I could feel better.
But one day at a time.