Ok. That peace of mind didn’t last, but it was a wonderful vaca.
My sister laughed at me because I couldn’t write about murder, death, and mayhem. She suggested that I use the peace to think like a serial killer.
I laughed my butt off, but she was sort of right. They really don’t think like normal people. And, surprisingly, I did get some work done over the past three days.
Not enough, however. Drama hit. I don’t know which I dislike more: people who use their titles like clubs, people who don’t listen to years of experience, people who change half-laid plans when they aren’t being clear themselves and then wonder why there’s an issue, or politics. I’m just glad there wasn’t any name dropping to go with all that unnecessary fluff.
Why, oh why, do I stop listening to my instincts? I’ve had negative experiences with ___ in the past. Quite rude, in fact, and I gave up completely. A person from ___ reached out to me last year, was friendly, and I thought, why not give it another chance? At the moment, I regret not listening to my gut. And I’m stuck. Well, not really, but it feels that way. I’ve put out politics myself and more than once. But damn. I regret.
What was cool, this week, though, when I did have an issue, with a different ___, someone did reach out and gave me very clear info that allowed me to fix a massive problem. It may have seemed like a nothing thing to the other person at the time, but it meant the world to me.
I am using the one to cool the burn of the other and I dislike that even more. I’ve often said that using a positive to fill the hole of a negative is no where near as good as using a positive to boost a positive.
I’m finding that I love to knit. I do miss quilting and will maybe go back to it long enough to finish up some projects. Right now, I am looking at my murder boards, planning out the crimes, changing details based on evidence research, watching cop shows, and working on the sleeve to my sweater.
The comment about the calmness of serial killers keeps coming back to me. Some memories. Unpleasant, when my detachment slips a bit, but hey, I’d be more worried if they weren’t.
When I started writing the Novo series, Eli was “the bad guy.” He still is. Now that I am about to publish book 5, I think simply viewing him from Ridge Lake eyes isn’t quite enough. I have spent some time in his head, how he sees the world at large. How he thinks. What motivates the character. It isn’t fame. It isn’t money, even though he has a lot of it. It is simply his joy of power.
The point of Novo, was, believe it or not, that in any horrific situation, people can still find love. It may seem cheesecakey. It was written that way on purpose. But with all the horrific things I’ve lived through, and see the scars on my own skin, the ghosts of broken bones and black eyes, I still love. I still have a sense of humor. It’s those “what if’s” that mean so much to me. Even if it does come across as silly.
To be honest, right now, after the unpleasant taste in my mouth from dealing with ____ (and I feel like telling the entire lot that I am backing out due to their snobbery and rudeness), I think it’s important that I continue to hang on to those “what if’s.” You haven’t fully met the characters in Hawthorne yet. And you haven’t fully seen what I do to poor Duncan LaBrelle. But what if you met the love of your life after he has been shot multiple times, or has the issues Neal does, or feel like Myles does and he’s just waiting around to die because the love of a daughter is great but feels like there’s nothing else left?
I love kids. Don’t get me wrong. But where is it written, anywhere, that says that we give up or have to give up being ourselves simply for offspring? That we stop being simply because there is a birth. My mom gave up things most people wouldn’t. Believe me, I am grateful in ways for that, that isn’t even funny. It would make your hair stand on end, just from my earliest memory alone of watching someone put a gun to her head.
I also remember getting angry at her on more than one occasion. She stopped trying. She stopped seeing herself as a human being. She made everything into her kids. Her clothes, food, her very existence. Everything. And in some very bad ways, conveyed to everyone around her that she was unimportant. I had to clean up that mess, time after time after time. And before anyone comes at me about “not being a parent,” my kids have passed and I have taken care of more than a hundred people, including two teenagers with jackasses for biological parents.
After Mom passed, one of her former coworkers found out there wasn’t a funeral. “Typical,” he had snorted. “She remained aloof, right until the end.” Fortunately, Mom’s best friend was there to put a stop to it and explained that Mom didn’t want my father finding out and causing problems. Shut the co-worker’s mouth pretty fast. It was that every thing became about us, my sisters and I. We weren’t allowed to love Mom, in a lot of ways. She wanted us to survive without her. It will forever hurt.
There’s people I know, right now, facing the empty nest problem and are replacing their children with other children, just so they don’t have to feel alone and empty. It sickens me. I can even hear the words now: “No, I am expanding my family.” When I see the oldest, the one about to leave the nest, being repeatedly ignored and dismissed.
Hurts to see it. Being blown off by your parents, for any reason, sucks. Especially when they stop listening. I don’t care how old or young those involved are. It sucks.
It’s not my drama but I got sucked into it as an unwitting participant. Just like I got sucked into business politics by not listening to my instincts. I feel helpless by both. I have to snort, too, because dealing with that stuff or getting dragged into it shouldn’t be anyone’s “comfort zone,” and it was mine for years. Now that I’ve stepped back, I find it vomitous.
So I am sitting at my murder boards, and knitting. Just one more form of meditation. In the end, I will have 2 new stories and an awesome sweater.
I think, if I were to die tomorrow, is this really what I would have wanted my last week on earth to be like? I have asked myself that question numerous times. Because I’ve nearly died numerous times. Enough that I am comfortable with that thought. The answer is: no. I can’t help but feel sorry for people who have to live by a title or what their child is doing. Because they don’t see what they can be. And I don’t mean those Eli’s of the world.
I want more out of life than a sweater. At the same time, I don’t. ‘Cause I think it’s cool for anyone to make a sweater. I don’t want it to be a refuge. It’s occasionally turned into one. As sick as this may sound, taken out of context, I don’t want my murder boards to turn into a refuge, either. I want to be able to write and knit and quilt for the joy of doing so. Not for a title. I don’t want to be used to settle someone else’s political internal issues. Not to keep a sick relationship in check and not in someone else’s work-business. That’s not why I’m here and I certainly don’t find it fun. I want to be able to turn around and say, WTF? How did I get that sweater made, or be completely overwhelmed by having five books in hard copy, or see the awesome new cover Jana’s made, or watch my jealous cat blink twice that I’ve actually handed him my cell phone with a brand new app moving a fish that he can paw at, or sit with my sister giggling over children’s books. THAT is life. My life.
It’s not fancy or glamorous. It’s sweet and fulfilling, even if I am surrounded by evidence boards and crimes and plot points. It’s my sweater, my sister, my cats, my books…