One Little Elephant

This is just a bit of fun. It began in a forum on CritiqueCircle.com as a challenge to write about a subject we knew little about. I know next to nothing about zombie-romance and I have no intention of spending even 10 seconds researching the topic, if such a topic even exists. But just for fun I thought I'd write a short zombie-romance and see where it goes. So here are the first few paragraphs. I'll try to add an additional few each Friday until I either become hopelessly fatigued with it or it ends. Feel free to point out all the zombie-lore I get wrong.

A Zombie Romance
by Regina Ruth Richards

Igor limped down the street. He paused briefly in front of the Romano house, but shook his head and moved on. He was certainly in the mood for Italian tonight, but Rita had mentioned there was a new family in town, the Lees, and she had her heart set on Chinese. She’d be ticked if he arrived already full and he hated it when she got mad at him. That's how he'd lost a good portion of his foot last week. Snapping off body parts was how Rita expressed rage.

He rounded the corner and came to a dead stop. His mouth dropped open and his tongue, if he'd still had one, would have hung out. Sitting on a bus bench just a few yards away was the most wondrous creature he'd ever laid his eye on. She was a vision beyond his wildest nightmares.

Something that's helping me write today: the weather outside is cold and rainy so there's no temptation to be out and about. The winter view out my window pleases me in some contrary way. Perhaps because I get to enjoy its beauty from this side of the pane, in toasty warm comfort.

Tomorrow we visit the tax accountant. Throughout the year I toss writing receipts into a file. Today I'll sort and total those receipts. I dread it. Seeing the money I invest in writing each year is one thing, but being forced to look at that "income earned" figure ($0!!!) is deflating. Best get it done. And while I do, for the curious, below is a breakdown of what I spent, or at least what I kept the receipts for having spent, on writing way back in 2007.

Org. Dues - libraries, nat'l/local chapters, crit group: 207.50
Misc. Meeting Costs - lunches, raffle donations, etc. : 217.61
Research Materials - diaries, rare out of print books : 196.26
Contest Entry Fees - nine entries and/or critiques : 237.00
Office Supplies - mostly computer related : 1060.88
Conferences and Retreats - 2 local with no hotel costs : 238.47
Postage : 83.32

Total - not including gas, mileage, internet, various other : 2241.04

Income Earned From Writing : none

Hard to believe that just two years ago I was still sending enough stuff snail mail to have $83 in postage. Nowadays it's all electronic. Times change!


Something that's helping me write today: the comforting memory of fellow writer Jen Fitzgerald's remark on seeing my 2007 expenses..."That's about as much as my husband spends on paintball, and when those balls splat they're gone. Stories last. So write on!"

A local museum advertised a free lecture on Victorian culture, an era I hope will be a good fit for a novel I'm planning. I noted the time and date on my writing calendar a month in advance and rearranged my schedule so I could attend. On the day of the class I gussied up and drove to town. My heart sank when I realized I was the only person in the audience.

I find myself in this situation regularly. And regularly, despite the fact the performer has already been paid in full for their appearance, I'm sent home without receiving the promised lecture, class, demonstration, training, or entertainment.

It's insulting!

By sending me home, the performer and/or their sponsor is telling me that the time and effort I put into being there is discardable, that I'm not important enough, not worth their time, that they were hoping for a better audience.

Luckily for me, the Victorian lecturer that day was a charming professional. She suggested we move to more comfortable seating, gave me a private lecture, and allowed me to ask tons of questions. She made me glad I'd made the effort to attend. Though the lecture was free, her time paid for by the museum, I made a donation before walking out the door. I also marked my calendar to attend her next lecture.

Something that's helping me write today: 15 minutes on the front porch with a glass of tea and a copy of "The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes and How to Avoid Them" by the late Jack Bickham, author of seventy-five novels including the much-loved "The Apple Dumpling Gang".

In my last post I complained that I no longer wanted to be a novelist, that it was just too hard. Immediately following that post I wrote, with astonishing ease, an entire scene I'd been struggling for days to even begin. Perhaps I just needed to gripe a little, to blow off steam.

Barabara Sher describes that phenomenon in her book Wishcraft. It's been a decade since I read it, but, if I recall correctly, she holds the view that to be successful a person needs to be allowed to complain at times, to be honest about how they feel, basically to whine. A little. And then let it go and move on.

Telling myself that things are 'fine' when I feel otherwise isn't healthy. On the other hand, constantly focusing on what is wrong would be just as foolish. I suspect balance is the key: acknowledging the truth of how I feel at any given moment, but not wallowing too long in it. Unless of course the feeling is joy, love, pleasure, etc. Those I plan to wallow in quite thoroughly.

Something that's helping me write today: a small space heater in my office ($20) that makes the room the cozy temperature I prefer without running up the electric bill or causing my polar bear husband to overheat in his office on the other side of the house.

Today I don't want to be a novelist. I'm tired of the struggle, the disappointment, the sense of failure. I'm tired of fighting procrastination and insecurity and isolation.

So why not just quit? Because I can't stop writing.

Some people might think that means I'm addicted to writing. Not true. I know what addictions are. I've had a few and, monsterous as they are, it's possible to overcome them, to leave them behind.

Unfortunately, writing isn't simply an addiction. Writing is like the fact that I'm six feet tall. It's something I don't prefer, something I wouldn't have selected given the choice, but something over which I have no control. It's the hand I was dealt, who I am. I'm six feet tall. That's reality. I'm a novelist. That's reality. I must deal with both as best I can.

When I was young I wanted to be a dancer. I believed I had talent and I knew I had heart. One day I shared my dream with my instructor. She told me kindly but firmly that my height would make achieving that dream impossible. I believed her. I quit dance and joined the basketball team. I set new school records.

Today I'm resisting reality. But it's a losing battle. I'm a novelist and must simply make the best of it.