At the End of a Very Long, No-Good, and Very Bad Day

Ever have one of those days where NOTHING goes right?  Hello . . . I just suffered through one.  EVERYTHING, from the moment I spilled my coffee (sacrilege!) to the instant I realized that the lemon-blueberry bundt cake I LABORED over wasn't coming out of the bloody pan (note to self: next time, don't use the blueberries you froze last fall because they SINK to the bottom of the pan and STICK, no matter how much flour you coat those little suckers with)--to the bloody book that just doesn't feel quite right . . . yes, it's been that kind of day.

What I think about after a day like today is what makes me . . . afraid?  Worried?  Worried; I like that word better.  Afraid makes me sound like a wuss.  Worried. . . I'm only mildly anxious (even when I'm anything but).

Let me explain.

I'm doing this guest post for the Horror Writers of America blog, and so I get these questions.  Of course, one of the questions is about fear, and more specifically what frightens me now as an adult versus what might have frightened me as a kid.  I'll tell you what I told them: when I was a kid, I wasn't scared of very much except being alone, in a dark house, late at night.  I think it was the stillness that got to me.  So long as there was some kind of white noise—a fan, say, or some steady drone—I was fine.  But once it got ~~quiet~~, every bump and creak used to freak me out.   I hated windows without blinds or curtains; who the hell knew what was out there, looking in?  So, of course, when I babysat, I made sure every light was on and the TV just loud enough so that when the homicidal maniac came through the door, I wouldn't hear him until it was too late.  It was a wonder no one docked my pay to cover the electric bill.

One thing I didn't mention, though, was that I was afraid of disappointing my parents.  It was just this global amorphous concern, and it completely freaked me out.  When you're a kid, you work hard in school to tell the teacher what you know--and to please your parents.  So, not pleasing them, making them upset or not want to have anything more to do with me . . . scared me.  In my house, if you didn't please a parent, you got one of two things: either a very LOUD talking-to (accompanied by other very LOUD and UNPLEASANT things)--or you got the freeze-treatment.  It wasn't just that you were letting yourself down (in fact, YOU, as a kid, usually weren't in the equation).  No, no, you'd disappointed your parents.  You'd hurt them.  So you worked very hard at becoming competent; you studied harder, learned more, did more than other kids.

This may explain why, as an adult . . . I crave silence.  I like being alone.  My circle of friends is small.  I protect myself.  I love the dark.  So, go figure.

Still, honestly, nowadays, very little freaks me out.  I wasn't even all that worried for or about my kids, although I do remember turning all ninja-mom when some bozo spooked one of my girls.  Guy was lucky to leave that grocery story with his teeth.  (Another true story: big old wasp—we're talking something with BOEING written on the side—landed on my baby's shoulder?  I bare-handed that sucker, threw it down, ground it to paste.  My husband's eyeballs about fell out of their sockets.  Then we all went back to our burgers.)

In part, I think my tolerance for the horrific is because of my past life as a doc.  You know, hang around the emergency room or a psych ward or women's prison for a while, and you see some pretty terrible stuff.   Now, it's true: I really don’t want to be held up at gunpoint; I don't think I'd care much for, oh, drowning, being strangled, or knifed to death.  A stiletto pointing at my eyeball would be right up there on my freak-out-o’meter.  (Come to think of it, maybe all those times I put my poor characters in those life and death situations, I’m really trying to work through things.  You see, this is what comes of being a shrink.  You navel-gaze a lot. You think about the impact of your parents in your life.  Then you go see a friend or talk to your husband who tells you to get a grip.)

But, in reality, I guess there comes a point where, sure, you can be scared, but if you don’t do something, you’re dead.  So if I get scared, I work on getting competent.  A little anxiety is not a bad thing, by the way; anyone who doesn't doubt herself before trying to tell a story is a fool.

At this point, the things that freak me out all revolve around things that make me mad (and sad) because there’s no way I can become competent.  Climate change and mass extinction are right up there.  Scare the bejesus out of me because I know there’s very little I can do except scream at politicians and be as environmentally responsible as I can.

Today, though, I've felt a tad incompetent, and from the get-go.  The book's not coming together; the cake was a disaster (okay, not totally; it was scrumptious but not pretty); I can't, for the life of me, see how I'm going to pick myself up from this mess.  It does no good for my ever-tolerant, ever-patient husband to remind me that I am ALWAYS like this when I write a book; that I am ALWAYS convinced it is drek; that I ALWAYS flail.

For the moment--this instant, tonight--I feel incompetent, and that freaks me out.  There is no help for it; I'm not some movie star, like Gloria Swanson/Norma Desmond, who can watch old films of herself when she was once someone.

All I can do is remind myself that I have been competent; I know how to do this (this being write a decent story); and if things aren't coming together today, they either will tomorrow or the next day or at some point when I figure out why they're not.

Someone once asked me if there was ever a story that defeated me.  I've written a blog about that, actually; and the short answer is yes and no.  Of course, stories defeat me; they humble me all the time; they take me down a notch or two; and sometimes, they punch me in the nose and laugh as I stagger and bleed all over the keyboard because, to their mind, I've no business in the ring to begin with.

But the one thing I have always done is get back in the ring.  I have always fought back, and I have always learned new tricks to best this beast.  

There's this great mantra that Frank Herbert put in the mouth of Paul Atreides as he's being tested by the Bene Gesserit in a trial of mind over feeling, and it's worth repeating here:

I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration

I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

And when it has gone, I will the turn the inner eye to see its path.

Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing.

Only I will remain.

Wish I'd written that.  If that's too melodramatic for you--but, you writers out there, you know what I'm talking about; fear really will cripple you--then try this one for size.  It comes from an essay by Alexander Chee who wrote a fine piece about what he learned from Annie Dillard (a fabulous writer; her best work, to my mind, is An American Childhood, a book that still has the ability to make me cry): 

What I saw on the page was that the voice is in fact trapped, nervous, lazy. Even, and in my case, most especially, amnesiac. And that it had to be cut free.

So, I think . . . it's time: time to call it a day, time for a good night's sleep--and time to cut myself free and let my story find me . . . tomorrow.  Because I'm blessed with a tomorrow.

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Writer

When my husband wants to drive me crazy, he reminds me that computers don't live in our world.  Instead, we live in theirs.  I balk at that, but then I remember the irony of that last scene in The Social Network where Zuckerberg's sitting at that computer, obsessively refreshing the screen every few seconds.  Here, the invention of this social network has both made him rich and profoundly isolated him, costing him his only friend.  The best he manage now is to hope that a girl he's never met will accept his invitation to "friend" him.




Which is pretty sad, when you stop to think about it.


I was reminded of all this when I ran across an article in the May issue of The Atlantic all about social networking and Facebook and the web of interconnectivity in which we all seem to be snared either by choice or design.  The upshot of the article, though, was intriguing: all the research would suggest that, despite our being so very electronically connected, we're actually lonelier and more self-involved than ever.  

This is fascinating--and yet makes perfect sense.  Think about the number of times you've seen people in restaurants or on the train or in an airport or a waiting room and what are they doing?  Everyone's playing on their devices: answering email, surfing the Web . . . you know the drill.  Sure, some people are reading and, yes, this is a solitary activity but one which I believe is profoundly different than clicking and surfing, bopping around, hoping to find something "interesting."  Particularly weird are the couples sitting right across the table from one another and not speaking much at all but playing with their devices.  When they do manage a conversation, it's fitful at best and broken by cell phone calls and email checks.  (Why people feel the need to answer a cell when they're at the table to begin with is lost on me.  This is why there's voice mail.  But the sense that you just MUST answer the phone call is profoundly narcissistic, if you ask me.  NO ONE is really that important; barring life or death, nothing is so earth-shattering that it can't wait for a half hour.  You just are not THAT important.)


But I don't want this post to degenerate into a diatribe against social networking or interconnectivity.  I mean, I AM blogging, for God's sake; I'm on Twitter and Facebook.  But I wasn't initially there by choice, and here's why.


I am profoundly shy.  Really.  I know.  This always surprises people who meet and/or know me in person.  But I really am.  (Hey, we shrinks don't go into shrinkdom simply to do good in the world; we frequently want to understand ourselves.)  In my mind, you guys are always much better looking, better spoken, more at ease than I can ever be.  My husband knows that when I absolutely MUST go to some social event that revolves around his work, we follow this fairly predictable pattern.  He tells me about the event; I ask if I really have to go; he says yes; I ask why; we have anything from a minor scuffle to a modest brawl; I give in and say, fine, okay, I'll do it, FINE.  Then I flounce around for awhile and, on the way into the event, I always turn to him and suggest that he do all the talking while I listen and . . . oh, by the way, when are we leaving?  Is it time to leave yet?


So, yes.  Shy.  I'm not going to go into all the gory detail or anything about adolescence or medical school or dating--(although if you recall your Joseph Conrad, it really was a bit of the horror, the horror)--but suffice to say that, as with Sherlock Holmes, if there's a wall or suitable piece of drapery, I'm likely to be wearing clothing most likely to double as suitable camouflage.  




Now, after years of practice--forcing myself into forensics and drama and all that, where I HAD to go out there and be in front of other people and say SOMETHING (even if scripted)-- I'm much better; I function fine in social situations; no one would ever know that I was the very definition of a wallflower.  The downside of being shy, of course, is that you also tend to be somewhat lonely and envious all at the same time.  You stand there and watch everyone else having a good time at the dance or party or whatever, and it's just . . . depressing.


This all ran through my mind as I read this article because I started thinking about what social networking has been like for me, both personally and as an writer.  When I started out, I didn't do any of these social media things; I didn't have a blog.  I was pretty much told by my editors that I MUST have a web presence; MUST be on Twitter; MUST be on Facebook.  For a shy person, this was a very tall order; just because I couldn't see you didn't mean that I wasn't tongue-tied.  What could I possibly have to share or say that would interest anyone if it wasn't connected to a story (or, better yet, the story itself)?


As a writer, I've been kind of surprised.  The problem for a lot of writers is that even if our minds are full, our work is very solitary. (As Annie Dillard once put it, writers don't write books so much as sit up with them, a tad like holding the hand of a dying friend and hoping that, somehow, it will all get better eventually.)  But it is a solitude I embrace; I like hanging out in my head.  Most of the time, I really don't mind being alone; it's the life I've chosen.  


Yet while maintaining a regular Web presence has taken some getting used to, there have been a lot of upsides to being connected.  I'll give you one example.  I was in the middle of touring last year and I missed a connection or something . . . I forget the exact circumstances.  But I'm stranded in the airport and stressing, so I tweeted about it.  I'm not even sure why I did that.  But within about five minutes, someone had tweeted back, expressed their sympathy, said some nice things . . . and then spent, maybe, ten minutes or so going back and forth with me on Twitter, just keeping me company, offering encouragement . . . stuff like that.  In that instance, I was grateful to have someone to talk to for a few minutes, just to get my frustrations off my chest and have someone feel a little sorry for me (because I was feeling plenty sorry for myself).  For that brief period of time, I wasn't . . . well . . . alone or lonely.


So, for me, that's an instance where social networking was a nice thing to have.  The connection wasn't DEEP or anything; it was a lovely example of another human being reaching out to assure me that I wasn't alone and everything would be okay.  I've since discovered that it's kind of nice to drop in, chat a bit, drop out again . . .


And yet, I'm also bothered by this because I can see where some people might mistake this kind of fleeting contact as a true connection, which I'm not sure that it really is.  Don't get me wrong; I'm grateful there are people out there with whom I've grown kind of chummy via email and Twitter and what-have-you.  A couple have reached out to see if we can actually meet--which would be fun--and I LOVE how social media have allowed me to connect with other writers and, most especially, my readers.  I LOVE hearing from folks who've enjoyed my work; I love chatting with kids and adults about writing; and I know of at least one kid who pursued something she normally wouldn't have if not for Facebook, which allowed us to toss around a few ideas.


Yet I've also succumbed to the Zuckerberg-refresh phenomenon, too: tweeting or Facebooking about something only to then obsessively return again and again to see if anyone--ANYONE--cares.  (It's a little bit like that tree-falling-in-the-forest kind of thing.)  


And here's what I've found: THAT'S when I feel loneliest, when I keep (re)discovering that there's no one out there.  In those instances, I let the social media dictate how I act and, subsequently, feel.  It's not the loneliness of writing that leads me to do this; it's the reinforcement of what we all dread: that we're really only important to a very few people--or, even worse--not important to anyone, at all. 


What I've also discovered about myself is that I tend to do this when I'm having a horrible time maneuvering around some annoying plot point or the story's not cooperating or I can't seem to move the chess pieces in the right way or order and the work's not going well.  THAT'S when I tend to start tossing out bon mots and obsessively checking and rechecking email and Facebook and Twitter, hoping for a response, a bit like throwing out chum to lure sharks.  Of course, everyone else is going on with their lives; it's not like I've picked up the phone and asked a friend to meet me for coffee or something; and so the non-response can make me feel even worse.  In those moments, I do feel as if I've crossed into the machine's world instead of remaining firmly fixed in mine and empowered to act rather than depend on random bits of electrons.  I've gone searching for a fleeting and ephemeral connection which is no connection at all, and nothing compared to the satisfaction of simply going out and being in the world.


I'd be interested in what other folks--readers and writers--think about this.  Have you guys noticed that your use of social media goes up when you're frustrated, feeling blue?  Do things like Facebook and Twitter help?  Hurt?  Make you feel better or worse?  Or are they ways of tricking yourself into thinking that what you're doing is REALLY important when all you're really doing is avoiding something else, like work?  And are we lonelier than before?  More narcissistic and dissatisfied?  Because, really, having thirteen trillion followers . . . that doesn't make us any less lonely or alone.


Does it?