I'm a Human Being Who Writes (Updated -- Twice)

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I’m a Human Being Who Writes (Updated — Twice)

January 2, 2013 by Debbi

This is me.

Going through a re-branding is hard fucking work. Especially when you have to make all the decisions. And you can barely type.

The plain fact of the matter is that I’m nobody. I’m fine with that.

In case you don’t click the link, let me redo the post, in pertinent part …

Emily Dickinson

Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.

Ha ha ha … Emily Dickinson was awesome!

It’s fascinating how many people think they’re somebody when they aren’t. Don’t you think? Ha ha ha … #iamfoolish

We all know people who act entitled and seem better off. But we don’t know, do we?

We can’t know what others have gone through and judge them, because we’re not in a position to judge.

Yet, some writers act like they’re entitled to tell stories for a living. Ha ha ha … #iamfoolish

Good one!

Nobody owes you anything. I know that, and my father learned the hard way that he wasn’t the center of the universe. He learned the hard way that the world wasn’t going to simply fall over and kiss his ~~hand~~ ~~ass~~ ring or whatever, simply because he wrote plays.

He wrote plays that no one wanted to produce. And after years of failed playwriting, he went to Hollywood and tried screenwriting.

He failed at that, too. So, I learned from a very early age that just because you write a story, that doesn’t earn you anything, if your work ~~sucks~~ doesn’t appeal to the right people. In his case, those people were producers. They had the money. And when you control the money, you control the final product. In his case, plays or films.

So when you self-publish your work, you really need to think hard about what you’re doing. Because if you ~~suck at it~~ fuck up, it’s your reputation on the line.

That’s why I believe so strongly that writers need editors.

We need to be protected from our own illusions of greatness. As if. Ha ha ha … #iamfoolish

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

No shit. Ha ha ha … #iamfoolish

******

And here’s what I think of fame: to hell with fame. Really!

I just want to write, get paid, live my life and enjoy it while I can. Period!

So … now I’m working on the 4th novel of the Sam McRae mystery series. Click there to contribute, if you wish. 29 days left to meet my goal of $5,500.

Want to see the shitty draft since we left Sam sobbing into the phone? I guess. I can’t remember shit.

Okay, I just checked. We left off here. Read this and weep or laugh or whatever. Ha ha ha …

First, I should mention that the special acknowledgments in the new edition of IDENTITY CRISIS will include Julie Simpson. Whoops, sorry, about the omission. :-/

Okay, now here’s the shitty draft, from the sobbing in the phone part on …

******

“Jamila, I’m nearly broke.”

That’s when I couldn’t hold back any longer. The tears started and they wouldn’t stop.

After the dam broke, Jamila offered to take me to dinner, but I was still stuffed with filet minon. Frankly, all I wanted was a friend to talk to, not more food. So, we made plans to meet at a nice restaurant with a bar called Rinaldi’s near her office. I’m not a drinker, but I could’ve used one glass of wine. Jamila offered both wine and friendship. What more could I ask?

When I arrived at Rinaldi’s, Jamila was seated in the waiting area. She jumped up when I entered, ran over to me and hugged me like I was her long-lost sister and we’d been reunited.

“Um, hello,” I said.

“How are you doing?” she murmured.

“I … I’m not bad, actually.”

She let me go and stood back, peering at me. “That’s not how you sounded on the phone earlier.”

Suddenly, I felt like shit. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. Yes, I’m having money problems. But it’s not the end of the world, okay? I’m going to get through this. I know I can. I could just use some help right now.”

Jamila stood there, looking at me. As always, she looked like Halle Berry in a well-tailored suit in muted brown plaid that suited her complexion perfectly. She was always so cool and perfectly appointed. I always admired her courage and strength of character. Especially after learning about her difficult past. One to rival my own, which was no picnic in the park.

Finally, she smiled. “Let’s go get a drink and talk. Okay?”

So, we went to the bar, ordered our drinks, and, between sips of wine, I explained how slow business had been, how I was behind on the rent, the phone call from Linda, and so on.

“Here’s the thing, Jamila,” I said. “I’m not flat broke. Not yet. I’m just afraid of being broke. I have a little money saved up, but if I use it, it’s gone. Then what? I have no other back up. No life insurance. No house to mortgage. Nobody to depend upon. Just me. And my freaking cat. That’s it. I need this case, but I can’t handle it alone.”

Jamila placed her hand on my arm. “You know you’re my closest friend, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Same here.”

She extended her arm around my shoulders. “I’ll do it. I’ll make the arrangements, no matter what it takes. I’ll consult with you personally on this, okay? It’ll all be fine.”

Thank God, I thought. If I’d only known what was to come, I wonder if I would have made the same decision.

After we hung up, I called Linda and told her I’d take the case. She was happy to hear that I was willing, but cautioned me that she’d need to get approval from the group before she could sign the retainer agreement. She assured me that this was a mere formality, since no one else seemed willing to take on the case.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll prepare a standard retainer agreement and wait to hear back from you. How’s that?”

“That sounds great.” She almost sang the words.

“When do you think you’ll know?”

“I’ll have your answer tonight. We’re holding a strategy meeting tonight. Afterward, I’ll call you and let you know for sure. But I wouldn’t worry.”

We exchanged pleasantries and hung up. Yeah, you didn’t worry, did you? That was the problem right there.

******

Then it hit me. It reminded me of this post! :-O

~~Actual~~ Exaggerated (sp?) conversation with my husband, while we took our walk:

Me: I remember a couple of copywriters called [name expurgated to protect the guilty]. I remember at one point they referred to themselves as rock stars! I had to laugh! Maybe in their minds. Maybe in the copywriting field, but real rock stars are famous, dudes. You’re not rock stars. Not by a long shot.”

Husband: People are weird. They think highly of themselves. They’re fucked up. They all watch Jerry Springer. What would you expect?

Me: Let’s go to California. When do you want to go? I’m ready!

Husband: Oh … I don’t know.

Me: We can go to the In-N-Out. We can do the In-N-Out! Ha ha ha …

Husband: All I know is you should start writing screenplays.

Me: I’ve been getting all this great feedback on the film script. People seem to really like it.

Husband: Really? Then do it!

******

Okay, so here I am. I have a phone call tonight with my ~~possible~~ probable new web designer. I’m just a human being, trying to finish a novel, publish my YA novel, reissue a new edition of the first novel, re-brand myself, write reviews, and write screenplays and blog. Not to mention traveling and having a fucking life!

Jesus H. Christ, how am I going to write fucking memoirs at this rate? Ha ha ha …

These links may interest you:

This just plain freaked me out.

Tweeting an homage to Dick Clark? Really?

Trump tweets outrage!!!

Publishing without perishing. Ha ha ha …

50 shades of vulgarity.

I still don’t believe in new year’s resolutions!

This blog is awesome! Thank you!!!!