I Wonder Is the Magic Gone

Writing is a curious habit by its
nature. Some attempt turning it into a profession with varying results. One
might have better odds winning the lottery than publishing a best seller that
makes the author wealthy. Don’t quote me on that. But I’ll bet the odds are
close.



Creative people, like writers, analyze things, read things into situations
that others may not consider and, yes, see things that are not there. How else
could watching from your back porch as a bird sings in a tree in your garden
inspire you to write a murder mystery thriller? It happens.



With every book you write there comes a point, no matter what the book’s about
or how long or short it is, that you wonder if it is good enough to submit
for publication. If you have never experienced the magic of having someone else
validate your art by accepting your work for publication, you may only imagine
the exhilaration. It is a magical moment. But with each subsequent submission
you will always wonder if the magic is gone, especially if it takes months for
your publisher to get back to you. 

In some ways I’ve had
an exceptional experience. Exceptional not in my subsequent success, but
in that it kind of goes against the grain and bucks the usual course. When
I wrote Fried Windows, I was in a bad place in my life. For many years
prior I’d been battling demons, both internal and external, imagined and real.
Toward the end of my tenure as a retail manager I was abusing alcohol
and frequently felt depressed. Often the two are linked. I’d been writing
for years. I’d published a few things, a couple of books through a small
publisher and others I’d self-published. I sold some books, but I didn’t feel
there was a great future ahead of me. Still, I never gave up on writing
because…well, if you’re a writer you know that stopping isn’t a
choice. It’s not how we are wired. I doubt my body would respond in the
same way as if I stopped breathing, but it would be close.



Work, my ‘day’ job that is, had long since ceased to inspire me. Since all my
kids had grown and were out on their own, I wasn’t sure why I was still going
through the motions any more. When I married, I made a commitment to family and
struggled a lot, putting in long hours, many too many times, to support them.
Although I wrote whenever I could, because, again, it is what writers do, I set
aside pursuit of my personal ambition of being a published author.
Every parent understands that a part of the job is subordinating private dreams
for the sake of putting your children first.

On February 22, 2012 I snapped.
It occurred to me that no longer did I have a valid reason to continue putting
up with my company’s abuse. It was my day off. Although I’d been scheduled to
have at least one day off for the past 21 days, regularly, I was putting in 16-hour
days and coming in on my days off. My masters were abusing their slave all
because I was on salary and, let’s face it, they’d always gotten away the abuse
before. Okay, technically they were paying me so it was not really slavery, but
I wasn’t being fairly compensated for the hours I was working. You see,
salaried = no overtime pay = abuse. They surely owned me of all intents
and purposes. I received alarm calls waking me in the middle of the night that
I had to respond to even when I had to come back later on to work an entire
shift. And because my store was old the alarm system was buggy, It went off all
the time. Only occasionally had there been a break-in.



I had been a manager all for the sake of getting paid a little more, never
having my pay cut when business was soft, and maybe earning a bonus at the
end of the year. That last part, by the way, is a moving target, a
carrot that corporate dangled to entice while, in the background, doing
everything they possibly can to make it unobtainable. If you have ever worked
in retail management, you may have experienced some of that. Not every company
does it, but the last couple for which I worked did.

It’s a given that nothing was ever
good enough. And yet they told me I needed to be more positive. It’s damned
hard to be positive when all you receive from your superiors is negative
reinforcement. 

As a result of the pressure and
stress, I drank to excess. Whatever didn’t hurt was so tense that I
couldn’t sleep without putting myself into a stupor. Yeah, I know that’s an
excuse. But it was why I drank so much. And so, roughly 7 years ago, I was
enjoying my first day off in three solid weeks. Then, around 1 PM,
I received the dreaded call from my boss telling me I needed to come in to
work because his boss was there, in the store, raising hell about all the stuff
that needed to be done. For some reason I was the only one on the planet
who could do the work – oh wait, I’m salaried, so they were already paying me
for doing it. Like Inspector Gadget, i was always on duty.



Like a good obedient dog, I went to the store. The guy I worked for was a
new boss. In many ways he was the same as my old boss who had just retired
about a month before, but in other ways he was not. My past manager was
reasonable about dressing down if I was going to be doing physical
labor. Since the new guy told me I needed to put away freight, I assumed I
could dress to make a mess. Ever before, when I came in to work ‘for
a few hours’ to slam freight, that was what I did.. So, wearing casual
clothes, I reported to work. When I saw my boss, he asked me why I wasn’t
in uniform. I explained. He told me to go home and change. I started to do
that, got all the way to the front doors and was about to go home and comply
fully, when I asked myself, why am I putting up with this crap?

Why was I killing myself,
figuratively an literally, enduring the torment? My job was interfering with
what I wanted to do with my life, what I loved to do, what I had been doing
that day (my day off) prior to receiving the call – writing. I was divorced, my
kids no longer needed Dad breaking his back to support them. Why was I doing it
again and again and again?  Because it was routine? Because I had
bills to pay? Because it was force of habit?



There is an old saying that most managers know but few heed. Never allow
your subordinate to reach the point of not caring. I’d been pushed well
past that and, although everyone told me after the fact that I was crazy to do
such a rash thing, I handed in my keys and never looked back.

What are you going to do now?

I don’t know, look for another job,
maybe something with lower stress. Or maybe I’ll just focus on writing. I’ve
always wanted to do that, and I got sidetracked.

Are you nuts?

I thought you knew me well enough
for that to be established. Yes, I am nuts. That’s part of the reason why I
write.



For a few years I’d belonged to an online writing community. I won a couple of
feel good trophies for my writing. But being among other creative people served
a valuable purpose, validating what I wrote in draft and posted online for
all to read. Having the almost immediate feedback of other writers, be
they poets, novelists, script writers or short story writers bolstered my
confidence in storytelling. It helped me improve basic writing skills and
allowed me to explore and expand the range of my author’s voice. Without that
experience I would have never evolved past where the brute force of
hammering out words led me, a.k.a. nowhere. 



For several years before that, I’d worked on downsizing my life. I’d started
walking or riding a bike to work. Getting rid of my car was one huge expense
eliminated. You see, subconsciously perhaps, I’d been adjusting for the
inevitable all along. Something told me that I needed to learn how to survive
on next to nothing because that was what it would take to become a full-time
writer

I stopped drinking beer, not only
out of necessity because there was no money for it. but also, because the
reason for my drinking was gone. One day in March 2012, one of the people I
knew in the online writing community challenged me to write a poem about being
a child at a carnival. Not being a poet per se, what I wrote was
of dubious merit. But the poets in the community were kind and encouraging
about the noob’s effort. They wanted more of the same. But
the well had already dried up. Instead, I wrote a short story. And,
because that went over well. I wrote another story based on the first,
receiving a stronger response than before. I continued, for 16 days,
composing a story a day. Each story was part of a series that collectively I
had called Fried Windows (In a Light White Sauce), based on a scene in the
first story. Still, titling them as a bundle was for my sake and did not
necessarily imply intent for them to ever be a contiguous story.  

When I finished, I set all that work
aside to pursue other works in progress that, at the time, felt more important.
Around me, my world continued falling to ruin. With no job, and no money. I was
living with relatives. And, as every writer knows, relatives don’t usually
consider writing a valid endeavor – because it doesn’t generate a weekly
paycheck and all you appear to do is sitting in your room staring at a computer
screen.

Have you ever considered the lunacy of that last part? You can sit all day staring at a computer screen in an office somewhere outside of the home and no one has an issue with it (maybe because someone is writing you a check for your attention). But an author gets paid long after the fact – if at all. Therefore, that’s not a job at all. Uh, isn’t that the point? I want a profession not a job. 

[image error]New Cover for Fried Windows

Around a year from the initial
creative spurt that produced the nucleus of Fried Windows, I decided to stitch
the sixteen pieces together, adjusting and amplifying the story arc that was
there. You see, I’d always thought of the individual parts as a series of
stories. But once i read it as a whole, there was some continuity. There were
common characters and. the same fantastic world. Why had I never read
through the entire thing as if it were a novel? I saw the potential
immediately. Sure, it was missing stuff. But there was magic in those
pages. Somehow, I needed to continue that. Still, I wondered if I had it in me
to transform what several people had validated as good, into something
better.

Further validation came in a few
months later when I signed a publishing contract for the book. Still,
each time I write a novel there is concern about the magic – if it is still
there. Do I still have what my publisher saw in my first or every previous
work they have accepted?  The answer is always ‘we’ll see’ as I send it
off. The only way you ever answer that question is to finish your work in
progress and push it out into the world.