Heromaker.net

A Christmas Story

Abigail is getting to the point where she has serious doubts about Santa Claus. She doesn't believe in magic, she tells us. (I'm probably to blame for this one: Too much science and physics and Mythbusters.) I told her that's up to her, but that I believe in magic: If you've ever heard the story about how Kerri and I got together ... how could you not believe in magic? Sure, maybe not the hocus-pocus, light-a-candle and spit-in-a-cauldron type of magic, but magical nevertheless.

Here's an exchange between Kerri and Abby, from just a few hours ago, Christmas Eve 2010, during a moment alone:

Abby: "I don't believe in magic."
Kerri: "You don't?"
Abby: "No."
Kerri: "Then, what do you believe in?"
Abby: "I believe in me."

Perhaps this Christmas Abigail's channeling John Lennon. I don't know. Regardless, it was one of those moments that blew my hair back, shocked me (in a wonderful way) and made me proud. It's sad that she's already outgrowing the magical trappings of childhood and looking beyond the Lies Parents Tell Because It Makes Being A Kid Fun ... but this gives me every confidence that she's growing up self-assured. I'm also positive that, while she may be too smart for magic now, she'll rediscover it later. Magic is patient that way.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

4 Out of 5 Murphys.

For those of you keeping score: 4 out of 5 Murphys are, or have been, on antibiotics in the past two weeks. (I filled Bridget's prescription just this morning.) Kerri, alone, remains unscathed. Er, well, she's been soar-throat-y and achey, but not in need of Amoxycillin or Cefprozil like the girls and I did/do.

Strep: 4
Murphys: 1

In actual writing news: I came up with a new idea for "Nothing Is Ever Truly Lost." Not actual writing, per se, but ... "progress." If one were to use the term in the loosest sense of the word. But hell, I'll take it.

Working.

I want to be here. I want to write. I really do. I have so many stories ideas. Characters and plots and cool things to write down. Some of them might even be worthwhile.

But there's the dayjob. And then the freelance. And the kids. And their schedules. And Kerri's ever-rotating shiftwork; some days, some nights, some weekends, some not, 14 hours gone where I'm here to be both Mom & Dad. I'm now working a lot more hours between the dayjob and the freelance in order to barely make the salary I had before I was laid off. (If I'm lucky, that is.) That's the world we live in now, I suppose. "Work twice as hard for the same paycheck." Suck it up. Be a man. Quit complaining.

This is my life.

I suppose I shouldn't complain. Things could be worse. A lot worse. And there are many out there for whom it IS worse.

But I'm weary. No doubt about it.

The stories will have to wait. It breaks my heart to leave them on my braindesk, unattended. A scribble here. A note there. A killer phrase I want the heroine to say when she learns of her twin sister. But there's so little time in my day for writing. For 18 months I was burdened with such an overabundance of time ... but it was craptime. I was so stressed about Not Having A Job that I couldn't focus on writing. There was neither energy nor inspiration to be found. Now that I find some inspiration, there's little time.

So it goes.

Hobbled.

This week started at midnight, Saturday.

I spent almost six hours vomiting. I have the bruise on my forehead (from where it repeatedly slammed into the toilet seat) to prove it. Sunday is a fog, as I mostly slept or whined. Monday I awoke, wondering if I could go to work. Kerri tells me she's nauseous. For the next 36 hours, she's one hearty gag away from tossing every cookie she's ever eaten. Bridget's pooped on at least three different daycare workers. She's single-handedly turning that daycare center into her own brown-stained Jackson Pollock painting. Abby vomited in the hall in her after-school daycare. ("Did it make a cool splattering sound, honey?" "Oh, yeah it did, Dad!") Autumn woke up last night and sprayed a days worth of food down the hall floor, the bathroom, the toilet, and the bottom of the tub. So I'm running up and down stairs, back and forth to schools, up and down at work all day ... all one one leg.

One leg?

One leg. Because for some reason (old gym shoes, old work shoes, not being used to having to wear work shoes for anything longer than a wedding or funeral in the past 10 years?) there's something wrong with the bottom of my left foot. (Like Daniel Day Lewis, I know.) If I walk on it, it hurts. But there's no bruising and, when I push on it, it doesn't hurt. But when I walk on it: Damned if it doesn't feel like someone's sliced open my foot and jammed a marble up underneath the skin at the ball of my foot, near the pointer toe. Or sergeant toe. You know, the one next to the big toe.

So, have I been writing? No. I've barely been thinking.

Of course, it could be worse. I could be my brother, who's now in Day 5 of trying to pass a kidney stone.

It Was a Good Week

"It was a good week."

I haven't been able to say that in over a year and a half. In fact, it was a spectacular week.  Here's a few of the highlights:

1) My first week of full-time, paid work in 18(ish) months. The job at Ivy Publications seems pretty good so far. They were in need of an editor that could grow into a leader, and I fit the bill. (i.e., lots of experience in publishing, but never actually been given the reins.)

2) Kerri's Dad survived a heart surgery. It's still rough-going, and we're not sure what it means for the long-haul, but with these sorts of things, you take it one procedure at a time.

3) Room became available for Bridget at Autumn's daycare, which means we don't have to worry about where she'll be going or who is watching her. (And: Less driving for me!)

4) Some really good news came in, which I can't really talk about yet. But it involves money. Lots of it. It made Kerri and I extremely happy. It'll make our lives a bit easier. (Another thing I haven't been able to say in a while.)

5) My cousin, Kelly, was picked to become part of the Chicago Bulls' dance squad, The Luvabulls. Photo of the 2010-11 team is here. (She's in the middle row, left side, second from the end: blond hair, blue top.) I almost didn't recognize her!

6) Absolutely no writing done at all this week. However, I've gone to the gym twice and I've slept better than I have in a year. Once school starts up for Abigail and we get into more of a routine, I'll carve out some time for The Words. (Hopefully.)

How was your week?

Our Long National Nightmare Is Over

Imagine Janine Melnitz, the dry and sardonic secretary from Ghostbusters, quietly placing the phone receiver on its cradle. Now she stands up and moves her hand over a large, red alarm button. She pauses for a moment, enjoying the moment. The calm before the joy. With a smile she slams her hand down and the alarm rings loud and true. 

"WE GOT ONE!" she yells.

That's kind of what happened over here this morning.

I got a job.

Let me repeat that.

I. Got. A. Job.

Eighteen months of uncertainty and pain and frustration and rejection and too, too many notes that started with a "We're sorry, but ..." and ended with me cursing and Kerri eating ice cream straight out of the container.

Today's my 9th wedding anniversary and I got a job. What a great day. Kerri cried. My mom cried. My brother cheered. Not sure what dad's reaction was because mom took the phone away from him too fast. Kerri Facebooked the news and I was receiving "Congrats!" emails even before I hung up the phone with Mom.

So, what job did I get?

I'm the new editor at Ivy Publications. They publish the print magazine and website Albemarle Family Living, a family/community resource covering all things local. They also publish the Charlottesville Welcome Book and its accompanying website. And a few other odds and ends.

I'm a bit nervous, mostly because it's not what I imagined when daydreaming about where I'd end up. But I think it's a really good fit. Unexpected, for sure, but a good fit. It's time for me to move from "assistant" into a more managerial role and I think Ivy is a great place for this to happen.

Thanks to everyone who supported me with words or deeds these past 18 months. I never would have made it without you.

A Shift in Gears to "Nothing"

Faced with the herculean task of selling the screenplay, I thought I'd shift gears for efficiency's sake. I'm going to finish a short story called (tentatively) "Nothing is Ever Truly Lost." When this is finished and out on the market I'll move back to the screenplay.

Galway '96 hit a bit of a roadblock, both mentally and physically. I might have lost some confidence in it. Not totally, but for the time being. The criticism from friends and wife was great but it was hard not to notice that, while they were willing to help me make the script better, none of them were terribly excited about the story itself. No one really made an effort to tell me they "liked" it or how awesome it was, only how to make it better. No one said, "Man, that scene where X happens and Y says that cool line, I loved that!" And that's discouraging. This isn't a bash on those who criticized the script. Not at all. They were honest and helpful. And tactful. Maybe I needed some handholding and encouragement. But that wasn't their job. They weren't reading it to tell me how awesome I am. (Unless, of course, it was true. Which, it wasn't.)

When I stare down the reality of selling it I get depressed.

When I receive multiple job-rejections in one 24-hour period, it's difficult to muster the energy to build something which might ultimately suck eggs, no matter how much time I invest. 

When I'm trying to juggle wife, kids, chores, finances, worry, and possible drastic career changes ... The Call of Writing stresses me out. I go to bed every night—every night—regretting the words left unwritten, the stories that are held captive in my head. Every. Single. Night.

So, I'm taking a break from Galway '96 and moving on to "Nothing is Ever Truly Lost," a story about job loss (shocker!), children, war, and rediscovering the things we've discarded (intentionally or not) from our lives. Well, at least that's what I intend to write. The final product may be far afield from those intentions. I'd like to finish "Nothing," ideally, in the next month. At least an initial draft. That may be extremely optimistic, considering my track record for producing words.

No Progess, Yet I Still Have Job Satisfaction

I haven't touched the screenplay but, other writing-related news:

I spent Thursday, Friday, and Saturday covering anything and everything (that was fit to print) in the world of science fiction, fantasy, and horror as the guest editor of Blastr. But let's face it, 99% of last weekend's SFnal news was related to San Diego Comic-Con, an event I would some day like to experience ... and an event I might never want to experience. I've heard horror stories about the lines, the hours of waiting (and then not getting in!), and the masses of people. Imagine 125,000 people (fanboys, nerds, geeks, mouthbreathers, hot models, professionals, and cosplayers) crammed into a convention center, all trying to get a look at the coolest new stuff. That's Comic-Con. (This year someone actually got stabbed. "I'm not a singin' geek, I'm a stabbin' geek!") And yet, part of me thinks actually seeing the newest sizzle reels or the sneak previews or the actors/directors is irrelevant to the experience. Sure, it's fun, but I think the part of Comic-Con that I'd enjoy is being at Comic-Con. It's the geek Mecca. I should go. At least once.

The news was fast and furious: I followed Twitter feeds and hit refresh a gazillion times on the big (and not-so-big) SF news sites. The editor (Scott Edelman) and SVP (Craig Engler) fed me stories and it was a whirlwind of researching, photoshopping, and typing.

I haven't had this sort of job satisfaction in a year and a half. I've worked with Scott at three different companies over the past 12 years: Sovereign Media, Commtek, and SCI FI Channel/NBC Universal/GE. It was great having the old team back together, even if it was only for a three-day stint. Despite it being insanely busy, I had a great time. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to hit 6PM and go, "Wow, I accomplished something cool and fun." Getting a paycheck probably has something to do with the satisfaction, too.

Because, you know as well I do: money rocks. Especially when you don't have lots of it.

So, That Happened

I deleted that other post. For a few reasons.

I want this site to be mostly about writing and writing-related projects. But I got angry. Angry at politicians. Angry at finances. Angry at crap being heaped upon crap. Angry at being worried all the time. Angry about being angry. I Hulk-raged words onto the blog and, well, that's not what this space is for. Seven posts into the new site and I wander off-topic. No, that's not what I wanted at all. While it was therapeutic at the time, it served its purpose and is now lost to the ether. That post is gone. (It helps that Congress voted in favor of extension benefits and Obama signed the bill. But that's not the point.)

Writing-related stuff: Scott Edelman and Craig Engler are out at San Diego Comic-Con this weekend. While they schmooze, meet celebrities, view premiere footage, and get nice swag, I'm holding down the fort (yesterday and today) at my old job as guest-editor for Blastr.

If Enough People Say It, It Must Be True

I'm still learning the process of criticism. When someone gives an opinion on something I've written, it's just that: opinion. I have to filter it, consider the reasoning, and ultimately choose whether to accept or discard their argument.

Kerri and Jeff both read the script a few months ago. This past weekend Mike and Stuart gave me their notes. And the verdict is ... if four people tell you the same thing (in slightly different ways) it's no longer opinion. It be fact, folks.

The script is divided into two parts. Part the First covers the misadventures in Galway. Part the Second covers my return to the States and the 15 years that follow. And it's unanimous that everything after the return from Ireland is too much "new" too late in the game. Too new a struggle, too new a romance. Mike went so far as to say that the "Brian" character was a different dude. (Valid, that point.) For the final 20 minutes of a film, it's a different ballgame. And that don't cut the mustard. That second section was where reality and fiction went fisticuffs. Reality was great to get words on the page, but reality doesn't a good narrative arc make. I really struggled writing some of the fiction. The logical part of my brain kept going, "But! But! But, that didn't happen!!" And then the creative side would say, "Your point?"

I had to constantly remind myself: I'm not writing a memoir or an autobiography. "Based on" stories are far from the truth. This one, in particular, is filtered through fiction, alternate history, a singular point of view, and 15 years of fuzzy memory. "Truth of events" isn't anywhere near this story. "Truth, in spirit," that may be another matter entirely.

So, radical cutting will happen. 111 scenes will be cut down to 91. 142 pages will be cut down to 124. Yes, I know, 124 is still a wee bit long. But this is only the first swing of an axe to the whole. There's other pruning and clipping I can do.

But this is good. Kerri, Jeff, Mike, and Stuart did for me a thing which I could not do myself. They told me to get rid of the useless stuff. (Shock! Horror! What?! Nothing in here is useless! It's all beautiful, golden, poetry riding around on a rainbow-farting unicorn!) Not only does it cut the page-count down, something that desperately needed doing, but makes room for the remainder to be a tighter, more focused story.

Special thanks go out to them. I appreciate their honesty and candor. (And, especially, their gentleness when they had to tell me they hated something particular. It can't be easy doing the verbal two-step around the phrase, "Murph, this sucks.")

Thanks, guys and gal.