Explanation Of Sorts

After my diatribe/manifesto Saturday, I got my ass ripped by E. Ann Bardawill, who in her post of Saturday the 17th, excoriated those of us (there are more? Where? I’d like to read them) in Killing Of Mockingbirds. For some reason Ms. Bardawill, a powerhouse of opinion and verve, feels that NOT going for an agent and/or publisher is a betrayal of one’s purpose in life. She gives us a bunch of examples, not the least of which is The Picture Of Dorian Gray. Well, nice company, but not the kind of fight I’d choose.

Now I can’t disagree with her on the betrayal of purpose. But I will argue and strongly for the right to give up the battle for lack of peace and quiet in my head. For, as I said, stress causes depression. And worrying about all the travails of getting published is just too much for me. I have to protect this artist or lose the whole enterprise. Which is what I blogged about in the first place.

For there’s a Zen to writing. A getting into the flow, feeling the creativity move you, letting the words come roaring out and pour onto the page. But I don’t know of a Zen of finding an agent or publisher, fighting off rejection slops (intentional). And I’m not sure if THAT Zen is even available until one’s there. Or not there.

Ann, you wield probably the best Persuasion 2x4 in the blogosphere, even if it does have nails in the end. But here’s one I’m gonna have to defer, because I’m nearing terminal overwhelm with Sherry’s bedridden condition and my inability to care for her properly, my ever-worsening loss against household cleanliness, my slowing aggression about washing bedpads and clothes, the piling of dishes in the sink…not to mention my fears (which are legion) of not ever being able to write again, of not being able to rewrite my stories, of not being able to pet the cats (who are complaining bitterly) and my frustration with the home health care agency which seems to be utterly incapable of hiring aides (at a measly $5.15 an hour when McDonald’s is paying $7.50 an hour to start) who will stay more than three weeks. And three weeks of cleaning up contentious cranky elderly people in need of constant care is enough – actually, more than enough – for most sane people. The supervisor who’s searching for new help all the time is worried about hiring felons – which are legion, in this business – and nobody else will take the job.

So we suffer, her without a bath for three weeks, me without a break from 24-hour on-call caregiving, and I turn slowly on the spit of frustration over not being able to write (the words have gone away) or even rewrite a story I already have written, which just needs to be reworked.

Thus I issued my diatribe – or manifesto – and I’m standing by it. Even though I know beyond a doubt that if I ever get my head back into a place where I CAN write, and feel enough peace of mind to actually do it, I will probably turn out several books well worth publishing. Yet that doesn’t guarantee a contract or even an advance.

I’m bowing to the pressure and putting it all on the back burner. We’ll see what happens down the line.