firesmithsghost

I woke up late.  That is I woke up early because Stripe sat under our bedroom window going, “Meeeeeeeoooww.  Meeyayayayayyaooow.  Meow!!”  So I got up and let him in.  Then I passed out.

When I woke up, everybody was already up and apparently the dogs had roughhoused, probably with Gordon, because the tray table I keep next to my chair was pushed all the way onto the right armrest. I write in a big rocking chair.  When I was a child, I was diagnosed with severe scoliosis.  (Not a surprise, my Dad’s left shoulder is higher than his right.) My parents took me to the pool.  Six years of swimming corrected my spine, but there is a spot in my right shoulder blade that hurts like a sonovabitch after any sort of prolonged sitting in a regular computer chair.  I also get it if I knit for several hours straight.  I have this absurd feeling that if only I could jam the knitting needle into my back, it would all be fine.  But anyway, because I sometimes spend ten hours in front of the screen, Gordon and the kids bought me this big, supercomfy recliner.  Now I write with a wireless keyboard on my lap.

So where was I?  Right.  Chair –> tray –> me.

Of course, I didn’t see the tray/armrest situation.  I went, got myself the nice big cup of coffee in my favorite coffee mug, white with gold snowflakes.

I set my coffee onto the tray.

I sat into the chair.

Chair rocked back.

Coffee cup went flying and an inch long chunk of it chipped off.

Mirrored from One Crazy Dame. Comment here or there

I'm struggling with my life and maybe writing down the backpack of sorrow and sharing it with strangers will help. I have another blog, but I get too many hits from too many people I know, from too many people I don't know. But I can blog secret-like here, completely anonymous.

I co-own a biweekly regional arts magazine. Locals love it, really love it. Everywhere I go, I have tiny grandmothers hugging me, priests absolving me, surly teenagers high fivin' me. Before my magazine, I only loosely belonged to my town. I wrote about it all the time, sure, posted one story after another on my blog, kind of poked fun at the old Spanish traditions, at the poverty, the religion, the small town superstitions.

That was five years ago. Today I'm fluent in Spanish, I follow the ebb and flow of local season. When tourists ask any local who they should approach for information, for a look at the "real" town, they almost always give my name. I've written over 500 stories about people in this tiny town, have probably single handedly saved thousands of old memories and actions from a certain death, by documenting them, by carving the chain of event in digital silver, on paper. There was literally no information about my town on the 'net before I started blogging. None. Now several locals own blogs and a couple of businesses have twitter accounts. I set up all of those webpages for them.

I'm considering two things: shutting down the magazine, moving from here. I want to write, want to tell all kinds of fantastic stories, want to write science fiction, tell stories that span beyond our planet. But I don't write anymore, except for four solid pages every other week (edited, edited, edited, I'm a huge fan of editing) for my mag. I don't have the emotional or physical reserves to write more than this. It's a thousand words a day, edited down to 4-6000 words, published, every other week. Can't do beyond that. The magazine doesn't earn enough money to pay for more than a few pages of content from local writers. So write I must. The magazine doesn't pay my bills, either. I have to work outside the home to meet my obligations. I don't have a sugar daddy, a partner in crime, any kind of support. I am single, with two teenagers and one adult child at home.

If I end the mag, no one will tell these stories. No one will interview the silent families in the tiny rural villages outside of town, the people who still live without running water, without Edison's most celebrated invention. I suppose someone might rise up and take over the job, but at this time that looks unlikely. My business partner already dumped a heavy load on my head: If you quit, I won't continue. She doesn't have the design skills or writing skill or love of the community necessary to keep the damn thing alive. Folks don't much like her - she's brash, a ballbuster, a difficult woman. I like her plenty, but I'm one of an excruciatingly small set. You can't reverberate with East Coast attitude in the hinterlands of New Mexico and expect to keep any kind of friendships.

I want to move to a more rural area, to a place where nothing happens except the tap of my fingers against cold keyboard. I already homeschool my sons, so it doesn't seem that big of a stretch. I want to force myself into a place where I spend six months writing, writing, writing, to see if I can make it as a writer. I believe I have it in me, if I can just find the time, the space. I have no money, but I do own my house outright. I could sell the house, buy a mobile home and some land, have a bit leftover to live upon for six months, maybe a year if I am ultra frugal.

Of course, the real estate market is deader than the crusty old fly on my windowsill. And I feel a sense of obligation to continue with the magazine, feel worried that if I quit, no one will tell the stories of this unusual culture. But I won't be writing for myself, and for the last two years, I haven't written much outside the magazine, and it's truly killing me. A slow, agonizing death of "what if." That's the worst disease to carry, my friends.

I could take some kind of middle path, continue to live in town, work some crazy side job, and quit the magazine. Spend my already allotted writing time on new adventures. But some deep part of me keeps requesting isolation, keeps envisioning miles of prairie, piñon tree and juniper berry to keep me company. My boys want to move to the country, too. And there's the small bit about how living in town will keep me plugged in, keep me in the interaction loop, keep me writing about this place.

I realize this decision needs to come from some interior location. I just thought writing it out might help.

Today I sing in a holiday concert in an even more remote location. And Sunday I sing in my own town. I'm hopeful that the concerts will generate some donations. At the moment I haven't bought my kids Christmas gifts. I'm using whatever comes in from the musical events to buy them some small treats. I made them each a sock monkey, cross-stitched a unique message on each one. But teenagers, they want the electronica, man...

xo,


Eclectic Human