“The space between the tears we cry is the laughter that keeps us coming back for more.”
– Dave Matthews Band
Life, for a complete and utter lack of a better adjective, is crazy. As people, we experience and live through events that make and/or break us in varying degrees of intensity. We feel triumph in finding a parking spot near our destination in a crowded city. We feel triumph when we finally land that dream job or finally purchase the dream car. We can be devastated if we miss out on an incredible deal. We can be devastated when we get into a car accident or misplace something valuable. Every human has major and mini crises throughout the day; there is no revelation in such an observation, but I think what strikes me is how often these events occur and how differently each individual reacts to a particular set of circumstances. Because of problems within my immediate family, I have been doing some soul searching and deep thinking as of later, and as far as rationalization and understanding go, this paragraph is all I could come up with. The kick in the proverbial pants is that there is no explanation for all of the things that happen. And what’s more, even if there was, people would reject what was in front of them in search for something better, something more suited to what they want it all to mean. Is that cynical? Am I losing faith?
I finished the first chapter of my next novel, which is currently titled Moody Blue. I feel proud and accomplished, but I am worried that I rushed the ending of the chapter. I printed a copy for my mother to read; she helped me edit my first novel and it was only after I took her advice that I was published – and on her birthday, no less. She’s my good luck charm.
I am currently scheduling an author talk and signing at the Manchester Branch of the Ocean County Library for sometime in October or November. I think this latter half of 2013 is going to prove to be an exciting time for me. Between you and I, I need it to be better. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.
I went for an ultrasound of my gall bladder last week, and the results came back clean. My doctor, and my best friend, and my mother, all seem to think it is stress that is tearing my insides apart. This makes sense to me, especially when I think about how many nights are restless, and how often I toss and turn, unable to escape my own head and the endless list of worries. I am even beginning to have horrible dreams. Most recently, I had a dream that featured someone who is dead and has been dead. In the dream, this person was in a darkened bedroom with only the light from the blaring television and perhaps a bedside lamp. I do not know if this was inside a house, or an apartment, or what – the surroundings were completely unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, the person did not even look familiar, but I understood who it was and I knew that this individual was supposed to be dead. I was in the bedroom, but I had no desire to be there. It felt horribly wrong and it was bizarre. The blanket and sheet were pulled down and away so that they pooled near his waist and his bare, pale chest and loose stomach were exposed. On his chest and stomach was balanced a large glass bowl and two tall glasses. I made to move them, to pick them up and carry them to a kitchen somewhere. I was hesitant in approaching because his eyes were only slightly closed. It was like he was awake and aware, and only pretending to sleep. I think I called out to him and said his name once or twice. But I was scared and so I ran, only grabbing the glass bowl which turned out to be full of water (so were the two tall glasses), and the dream ended as quickly as it began.
My father knocks on bedroom doors before entering, even when he know there is no one inside.
Thursday, I traveled to Hartford, Connecticut to listen to Stephen King have a conversation with some pretentious blowhard. It was 103 degrees, and I walked around Hartford in that ungodly heat in a panic, looking for somewhere to quickly eat before the event began. I arrived ninety minutes later than I had planned because of horrendous, horrific traffic. I ate a restaurant called Hook and Ladder, located next to the firehouse. The décor and atmosphere were great, but I was really disappointed in my grilled cheese sandwich. I can’t believe I broke my diet for that. But the event was awesome; King is a brilliant, accessible mind. He shares my passion for the Boss, believes in God, and believes that love can be and should be and most often is limitless. Ali from MSU was there, but we didn’t get a chance to speak. She purchased a copy of his newest book Joyland, pre-signed, for $200. I used to be that dedicated. Or maybe I am just more fiscally responsible than I used to be.
There were fireworks that night. So many cars were pulled over on I-84 to watch them explode.
I hit another 90 minutes of traffic traversing onto the George Washington Bridge. Such is life.
But I promised in my last entry to accentuate the positive. So, here goes nothing: I lost seven pounds in my first week of dieting and exercising. I spent a birthday with two absolutely amazing friends in Brooklyn after surviving the drive in. I was totally enchanted by Brooklyn and developed a crush on a friend’s neighbor, which is exciting and fun. I have that story to tell, in my overly romantic way, for next week’s blog.
Stay golden. xoxo
