In Which I Become A Full-Time Writer

Some people talk about the compulsion to write, or the compulsion to read. I definitely suffer from both of those (the latter more often than the former, regrettably) but my true addiction is giving books to other people. I give away my books, wheedle copies of other people's books away from them for someone else, and have accounts on every swap site - all in the service of getting books for other people.

So that's why I've been working in a library for almost 15 years. 

Unfortunately the school district I work for is in a serious financial crunch, and it's come to a point where my job in the library was the one in the crosshairs. I'm honestly - truly - surprised that my aide position has lasted as long as it has in the climate my district has found itself in. I was offered another position - within a classroom - but I don't teach or tutor for a reason.

1. Lack of patience

2. Inability to understand your inability to understand

You can see, there's a reason why I never went for an educator's license. I know my strengths and weaknesses, and I don't have good qualities for a classroom setting. Another person would, I'm sure, serve the students better, and get more value out of the position themselves.

So... I'm now a full time writer.

It's a little scary, a lot sad, and entirely freeing. I've been living on a school schedule since I was 5 years old. Cicadas singing has always made my stomach drop a little because it means summer is almost over, and since resigning last week I've been able to simply listen to them for the first time in my life, not use them as a natural clock for the death knell of my mid-afternoon naps.

School hasn't started yet, and I've already been back in my office twice. Once because a student at band camp (who didn't know the only reason I was in the building was to resign) asked me if we had a copy of a novel she needs for English class (and of course we do, and of course I went and got it for her because that's who I am at my core), and the second time to grab a used book for a swap account I run on behalf of the library.

I think I'm going to end up back there once or twice a week as a volunteer (okay fine, probably twice)  because it's part of my identity to match people to books.

And also because I have a Keurig and a mini-fridge there and I don't feel like moving them. 

Writing Lessons In The Form Of Stitches

So there was a thing that happened to me and the thing is that I put my arm through some plate glass. There was a screen door swinging shut in front of me, and apparently my kickboxing instructor has done a great job of teaching me how to identify an opponent's weakest points, because I straight-armed that door in exactly the right place to make it shatter. I watched it go, saw a huge piece dangling right above my arm and thought, Oh, this could be bad, and then it fell, guillotine style, and yes, it was bad.

Now, I've always kind of mocked heroes in movies who get shot and stabbed, then run a lot and win big prizes and often have sex shortly thereafter. I'm like, um no, that person is in pain. They are not doing any of those things. On the other hand I've been told that being cut by a very sharp object doesn't hurt, and have always been somewhat dubious of that fact.

I'm here to tell you it doesn't hurt. In fact, it's so misleadingly doesn't hurt that you think you're just fine until you hear the blood dripping off your elbow. I grabbed the boyfriend and bled through three kitchen towels, all while he told me not to look at it (I didn't tell him I already had, and found it fascinating) and tried to find the keys.

The conversation on the drive to the ER went like this:

B/F: How are you feeling?
Me: I'm fine.
B/F: Okay, keep your arm up.
Me: I am. I didn't know Family Dollar was open this late.
B/F: Are you sure you're okay?
Me: I'm fine.
B/F: Keep breathing.
Me: Um, okay.

Then my mom texted because I had texted her saying that I was headed to the ER and could she please come over and put all the pets out because I didn't want them running through broken glass. That conversation went like this:

Mom: WHAT HAPPENED?
Me: I broke the door with my hand.
Mom: WHERE ARE YOU?
Me: Almost to ER. I'm fine.
Mom: THERE IS BLOOD ALL OVER IT'S RUNNING DOWN THE CUPBOARDS (then she followed that up with heart emoticons. I don't know if she was asking if it was arterial blood or letting me know she loves me).
Me: Yeah I know, there's a bunch in the sink too.
(long pause)
Mom: MINDY YOU ARE NOT FINE.

I get to the ER and walk in, arm in the air, bloody dishtowels dangling, and am immediately redirected to registration even though boyfriend told the nurse I needed attention right away. She said since I walked in under my own power and could talk fine they'd rather I'd do the paperwork first. He tried to explain to them that I would probably walk and talk even if I'd been decapitated, and I was already done with the paperwork by the time he finished. (I did drop some nice big blood spatters on it to make a point though).

Got a room. Got a bed. Got my feet up. Got comfortable.

Then they took away the dishtowels and the nurse said. "Um..." and left, to reappear with a doctor who had me do some hand exercises and told me to stop looking at the wound while I did.

Me: Why?
Dr: Because you're cut down to the muscle. I can see it moving.
Me: Really? *leans forward*
Dr: Seriously, you shouldn't look.
Me: Too late.
B/F: I have no idea how you can be so calm right now.
Nurse: Her blood pressure hasn't even gone up.

I tried to get the boyfriend to take a picture of the open wound, but he refused. The doctor stitched me up (two internal, twelve external) and asked what I do for a living, and I explained and he just shook his head and said that made a weird kind of sense.

I was back home in 90 minutes, cleaned, stitched, and honestly, a little bored. My mom had cleaned up all my blood and the shattered glass, so there was nothing for me to do except go to bed, which seemed somewhat anticlimactic. But I did.

So I learned something. You really can be badly injured, lose a lot of blood, and maintain an even strain. I didn't defeat the bad guys after being wounded, but I did fill out a lot of insurance paperwork quickly and efficiently, so there's that.

And no, there's no pictures for this blog entry. I've been told some people don't like to look at injuries.

I don't understand.

Inspiring With The Aspiring

I spent the weekend with the Buffalo-Niagara SCBWI group, a growing chapter in New York. It was a great experience, with editor Alyson Heller (Simon & Schuster), agent Brianne Johnson (Writer's House), and MG authors Dee Romito, Jennifer Maschari, Janet Sumner Johnson, and YA authors Kate Karyus Quinn, Demitria Lunetta, Janet McNally, and adult author Alyssa Palombo.

I've always been a fan of giving back, partly because I met an amazing group of authors on the forum AgentQueryConnect that were a step or two ahead of me, and were a great resource for me as I climbed to join them. Now, I can do that for others.

And while I went to the conference planning to be a giver, I ended up taking a bit away myself. I've been in a bit of a writing slump lately, having just finished a first draft and wrapped up an edit. I took most of May off to take a breather, but rolling into June I was still feeling a bit of a drag.

I've got to put an edit on that first draft, and I have to admit I'm not looking forward to it. I've taken the steps - ordered books to help with beefing up some research, compiled feedback from multiple critique partners. But I haven't taken the step were I actually read the words I wrote... mostly because I don't feel like doing the heavy lifting of editing.

What I needed was a reminder that writing is re-writing.

As I moved from table to table talking over multiple projects with aspiring writers, I watched their faces as they moved through the natural reactions that come with a little criticism.

1) Um, no.
2) Wait... I see what you're saying.
3) Holy crap, that could really improve my project.

From table to table, question to question (Why not make this MG? Are you sure that's picture book material? Can you age that character up / down? How married are you to the illness angle? Don't you think you're packing too much in there?) I watched different reactions, most people landing on that last place... one where you realize a suggestion from someone else could make a big difference in your work.

I left the conference much more open to some of the feedback I received from my critique partners, and reinvigorated to do the heavy lifting that I'd been putting off.

And I also mean that literally, since I haven't been to the gym in a week...