in the works

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I have quite a few books “in the works”. It’s quite a boastful sentence, that one, but the truth is, “in the works” Just means “in my head.” To be quite frank, it just means “I’ve thought of a cool title and maybe a premise. ”

People ask me what I do for a living, and my favorite thing to tell them is “I’m am writer,” because their head is suddenly filled with fanciful pictures of me sitting in gardens or coffee shops with my laptop – or typewriter because I’m that kind of cool – at book signings, having meetings with agents. Close friends have fantasies about my books becoming the next Harry Potter or Divergent series. When, honestly, I’m sitting on a plane with my wireless keyboard hooked against my iPad, two and a half hours into the flight with absolutely nothing to write. You’d think that being stuck in a one-meter-by-two-meter prison-of-an-airplane-seat is enough to motivate a writer to buckle down and “just write already!” … apparently, that’s not the case.

I’m just forced to watch stupid television on a minuscule screen, stare out the window at turbulent clouds, and try my best to steady my rapid breath – I’m not anxious, I swear. I’m pretty sure there is low oxygen in the cabin. Ok, maybe not – don’t want to panic anybody. (are you panicking??).

Anyway, so what do I do for a living? I fantasize about gardens, coffee shops, quaint little cottages in the meadows, mountain homes overlooking a foggy bluff (I think the word I’m looking for is “chalet”), meditative retreats, and more English breakfast tea than a woman should drink. I fantasize about a healthy, smart pup as a trusty companion, a cat who knows better than to sit on my keyboard (let’s be real – I wouldn’t mind.) and an agent who calls me every few days to be sure I’m doing okay and to ask for the pages I’ve been owing her, long overdue, because…aren’t they always?

I fantasize about a life where I can get rid of my smart phone and go back to my LG flip phone – do away with the e-mails at my fingertips, the incessant need for technological organization. I won’t need to worry about four schedules or syncing my iTunes or having enough storage for the latest update. I’ll have a few important phone numbers memorized, a heavy and comfortable rotary house phone (the phone is rotary, not the house), and an iPad and Apple TV for entertainment. I’ll lock myself away for the weekend and write and write and write, take walks, drink tea, feed the dog, sleep on the daybed, wake up with the sunrise, and not check my phone. not check my emails. not check my calendar.

So, here’s to the four books that are “in the works.”

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My Generation is Useless

Aside

There’s something to be said about professionalism in this day and age. Especially about professionalism within the younger generations.  I don’t count myself because, let’s face it, I’m an anomaly.  I am among the most disrespectful, unprofessional, and incompetent generation, well, ever.  Of course, I don’t know if it’s actually “ever” because I haven’t been alive for very long, but that’s, at least, what my parents say, what my grandparents say, and what all the books I’ve ever read say. 

I don’t know where this comes from. Let’s explore.  

We are a part of the generation of kids who run the show.  We are the Kings of the Palace. Only about half of my generation was spanked. The rest of us got away with murder. We would terrorize everyone around us, screaming and crying in restaurants, super markets, on planes – there was no discipline and no limits.

We were born into families who didn’t want us, weren’t ready for us, too poor to care for us, and, yet, we were still spoiled rotten. 

So it’s no wonder we get into the work force and don’t know how to dress ourselves, talk to adults, or have ANY respect for anyone around us. 

We can barely read, we’re trained to revere the poison that is reality television and spit on any genius or quirkiness in our vicinity.

We were taught how to cheat – how to lose weight without diet or exercise, how to care for your garden without getting on your knees, paint a house without climbing a ladder and it’s high time the people in my Lost Generation pick up a fucking hammer and nail something down, for once. Maybe an interview. Or at least show up on time.

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[glimpse]

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I have two jobs.  One of them is this glorious job as a sort-of assistant in a semi-fulltime-capacity, with a really, very cool person who does terrific work.  That’s all I’m allowed to say about that. 

 

The other job is a grimy position as a cleaning lady in Manhattan.  I don’t like to talk about it for obvious reasons, but this one night last week, I found myself in the offices of this other job – a place I avoid with all purpose.  But, there I am in this room with a bunch of fat Latina women with an attitude and a Bronx haircut , and the people who work there are children. All of them. My age, Harvard graduates – ALL WHITE and all beautiful – an office full of Sorority Girls and Frat Boys. As someone who fits more snugly within the grouping of the latter, I was quite uncomfortable.

 

 

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