Interrogating Jeanne again

I went back and had another conversation with Jeanne because I’m having trouble getting over the age difference:

“Jeanne, how do you feel about Josh?” I sipped my cup of coffee.

“You mean how should I feel about him, or how do I feel about him?” Jeanne looked at me, woman to woman, simpatico. Both of us wore summer clothes, and only those who knew us would recognize us as highly educated women.

“I need to know how you feel about him if I’m going to write this correctly.”

“He’s an impossibility. I’ve studied sociobiology, and everything I learned tells me that there’s no possibility our relationship should exist. I’m not of childbearing age, so he shouldn’t be attracted to me. He’s not a provider type – “

“Do you know that?” I asked.

“Guilty as charged. Let’s just say he’s a writer, and you should know by now that he’s never going to be rich.” Jeanne chuckled and set her cup down. “If the whole purpose of the human race is to provide another generation of humans …”

“But you don’t believe that,” I challenged Jeanne.

“First,” she emphasized, “I think sociobiology is garbage. The same sociobiologists who assume that the sole purpose of life is procreation assume all human enterprise – travel, art, architecture – exists so that the male of the species can attract the attention of a bed partner.”

“And you’re not waiting for some guy to write a sonnet for you.”

“Oh, God,” Jeanne lamented. “I’d love it if Josh wrote a sonnet for me. How far gone am I?”

“You tell me,” I grinned.

“As I said, Josh is impossible. He made the first move; did I tell you that? I’m sitting there with my computer, and suddenly, I look up and there’s Josh sitting across from me. With this grin and the hair falling in his eyes. I shouldn’t think this, but –”

“But?”

“I’ve never gone for the traditional. If I wanted a scientist, I’ve been surrounded by them for years. None of them have ever agreed with me – what a statement; they didn’t interest me, especially when they did the ‘Howdy little lady’ thing and told me why I should let the men take care of things. I think it made me more open-minded.”

“And?” I ask. I’m rather enjoying this.

“Josh isn’t typical. He’s not that warrior-hunter type sociobiology tends to promote. He’s bookish, so it’s wonderful to have conversations with him. He’s devoted to his aikido and his writing. He’s – well, he’s not a big guy. That may be an understatement; I don’t think he weighs 130 pounds. Okay, he’s absolutely beautiful, and it drives me crazy because I’m not exactly beautiful.”

“What does he think?” I probe.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if he knows it’s getting serious enough in my mind that I wish we were dating, with all that implies. He hugs me and I’m curious. I have no idea where he stands and I don’t want to scare him off.”

“So you’re going to wait for him to say something first.”

“I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to be like a cougar or something, and – God, I think he’s a virgin.” Jeanne rubbed her forehead.

“Well, if he’s as bookish as you say he is, then I suspect you’re right. Is it that scary?”

“It’s a lot of responsibility.”

“It’s a lot of fun,” I shrug. We both break out laughing clandestinely, as if caught in something naughty.

Wait for it.

So what happens when you come out of an affirming moment into ordinary life?

If you’re me, you feel like someone launched you out of a cannon into … a field. A muddy field. In the middle of nowhere. With cows placidly munching on grass.

“What should I be doing in this field?” I ask, realizing that a chair and my laptop have materialized in the field beside me. I sit down; the chair sinks into the mud about an inch or so, and I realize these shoes will never be the same.

I set myself to writing on a story, but I don’t know which one to write on — the serious rewrite of Gaia’s Hands? The attempt to write a short story out of the long lost Gaia’s Eyes? Some other short story? A new novel?

I ruminate: Will I ever get an agent? Will I ever get published? Is there a reason for all this? Is this God’s will? Is there really a God, and if so, doesn’t She have something better to do than land me a writing career? A placid bovine eyes me with sympathy.

Restless, I stand, setting the laptop on the chair. The cows low about me. Disgruntled, I take a deep breath and remind myself:

I am out standing in my field.

Forty days of reflection

As a Quaker (i.e. member of the Religious Society of Friends, an unorganized religion) I do not give things up for Lent as I did when I was a child in the Roman Catholic Church. I miss the concept of sacrifice, however, at the same time I feel like giving up something doesn’t lend itself to spiritual growth.

A friend of mine is Unitarian Universalist, and she posted a Lenten devotion of reflections upon words that hook into people’s spirituality. The devotion suggested pictures of each day’s word to reflect on, as shown below:

For the forty days of Lent, I will use these words as the jumping point for my blogs. I will do the day 1 reflection later tonight — the word, it turns out, is dedication. I think I can speak to this.

Dream or Let Go?

Sometimes I still dream of success.

To me, success in writing looks like:

Finding an agent
Getting a publishing contract
Having a readership and modest sales
Interacting with others on my blog

Given that I haven’t achieved the first yet, and given that the other goals are probably dependent on that first goal. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get there.

This is why I’m considering self-publishing, but I have so many questions about it, such as:

If you self-publish, will people always put a figurative asterisk by the word “author” after your name?
How do you get the word out about your novel?
If my novel doesn’t get accepted by agents, is there really a chance that readers will gravitate to it in self-published format?
Can one get famous (ok, somewhat well-known) self-publishing?
Will I have to spend all my time promoting my book instead of writing?

These questions may be proof that I’m still dreaming and doing a lot of assuming. I’m assuming that my books are good enough to find a following rather than languishing on a virtual shelf somewhere, which is a lot to assume even if I get traditionally published.

My affirmation cards keep saying that I have great ideas, the time is not right, let go of expectations, to the point that the same cards keep showing up in readings.

Our American society says that we should hold on to our dreams. Buddhism, on the other hand, suggests attachment — even to a dream — causes unhappiness. Which shall I do — hold on or let go?