More “Some Days You Shouldn’t Talk”
- At June 24, 2013
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Roxanne Writes On
- 2
So, Pik is having a bad day. You know the kind. (In the words of Nicole Kidman’s dead soldier-husband in The Others, “Sometimes I bleed…”) And my Pik is not one to suffer in silence. I don’t know where that comes from. Must be her dad’s side. Anyway, this morning, she’s moaning about the various hardships in her life.
Pik: “I can’t predict the weather! Too hot for pants. Too cold for shorts.”
Me: “How about capris?” I’m very helpful that way.
“I’m too bloated!” she wailed. “I can’t get into them!!”
I’m feeling a touch smug, reveling in the crone-zone, glad to be done with that business. But still sympathetic, of course. Of course!
“Plus,” she added, “I’m out of my favorite tampons! Now I have to use the gross cardboard kind!”
Me: “Please. That’s the only kind I ever used.”
Pik: “Well, Mom, come on. You are a little… looser… than me.”
The image of a flag, flapping in a brisk breeze, pops into my mind. Poof. Sympathy gone.
“I meant,” I said, “that’s what I used… when I was your age.”
Pik: “Oh.”
Conversation over. Have a Happy Period. Suckah!
Tales from the Bedroom…
- At April 03, 2013
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 2
That got your attention, didn’t it? Don’t worry, this isn’t that kind of post. It’s about something I heard on the radio yesterday. Apparently, the concept of a “double” bed, ie: for two people, doesn’t mean the same thing in Germany as it does here.
The clip I heard on the radio was from a woman, I’m guessing young, who was aghast at making this discovery while on vacation. She felt that sleeping under separate duvets totally destroyed the romance.
No snuggling close beneath the covers. No playing footsie. Etc. Etc.
I think, give it a decade or two, honey. You’ll be kicking those hot feet over to their own side, believe me. Having your bed-mate take all the bedding with him when he rolls over, now that damages the romance.
But then, so does insomnia and hot flashes.
If you’re lucky enough to be with someone who matches you annoyance for annoyance, and puts up with you anyway, you’ll probably be happy to sleep side by side in whatever bed you happen to find yourselves. Etc. Etc.
Synchronicity, the Search for Epic Meaning and Making a Living
- At March 29, 2012
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Roxanne Writes On
- 0
I think I first learned the word “synchronicity” from the book The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. The Artist’s Way is a kind of self-help program for blocked creatives, you know, the socially-challenged introverts who slouch around moaning “I don’t know what to do with my life!”
The gist of synchronicity is this: the magic is already in you, and when you are willing to do the work to find it, the universe will support you. Kind of a Dumbo’s-magic-feather thing. (Or as Morpheus taught Neo, “Free your mind!”) It’s a particularly good book for would-be writers, and god knows there’s no group more prone to slouching and moaning.
Anyway, the first time I did the program, my freelance income in one year went from about 10K to 30K. Pretty good when you consider that the overall average income for writers hovers below the poverty line. Sad, I know. Why do we do it? (Cue the s and m.)
The second time I did it, I sold my first non-fiction book, which was quickly followed by six more, plus a novel. Needless to say, I’m a pretty big fan of Julia Cameron and The Artist’s Way, and many of the lessons I learned wove themselves into the fabric of my creative life. When the student is ready, the teacher arrives! Leap, and the net will appear!
Then the economy tanked, and took a lot of publishing houses with it. I, like millions of ordinary working stiffs, entered a dark period of fiscal and existential uncertainty. Lucky me, I went peri-menopausal right then, too. Hormonal chaos. Oh, my kids started leaving the nest then, too. Maternal clutching and tuition bills. Oh, my husband started graduate school then too. More tuition bills. But no clutching.
A dark period indeed.
I was ready to learn, but there was no teacher. I leaped, but there was no net. In fact, I fell on my face, to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars in lost royalties when my publisher went belly-up. (And just when my laser hair removal bills were ramping up, too!)
However, I kept writing. (Really, what else am I going to do? I’m virtually unemployable. I have the attention span of a gnat. Plus, I tend to go off on tangents…) I went to writers’ conferences I couldn’t afford, but had a great time at. I attended writing retreats that had no apparent consequence, but at which I met great people. I pitched ideas that had minimal traction in the industry – but kept my name out there. I finally hired a professional web designer to give me a proper web presence, even though it pretty much broke my writing piggy-bank.
My tank was on Empty, out of hope, purpose, direction, meaning… yup, s and m all over the place. After all, if nobody’s buying what I’m selling, well, What Am I Going to Do With My Life? I needed something with Epic Meaning, on par with raising exceptional young women, a task at which I excel, but which utilizes skills that translate poorly on a curriculum vitae. Also, I demand compensation commensurate with my experience. You heard me. Pay the writer, man.
And then one day an email popped into my in-box.Well, really it was a Facebook message, which routed to my inbox. Which I accessed by my iPhone because I was on vacation at the time. (Tangents. Gnats. See what I mean?)
Anyway…. a woman I’d met a year or two ago at that writers’ retreat I couldn’t afford – a woman I’d have bet wouldn’t have remembered my name! – had recommended me, via my new website, to someone she knew who knew someone else who was looking for … you guessed it, a writer. And not just any writer, but one with a very specific combination of interests, combined with – get this – an ability to go off on creative tangents. TANGENTS? I am so there. And then, around the same time, my agent and I found some potential homes for the numerous manuscripts I’ve got collecting dust on my hard drive.
Slouch and moan? Who has the time?
All of which is to say that after a very long dry spell, synchronicity has struck again, reminding me that the first rule for success in any creative endeavour is to just hang in there.
Eventually the competition will give up. Or die.
Then they’ll have to publish me.