What makes you feel infinite?

It’s 10 p.m. on a Saturday night, and I am eating a bowl of microwave popcorn alone on the couch. On the surface, there is nothing particularly interesting about this, I know (save for the fact that I actually really don’t like popcorn), but I am rather enjoying it.

I so seldom get the whole house to myself like this. I love the roommates, but I also strongly feel that the occasional chance to be alone it my personal method of re-aligning the world. That, and cutting my hair or rearranging furniture, but I haven’t had a whole lot of time to do either of those things. I did start an ill-fated crusade to clean my room this morning, but succeeded only in widening the path from the door to my bed.

But, here I am, alone with my popcorn, a glass of wine, an episode of SVU I have already seen at least three times, and my thoughts. And, wow, the thoughts.
I went to see my roommate’s band play last night and got to see a man I hadn’t seen in many years. I told him about the book, and he told me about his new music. We were discussing “the incident.”

“The incident” isn’t much of an incident, really. I sent ten copies of Max and Menna out to writers, as I mentioned, for praise. I got the very first response and…it wasn’t good. It wasn’t BAD per se, simply a very nice “this isn’t my cup of tea.” No matter how nice, I feel deflated. This was followed by encouragement to keep writing. That did frustrate me a bit, because I have always felt that my writing isn’t a choice, but an imperative.

I know, I know, I need to develop a thicker skin, but this is neither here nor there. I told my conversant this last night and he waved it off. I explained the whole imperative theory and he nodded knowingly and told me about his music. “It’s a way to live forever,” he said, “to put something out there in the world that outlasts you.”

Which, as always, got me to thinking. It reminds me of this book I just read—Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower—in which, at one point, the main character is in the middle of this awesome experience and simply says “I feel infinite.”
I feel infinite.

It was one of the most potent moments of the book, and it has stuck with me because I think I understand the feeling. I think. It’s that moment out of time where you are just happy, or amazed, or enthralled. There are a few things that make me feel that way, I suppose that everyone has them.

Laughing genuinely with friends I have had for decades and realizing that bonds don’t weaken because we’re all busy. Having a moment with everyone where all of the bullsh*t and egos fade and we just are who we were when we were 18 and are happy together makes me feel infinite. That first kiss with someone that you really want to kiss, when you stop worrying and feel possibility pulsing through you, that makes me feel infinite. But most of all, stories. Books, movies, songs—anything with that amazing story makes me feel infinite.

And so, I have decided that I can’t be too upset about the bad feedback, because I haven’t put a lot of good juju out there for the stories that have made me feel infinite. I read them, I watch them, I consume them, but I so seldom take the time to put props out there for the world.

Thus, I am going to start throwing that out there—tales of books and movies and songs that make me feel infinite.

So, here we go. We’re going to start at the very beginning, the first book I ever read that made me feel that draw. In fact, a book that amazed me so much that it pushed me to write, that I have read it more than 10 times, that there is a tattered copy on three of the five bookshelves in my house. This book is Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card. Many of you are likely already a member of the Ender’s Game fan club, officially or unofficially. I read it in seventh grade and was amazed by the levels of the story, and by how easily I became engrossed in it.

The story is about Ender, a third child in a future when only two are permitted by law. By Ender is engineered by a society that has barely survived two alien attacks to, potentially, be the military genius to help Earth escape the third. If it sounds like hardcore sci-fi, it isn’t. It definitely has aliens and astronauts, but the story is about child soldiers, and what the experience is to them. And it is, to this day, one of my absolute favorite among the thousands of stories I have consumed. I still pick it up at least twice a year when I am between books and want to feel comforted.

I remember clearly reading it for the first time, how amazed I was by how Card crafted it. I was amazed at how I because so emotionally engrossed with Ender and what happened to him, and how the end of it made me feel hopeful and full and…infinite.

More to come on my infiniteness, on authors and filmmakers whose work will live on in my mind at least. I welcome, until next time, comments on what it is that makes you all feel infinite.

And my apologies to Stephen Chbosky for stealing his expression.

A Quick Catch-Up

Hey guys,

I took my vacation as a vacation from everything, so I apologize for not writing anything for a couple of weeks. So, here is a really quick recap:

1. (and most importantly) My mom got into a clinical trial. So, we've gone from three weeks of thinking that we were out of options and nearing the end to having hope again.
2. I just took the most amazingly awesome trip down the west coast. We started in Seattle and drove down 101 to San Francisco. A phenomenal drive, followed by three days of fun in a beautiful city. I drove down Lombard Street, and for those of you who aren't impressed, google it. Then, we drove back up to Seattle through the mountains. It was unbelievable, and we had such a blast!
3. Just got back from my nephew's first birthday party. That kid puts light into the world, I swear. He is truly my Partner in Crime. He will occassionally look at me with a knowing grin and proceed to do something horribly aggravating and absolutely hillarious.

And....

4. The advanced copies of Max and Menna are here! I am actually able to hold my book in my hands and see it my story looking real. The feeling is indescribable.

I sent out ten copies for advanced praise yesterday. One to my mentor, one to another new writer that I really admire, and eight others to some of my favorite writers. It is intimidating and this is going to be a totally nerve-wracking two or three weeks waiting to see if I get a response. Eek. Fingers crossed.

Hope all is well with everyone. Some photos of my west coast shennanigans.

Let's hear it for my Momma...

Hey all,

For those of you who I asked to read the excerpt from the new novel I am working on... it's the next entry. Otherwise...

I need to bite the bullet and follow-up on my blog about foreboding. As it turns out, maybe I have a little bit of clairvoyance in me, because that nagging feeling turned out to be true.

Most of you know that my mother has been battling cancer for more than five years now. “Battling” is the wrong work—she has been having an on-going, knockdown, drag out street fight with cancer. They take turns beating the hell out of each other. “Cancer” is also not descriptive enough. I firmly believe that it is probably one of the scariest words in the English dictionary, but increasingly (and thankfully) most kinds of cancer are becoming more and more treatable. In my mom’s case, treatment options are limited. The fact that she has done as well as she has for so long is a testament to how tough this lady is.

After a failed stem cell transplant last year, Mom miraculously survived and the chemo used for the transplant caused a temporary remission. We got news a little while ago that the remission has ended, and the cancer is back.

I have all the faith in the world in my mom. She has beaten this down over and over and over again, and if there is a way on this earth to beat it again, Mom is the one to do it. I secretly suspect that she is actually Highlander and will outlive us all.

But we’re all in for a rough fight, and I can’t help but feel that this somehow contributes to this overall exhaustion that I seem to feel all the time. I have combined this with this absolute terror of being alone, because it gives me too much time to think. The travel is exhausting, but also really nice right now because it prevents me from having time to focus on things.

I can’t say it any more simply or honestly than this—I need my mom, guys. My mother is truly one of the best examples of humanity I have ever encountered and one of my best friends. I’ve mentioned my fierce independence before, but it doesn’t apply to my relationship with my mom. I talk to her every day, and any time anything is wrong, mom is the first number I dial.

So, if you’re praying folk, prayers for mom are always appreciated.

I know, I know, I'm lame

Hey all,

So I haven't posted in a while, I know. Luckily, I am not at the point where lots of you are reading regularly yet :0) Hopefully...

A few quick updates:
1. We've scheduled a launch party for Max and Menna! It will be in Baltimore in November. Hit me up if you want an invite.
2. My nephew is in the country. For those of you who don't know, though he is less than a year old this kid is my world, so between travelling (which I have a TON of lately-- check out my tweets and you will see what I mean), school, work, and playing with the kid, I am just a shadow in the night at my house. If you are among the many who have unreplied to emails sitting in my inbox, please don't take offense!

And since I am too swamped to muse, and have started to realize that there are more than just my college drinking buddies are reading this (meaning I've got to clean it up), I am going to preview something new I am working on. Comments are always appreciated. Here is the first half of the first chapter of my next novel. Should I keep writing? (And please share honest feedback!! I can take it!)

*********************

My momma used to tell me that when you’re in love, real love, you don’t question it, you just know. You know its right and that it’s true and that its time.

As I was a kid, I was sure that my momma was the smartest person I knew. She always had some quirky, seemingly wise thing to say over a plate of cookies or some lasagna or tomato soup. The funny thing was Momma was a terrible cook. But she was always ready with some comforting words whenever I needed them.

It was after the first taste of heart break that she told me about love. A boy from school had torn a letter I had left in his desk. Crafting the words, working up the nerve to tell him how I felt, had taken me days. I had waited in the seat in front of him expectantly, waiting to hear the creak of his desk hinges open. When I finally did, I thought the anticipation would kill me, but it was followed so closely by the sound of ripping paper and the snickering of the other boys around him.

I had returned home to find burnt brownies awaiting me, which I chewed as the tears created streaks down my cheeks. “I told him I loved him, Momma, why doesn’t he love me?” I had asked between desperate gasps for air.
“Gil,” she had said, smiling in a sad way.

Momma had backed up and stared at me so disapprovingly. “Gilly, what do you know about love?”

“I think I love him,” I protested, now angry and hurt.

“Gilly, when it comes to love, there is no think,” she said, “there is only know. When you love someone and its real and its right, you don’t have to think. You just know.”

Momma had to be right. She and my Daddy still held hands on the way into church, and still whispered and giggled in a way that I never saw my friend’s parents behave. They knew, they must have known, that it was real, and it was right.

It was those words that echoed through my head that time I sat behind Ricky on the Shaker. It was the oldest roller coaster in the state, and surviving its rickety dips and turns was an emblem of courage. In the hot, still, August air his cologne wafted back to me as we climbed the hill, the methodical tick-tick-tick of the track almost comforting and soothing.

Ricky was it, he was the boy at school, and this was our last weekend of freedom before we began our senior year. While he wasn’t the captain of the football team, or the smartest boy, or even the most handsome, my draw to him was intense and visceral. If he smiled at me, or even glanced my way, I suddenly felt real in a school that so often made me feel like a ghost.

I had been subtly following him that evening, and it was no accident that I was there, sitting behind him, and breathing in his cologne and his presence. The coaster crested the invented hill and for just a moment I lost him. He disappeared over the top a split-second before me and I was sure he was gone.
Then, I crested behind him and the back of his head was once again visible. My stomach dropped as we raced to the bottom and then up again, and I was sure that feeling was love.

In all the years of our marriage, there have been so many times when I have been sure that this time I really had lost him.. Maybe it’s closer to true to say I lost him when he got on that ride and put his arm around Anne McArthur. Maybe it’s closer to true to say I lost him when she died a month after we were married and he cried over her body with more intensity than he had over the body of our still-born son weeks before.

Maybe it’s closer to true to say I never had him. Maybe that feeling was never love at all, but just the plummeting of a coaster speeding me to an unseen end.

I’m holding his hand now, the steady beeping of his heart monitor offering the same false-comfort as the tick-ticking coaster climbing the hill.

I don’t feel it, not his hand, not a knife in my side with every monotonous beep, not the hot tears on my own cheeks as I cry because I am not scared or sad and am terrified that being neither means I am dead inside.
“I am sure he’ll wake up soon, honey,” an over-zealous nurse assures me as she fluffs pillows, tightens sheets and busies herself around my husband’s still form. She thinks her words make her less clinical. I think she is a fool.
I smile at her wanly and she pats my shoulder as she leaves.

The steady stream of visitors had long since evaporated. They always appeared at odd hours with odd gifts—chocolates for a comatose man and flowers for his mourning wife. I ate the chocolates guiltily and greedily, and threw the flowers out. Their colors and sweet smells seemed too bright a beacon of my silent celebration.

He’ll wake up soon. No one could resist the urge to reassure me. I could barely resist telling them I hoped he didn’t.
My boss had continued to sign my paychecks over the past weeks, pity forcing his hand. I suppose this hospital room is as good a place as any for the first real vacation I have ever taken.

Ricky has taken many, many vacations during our nineteen year marriage. Fishing trips, hunting trips, any excuse for drinking beer from cans and killing things with his friends. After nineteen years, he had nearly succeeded in killing me with less mercy than he afforded a deer or pheasant. He let me go slowly, suffering a little more each day.
Those trips always gave me opportunity to dream about leaving. I kept a suitcase packed in the upstairs closet. Sometimes I would bring it out and sit it on the bed. Occasionally, I would make it downstairs. Once, I even took it to the car. That was as far as I ever got, though, before a quiet voice in my head reminded me that I had no money and no where to go.

His hands are rough and callous. He had the hands of a carpenter, for sure. These hand were proof that Ricky could build anything he put his mind to. They had been like this since I had known him.

It is almost eight o’clock, almost time for me to return to our small home, to eat ice cream out of the box without consideration of my spreading waist, to throw the spoon in the sink, put my feet on the couch and watch mindless television shows without worrying about anyone else’s opinion. With each minute that passes I grow more and more excited at the prospect of going home to nothingness, to sinking into it.

At 7:59 I squeeze his hand to signal that I am leaving. I squeeze hard, harder each day, biting at my lip from the effort. I want to squeeze until I hear bones crunch so I will know if he is faking, or if it’s real. If he lets me mangle his hand, he is really gone. I just can’t squeeze hard enough…

I stand for a minute, his hand still in mine and wait patiently for the final thirty seconds of my eleven hour vigil to pass.

Fifteen, fourteen….

…he squeezes my hand back…

My body snaps to tension and I stop breathing. He opens the eye that isn’t bandaged, and then closes it again. I count as I step back. If I make it to zero it was a fluke, just my imagination.

Nine. Eight. Seven.

“Where am I?”

I had almost forgotten his voice. He is looking at me blankly, without anger, or confusion, or concern. He stares at me without recognition or compassion. He just stares.

I open my mouth to speak, to answer, but have no idea what to say. It isn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to have lost him.

Bile races up from my stomach and I run for the bathroom.