Saturday, June 24, 2006

STELLA CREEPS UP ON A LOVE-HATE RELATIONSHIP

On a summer's day when our three children were still small, my husband traveled weekly for business, and I had been doing something very dangerous--examining my life options--I told Jerry I intended to write a novel.

Going on an old theory that once we state something we intend to do--out loud, not just in a whispery voice in our minds--we're committed, I had decided to declare myself.

I sat beside a chest of drawers I had "antiqued" in a shade of bright yellow (garage sale chest--money wasn't plentiful) and a breeze billowed in sheer curtains at the windows. "I'm going to write a novel," I said, waiting for Jerry to look up from putting away toiletries from his latest trip. I waited and waited and finally repeated, "I'm going to write a novel." He smiled at me. My husband is a good and kind man and has always wanted the best for me. And he said, "Sure you are," with an even bigger smile.

Even the best of people sometimes humor others...

Everything changed for me that afternoon, everything. I was never the same person afterward and didn't want to be. Jerry's gauntlet rested on the floor at my feet, and I picked it up. In a drawer in my sewing cabinet rested a sixty page manuscript called KRINKLE, about one of Santa Clause's elves who wanted to be a doll and given to a real child. Krinkle, the youngest of the huge family of elves who were chocolate makers to Santa Clause, got his name because, as the youngest and smallest, his mean job was to make sure the colored foil papers wrapping Christmas chocolates were absolutely smooth. He wasn't well treated and even had to stay at home and keep stirring the heated chocolate while his entire family went to a fabulous holiday bash at Santa's castle.

Shades of Cinderella?

And so it went for sixty pages, and there it was in the sewing drawer. The story had the important stuff, a beginning a middle and an end. A rising and falling action. Heroes, heroines and villains. I knew nothing about the writing business but I set about finding out all I needed and I've been learning ever since. KRINKLE was my tricycle on the way to that racy two-wheeler I intended to ride.

Short stories followed, and novellas, a first novel that actually interested a few industry folks. And I spent hours at the library reading about agents and publishers in general then agents and publishers individually. I studied their credentials and researched the names of their clients/stable, and made sure I knew what those people wrote about.

Manila envelopes went out in the mail. Manila envelopes came back in the mail. And I had an important (to me) rule: Never open a rejection (yes, I had quickly figured out that the envelopes arriving back in my mailbox were not filled with contracts or checks), but never open a rejection until you finish your day's writing. This rule came from my occasional need to cry at reading those gentle words one more time, "We wish you luck placing your work elsewhere." In other words, what I'd submitted wasn't good enough--yet. But I never, ever, considered quitting.

The heading on this blog speaks to a love-hate relationship. For me, that describes any passion strong enough to snag a lifetime of faithful allegiance. No passion comes without a price. Sometimes the return is a dose of euphoria, happiness that seems as if it can't be beaten. On other occasions suffering is the best word I can come up with for the payback I get for my dedication!

"So," you say, "What's this all about, Stella?" The passion, of course. The payoff, off course. And how do we stay with the things (lovers, vocations, avocations, the list is long and I'll only attempt the first two) that sometimes cause unhappiness? With lovers the answer is as complicated as it is simple; we stay because we can't go, because the love is too strong to ignore, too strong to survive without. On vocations the answer is again, simple, but it is also mind-messingly complicated and worthy of a lifetime of unraveling.

Writing is a habit to many of us, an addiction we don't try to kick because we don't want to. We are sure we would, in some way, die without the words and the stories. And unlike some tasks that may eventually be perfected--really perfected so that they can't be improved--I cannot imagine thinking I had written a perfect piece. The only reality that saves me from discovering I'm still revising the first story I wrote is that old enemy/friend: the deadline.

I would be very remiss if I didn't write that Jerry Cameron (once I'd picked up that gauntlet) became and continues to be my most faithful cheering section--just as I hope I am his in his endeavors. And I wish each of you a champion worth loving. If there doesn't seem to be a cadidate readily available, let us know. We'll all cheer for you.

When I decided to write to you about this relationship so many of us are drawn to, I thought I might produce a funny little snippet we could laugh about together. We can laugh about all this because what we have in common, and in common with the written word is a knowing a comradeship where we share a bagful of insider jokes, sly nudges, the frequent giggles. But it seems we do well to tip our hats to the real power of passion, the power that makes us lifelong slaves who continually return to the source for fresh reminders about the strength of our addiction. Like writing, reading is an addiction. Painting, needlepoint, sailing, hang-gliding, and on and on runs the probably endless list of passionate addictions. Love of animals, children, a need to serve others. You see, the longer we think about these things, the more we'll identify.

NOTE: The gent at the top of this blog reminds me of the day when I, with only my sixty page story in the drawer of my sewing cabinet, said, "Publishing, here I come." The lady at the bottom (I can dream, can't I?) represents all of us when we accomplish our dreams.

What are your passions? How do you feel when you, the surfer, catch the big wave or you, the graduate student, get your next degree? Or you, the parent, get a hug from your child?