Happy Autumn

Well, hello there. Long time no see. I have excuses for that, which I'll explain below. First I wanted to say that autumn in Utah is the best! My husband doesn't agree, mostly because he didn't love school the way I did. Autumn colors mean it's time to head back to the books--is there anything more exciting? I am consumed with envy for all the kids crawling over campuses everywhere. (College is wasted on the young.) (Well, I guess it's not. I sure enjoyed my college days to the fullest, so I guess it wasn't wasted on me.)

So I read in the paper today about the Utah chick who is making a "comfortable upper-middle class income" by blogging every day and selling spots to advertisers. Sheesh! There's no denying that some people have blog talent. I don't. So, for those (both) of you who ever read this, thanks for hanging with me. That's true love, that is.

Someone asked me once what measures I have taken to improve readership of my blog. Answer: none. It hasn't been a real goal to get more and more readers. I'm not sure what the goal is here, as I've mentioned in earlier posts. But I find that if I start trying to guess what will make more people want to read, I am no longer writing for myself. If I'm trying to please an audience, I might as well do it with my more formal writing.

What's up with that, anyway? Well, I sold another story to the Friend. That makes five this year. But get this: they paid $250 each for the first two, $100 each for the second two, and $75 for this last one. Arrrrggh! I finally called them to ask, basically, if they were trying to give me a hint (and if so, why bother buying at all?). No, they said, they just ran over budget and had to cut way down. Drat. So anything else I have to sell, it would be wiser to wait until the new year. Frustrating since I want to get enough money for another independent study class. I hate not having the money for the next class I want to take.

I've been concentrating on poetry lately (and that's the class I want to take). I polished up a bunch for Kathy Soper to put in her book (published through Segullah--watch for it!). I've got several more on the burner . . . I'm toying with the idea of going for an MFA in poetry, so I need to really buckle down there.

Reading . . . let's see. Lots and lots of people have sent me manuscripts that they want me to critique this last month. I've been rather inundated, actually. That's taking some time. As for books, I read Sarah's Quilt (sequel to These is My Words), two thirds of Part 1 of Don Quixote (I'm sorry, I just can't take any more. It will not get done.), Creative Writing the Easy Way, The Memory-Keeper's Wife. Reading was a little hard this month because of illness.

So the illness. Which is the reason I haven't posted for a while. Can I just extend an apology to all of my friends and acquaintances who suffere from chronic illnesses? Here's what I'm apologizing for: because I didn't realize until this month, when the possibility arose that I might have one, that I had been subconsciously judging people who have them. I found out because of the deep sense of embarrassment and shame I have felt in thinking that I might have one. And through the embarrassment I feel whenever someone asks me how I'm feeling now and I have to answer "lousy" again, or when people ask, "Just what, exactly, are your symptoms?" Why is it so embarrassing? Do I deep down think it's my fault? I don't know. But I'm really bothered by it (the embarrassment). I have never been conscious of judging others who struggle with similar things. But here I am judging myself so harshly. It drives me crazy.

Because I know you're wondering, I'll just say it once here, quickly: I have struggled with exhaustion for several months, breathlessness, a sense of choking, strange sensations in my head of a lack of blood (blackout) and then a rush of blood and pressure, heart skipping a beat. Also itching on the palms of my hands and soles of my feet.

There. I've said it. Weird symptoms, the kind that grouped all together make doctors say things like "chronic fatigue," "fibromyalgia," "anxiety." Which translates as "we don't know what in the world is up with you, you crazy Mormon housewife lady, so how can I get you out of my office?" I've struggled with finding a caring doctor who will listen and ACTUALLY ORDER SOME TESTS instead of whipping out his prescription pad and writing me some anti-anxiety medication.

OK, if this is an anxiety disorder, fine. I'll go on the drugs. I don't have any moral mental blocks about taking needed medication for anything, mental or physical. I just don't want to go on the dang stuff until we rule out some other stuff. Could somebody order me some tests? Please?

The other thing is this: I don't feel any anxiety in my life about anything--except the fact that my heart seems to stop occasionally. There have been anxious times in my life. I have even struggled with depression at times in my life. But not now, dang it! I am feeling better, emotionally, than I ever have. I love my life! My kids are all pretty easy right now. My marriage has never been better. I have things to look forward to, things I enjoy (when I'm not too tired to do them well). I am not depressed! I am not anxious! And I am doing everything right: exercising, sleeping (plenty!), eating pretty darn well. It just doesn't make sense to me.

OK, I'm done. Now you don't need to ask me how I'm feeling. Thanks, though.

Blog about Blogs

I had just about made up my mind to erase this blog. I just don’t like the concept of being so self-conscious. I figure, if I have something to say that is worth saying really well and is meant to be said in public, I should probably really craft it and then put it into one of my poems or stories. Or, if it’s that I want to work through something by writing it out, I should just put it in my journal. What’s with displaying it for everyone? It makes me even more self-conscious than I already am, that feeling that I’m always in a movie. “Here is what the voice-over would say right now. And this is the kind of music there would be in the background . . .” And who is it that I’m thinking might ever care to read this? Probably if I linked to it from the other places I post, people might check it out out of curiosity. But I’m not sure I want to be judged by it.

That’s it—that’s what bugs me about blogs. It’s like everyone who does one is keeping it so that they have something public to be judged by. So that they can have some control over the impression they make. They craft a persona. But I imagine that although you can’t take everything in a blog as an accurate definition of its creator, I guess you can learn a lot about the person just by what they decide to include, or not include. You can at least tell what about them they prefer to project, if nothing else.

Meanwhile, I haven’t told a living soul (except R) that I have this blog. So for now I am just musing in the dark to myself.