2018….2018….where did the time go? What did I do this year?
Chrissakes, I can barely remember what I did yesterday.
I really did get a planner. It’s a really fancy one. Leather cover and all kinds of really, really intimidating pages.
And I was really, really good at keeping at it until February when I got depressed and then got a dog.
OH YEAH! I got a dog. Freya, my support dog. She’s my black dog to fight the Black Dog.
I released a lot of stories this year.
Pretty proud of them I learned that my brand is Cheap, Quick and Weird.
Shirts are coming soon!
I had a booth at the Southern Festival of Books which is something I can now check off my Bucket List.
A film I wrote, ANGEL BAR, won Best of Genre at the 48 Hour Film Project awards.
Look at these beautiful people!
Brian and I got matching tattoos.
We’re THAT couple.
I got a haircut.
And I’m letting it gray naturally. #cronepower
The only real stain on 2018 was that I lost my friend, Richard Emerson. He was always in my corner and believed in my writing aspirations. I miss you, Richard. I hope you’re whole, happy and in peace wherever you are.
You dapper old boy!
And now onto 2019. I have so many things I want to work on. So many stories I want to tell and, hopefully, if the stars align, there will be a VERY MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT before the new year ends.
Today, I was at Barnes and Noble perusing the magazines when a wide eyed little girl straight out of central casting, blonde pigtails and maryjanes, , came up to me.
“Excuse me,” she said, her lower lip quivering ever so slightly. “Do you like to, um…do you like to read books to your kids?”
She then held up a very slim book. Her blue eyes peeked over the top. “My daddy wrote this. Would you like to buy it?”
I looked around for cameras. “What?”
“He’s right over there. With my grandpa. Come with me. I’ll show you!”
She took my hand and pulled me towards two men sitting behind a sad card table. You know the kind. A tower of books and a writer looking completely out of place.
I looked at the man and shook my head. “You sly dog. Using your kid as bait to sell your books.”
He laughed. “Hey, it was her idea.”
The little girl laughed and dropped the urchin facade. “I told him it would work!” and then she skipped away to find more customers.
Yesterday, I was waiting for the bus to take me home. It had been a long, boring day in the Cube. I had scribbled a few words about a story idea but nothing more. The sky was cloudy and my mood wasn’t much brighter.
Just then, a tall man, wide as a refrigerator, passed by me, stopped, turned to face me and pointed a
finger at me. He said, “You! I like your books.”
I mumbled a shocked thanks as he walked away.
My mood lifted. Sometimes, it just takes a brief word to change a day.
I’ve been blocked lately. I need to get back to work. I want to get back to work.
When I crack open a new journal, click my pen and declare, “Okay! Let’s write a story!”, I feel deep inside me a great exhalation, as if this inner, bored muse is saying, “Yes! Finally!”and is so grateful that I’m finally getting back on track.
And that’s good, right?
But then there is another, thicker voice that lazily counters, “Ugh….. but why? Which story is worth the effort? Sure, you’ve got ideas. Kudos but, face it, you know it’s not going to go anywhere. Have you checked your Amazon numbers lately? When was the last time you received a royalty check? All that time invested in something and for what? What’s the term? Diminished returns. That’s it. Think about it. All the time and energy you put into it and what do you get back? Isn’t it more fun to pour a drink, kick back and watch Netflix? Hey, there are lots of shows you need to catch up on. OH! and your DVR. All that stuff you’ve been socking away to watch later. And podcasts. Have you checked your podcasts lately? Anything new? Or all those library books you still have checked out. Maybe you should read them. You really should do more reading. And researching it. Have you done enough research lately? You need to see what is hot on the market. What is selling. You should write that. But, first you need to do research. Not that it really matters. Face it. . Past your prime. You don’t connect to the people anymore. What do you know? What can you actually say? You had potential but wasted it chasing invisible ink dreams. You’re too old. Seriously, have you looked at yourself lately? You should go to the gym. That’s a good idea. Go to the gym. Doesn’t exercise revive brain stuff? Or is that alcohol. Yeah. Have a drink. All writers drink. It’ll loosen you up so you can do more research or read or something. But, first a snack. And a drink.”
All the drinks
You get the picture.
So, how to fight the shadow troll inside my head that echoes every vile doubt that I’ve ever heard from others or, worst of all, conjured up myself?
Remember that first voice? The one that sighed, happily, FINALLY!
I focus on her.
And I remember the flush of excitement when the words are rushing through me.
When the story takes on its own life and I feel like a passenger, a scribe, clacking on my keyboard, just a witness to it all.
And then that finishing stroke. When the story is done and I know it’s done. That ending crescendo that leaves a lingering note of music on the page.
I remember the times someone had told me that my story brightened up their day, gave them a life or just took them on an adventure.
Because when I take my ego out of the equation (and it is my ego that is focused on the bottom line rather than the finishing one), magick can flow through when I left myself open and be a conduit for story.
That’s when I know I’m ok. I’m not a waste. I’m doing EXACTLY what I’m supposed to be doing and if the story sinks to the bottom, never makes a goddamn dime, and is only read by a handful of people, that’s is ok.
Perhaps they were the only ones meant to read it in the first place.
There’s been a lot of changes in my life recently.
Not so much changes in my life but in the lives around me. Coworkers I’ve been sharing the misery at the day job for the past 15 years retiring, friends moving away, and all the usual stuff that makes one start thinking about where they are and if they want to still be in that place during the next solar cycle.
So I decided to do something and look around for a new gig. I wanted something more in tune with me and what I wanted for my future.
And I thought I had found it. It was small publishing house in Nashville. NOT RELIGIOUS, which is a miracle (no pun intended) and they had posted a job that I would be perfect for so I joined up on this online job site, filled out a freaking resume and sent it off into the cyber ether.
I’m not going to lie. It felt a buzz of excitement I hadn’t felt in ages. I started fantasizing about getting the job and how great it would feel to be doing something I love and making new, interesting friends and how my world would just blossom and everything would just start coming up Nik.
Calm down, Mary. It’s just a hat.
The next day, I waited for an email. It was the caffeine that kept my hopes up. I kept replaying the fantasy, over and over again. Getting a new cool job. Quitting this shitshow. Oh, man, I was gonna love quitting.
buh-bye
But the email never came. What I did get was a fuckton of spam phonecalls.
Yeah.
And the job?
Yeah. Suddenly, that job wasn’t on the website.
But the spam? That shit kept on coming.
Yeah.
So, I got got. Just another victim of Hope laid out by the Internet.
Meh. C’est la guerre.
My day job is soul sucking, lonely and has absolutely no future but, what the fuck. It pays the bills.
There’s always the Great American Novel dream, right?
Nikki Nelson-Hicks 