What's Not to Like?

Truth is, I don’t find perfect people too interesting—though to be fair, I’ve never known any.

Nor do I care for righteous, holier-than-thou preachy people.

And don’t bother me with a syrupy sweet goody goody who can do no wrong.

I like ‘em flawed and funny and smart. And apparently, so do most of us.

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Eternal, Infernal, Internal Dialogue

Sometimes—too often—my brain wages war on me. 

It goes a little something like this:

Me: Today’s writing went well. Some good scenes.

Brain: Let's be real. Today’s writing was amateurish and cliched. You won’t be able to use any of it.

Me: Maybe parts of it need work, but the section with Callie and her mother made me smile. I did a solid job developing their relationship.

Brain: It was shallow and trite. The humor fell flat.

Me: Hmmm. You could be right. But at least my first book was decent. I actually finished writing a novel. I’ll bet you never believed I could.

Brain: Nothing distinctive about your silly book. The plot plods along, the characters are dull, and the language is unremarkable.

Me: That’s not what my husband said. Or my daughters. They said they enjoyed it. My husband even said, “It was like I was reading a real book.”

Brain: Do I even need to dignify that with a response? What else would your family say?

Me: But the editor who read it said it was one of the best early drafts he's seen in a long time. Though now I'm remembering he added that it wasn’t perfect…

Brain: He was too polite to elaborate about exactly how “imperfect” it is. Perfection and your book exist in separate galaxies. No amount of revision can save it. Face it, you’re wasting your time. This writing thing is not for you. You might as well go watch another Dateline rerun. 

Me: I guess you're right. You’re my brain, after all. Why would you lie to me?

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Imagination's Incubator

I gave birth this year.

I am fifty-six years old, yet I produced not one, not two, but over twenty human beings.

And a dog.

The extended labor was intensive and, from my perspective, the births were nothing short of miraculous. 

Just as Athena sprang forth in full armor from Zeus’ head, the people of my clan clawed their way from my mind and onto the computer screen, emerging as adults who had gestated in the womb of my brain for many months.

Some of these children are older than I am. Some of them are more fully developed than their counterparts. Some are more difficult to love than their siblings. And spoiler alert: some have already passed through my world and departed.

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Life as a Subplot

I think I love you, so what am I so afraid of?

Last weekend, I was rocking out to Partridge Family tunes (you’re welcome for that image now embedded in your brain) and thinking back to junior high. (For you young whippersnappers, that's the same as middle school.) Back then, my main goal in life was to become a Hollywood actress and marry John Travolta (whom my mother insisted on calling John Revolting). I had recently outgrown David Cassidy, though I might still have accepted his proposal had it been forthcoming.

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