Never satisfied...

Since putting the "final" period on the "final" draft, I have slowly become aware of an acute infection of "nonsatisfieditis". Its symptoms include but are not limited to: reviewing my manuscript repeatedly, finding it replete with 'errors', and constantly referring to it as my "freshman effort". I take this disease as a good sign; those who find no room for improvement usually have improvement renting out entire apartment complexes, waiting for its chance to sneak in.

Times like this remind me of my father's famous quote: "The closer you get to the king, the more warts you'll see." (I realize this isn't directly attributable to him, but since I heard it from dad's mouth first, I take it as gospel)

Now, I'm no king, and neither is my work, yet it is nice to know that the deeper you look, the more errors you are prone to find. I think the real trick is to know when you've dug deep enough to call it an acceptable book. Authors' opinions on this subject vary, but I maintain that you need only dig as deep as readers demand, which, unfortunately, is as deep as you can possibly stand without quitting altogether.

What dreams may come...

Two nights ago, amidst a fitful sleep in the quaint Wisconsin town of Lake Geneva, I dreamt I had signed with a literary agent. I will spare you the details of the whole dream, as there were the standard-issue monsters, slow motion scenes, and horrible dialogue, but for one ephemeral moment, all was well in Orbon.

...I walk into a room. The dim light and fancy furniture suggest its origins lie in the Victorian era. Lots of red and orange and candles and people fill my otherwise clouded view. A line forms in front of me, and I am suddenly carrying a packet of papers and forms. "Next!" and I am standing face to face with a balding, middle-aged gentleman and his young republican assistant. They both recognize me from my submission, and while I explain that I have no idea how they received my manuscript, the assistant politely begins a hushed conversation with the middle-aged man. An eternity slithers by. The young republican thanks me for my time, says they are not interested, but that the young woman over there might be. I turn and spot a 20something woman with reddish curly hair and black rimmed glasses sitting at a table near the farthest corner. She motions me over, and in the span of a brief interview, I am brought into the wonderful world of writer representation. Thirty minutes later, I am standing with my "signee class" (an older woman, a 30something blonde, and a mustached man). We are applauded by an unseen audience, and the lights go out.....

Obviously not true to life. Yet, as I reflect on it, I am reminded of my grade school days, getting picked over constantly for basketball, tackle-the-man, and baseball. For any young kid, those are watershed moments. I remember getting cut from the JV basketball team my sophomore year in high school; it was horrible. I fought back tears as I watched my friends suit up and head off to practice. I remember thinking, "When will it ever be my time?!"

Writing is a lot like that. You write and edit and write some more. You submit, spit, and polish all that you can. You research, print, and study the market over and over. Then, with a shaky hand, you open the mailbox and discover you didn't make the team. Your work isn't good enough. Better luck next manuscript. Better find a new job. Rinse, repeat.

Like the dream, some fall into the rainbow of fortune and streak off towards success. Others are met with closed doors, cold shoulders, and years of form-letter rejection. Some of these will make the signee class; some will not. The difference, I believe, lies in constancy, persevering until the bitter end. The belief that I will make it, that my stories are worth someone else's time, shall be the only explanation necessary when, 50 years from now, I am found shriveled and spent on the steps of Random House, clutching a freshly edited copy of the Orbon series.

So, let these dreams continue on into the night, and each morning I will awake and hope to find the reality much finer and the future much brighter.

Lunacy...

How can it be, in a city suffering so much, that New Orleans now has a gang problem? One reporter referred to it as "urban warfare". Another call the situation more dangerous than Baghdad.

I learned today that a good friend of mine is battling for his life and the lives of countless others in New Orleans even as I type this. He is under threat of gunfire, theft, starvation, dehydration, and physical abuse. He's been on the job since the hurricane struck, and he can see no relief in sight. Police officer you say? Fireman? National guardsman?

Try doctor.

At Kenner Memorial Hospital in downtown New Orleans, first year resident Andy Roddenberry is fighting to save lives. He and 5 other doctors are attempting to stabilize and triage over 1000 patients. Statistics alone suggest they cannot be effective for long. They have no power, no food, no water, no way to sterilize their equipment and no means to transport the most critical among the sick.

Efforts to drop medical supplies and nutritional aid were met by a hostile gang of thugs. Several of those lurking in and around the hospital are brandishing firearms out in the open. Threats have been made. By the grace of God, no threat has yet been carried out. Who is to say how long such a tenuous peace will last.

My suggestion is simple: send the national guard in. Better yet, send in some troops who have spent the last year of their lives fighting in Iraq. See what level of tolerance and patience they have for those who seek to force their own will among the helpless. What is taking days to accomplish peacefully would take only minutes to resolve. Patients could then be transferred, the hospital could be evacuated, the hungry could eat, the thirsty drink, and my friend, the hero in all of this, could come home.

For now, we pray and wait, in hopes that the swift hand of justice and the sweet hand of mercy reach down simultaneously for the stranded.