Send in the Clowns

Have you ever been so alone in a crowd of people that your heart began to cry because it would be too shameful for your eyes to burst in tears?

I feel crazy today. Absolutely out of sorts, in adequate and 50,000 other adjectives that swirl, spiral, cascade negativity. And there's no good reason. This weekend has been amazing I've met authors, agents, editors who buy what I want to sell. They are positive, forthright and honest about what differentiates the mediocre from the fantastic. I don't know where I fit, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I fall closer to mediocrity than to being a superior writer. I now this craft is hard, and it's not something one chooses as a hobby.

One writes because the soul doesn't know how to exist apart from the words. One writes because there is no other choice – short of death. My fear of fears is that I have nothing of merit to offer, dear friends. Tell me which writer on this planet has never had this fear! Yet at this moment, it's crippling and discouraging and makes me wonder if I've set myself up to dwell in the 7^th circle of hell the way I set my characters up. At least with them, after I've had my power trip they get a happy ending.

It's a negotiated promise. We sit at the table of my psyche and I promise them that if they trust me, and I mean really trust me, that I will make them happier than they ever thought possible. Yes, I'll take them to the dark moment, and they may have nightmares about it from now 'til eternity, but they will have their silver lining, the rainbow, a fucking parade if it fits the story. Okay, that's chuckle-worthy – a parade.

I was in a parade once – one of those small town homey things where the floats are more like catastrophes piled on the back of a homemade pickup truck. I was already on crutches at the time so I didn't figure anything that would happen aboard Bubba's truck would hurt me. Thankfully, I was right. A memory forgotten and retrieved because for some reason, I needed to remember. Me on a float, and people actually waving to me because I waved at them. People waving at me because they hoped they could catch my attention and that for one second our eyes would meet and I could assuage a drop of the loneliness that tugged at their souls while they stood feeling like I feel today.

Forgettable, un-wantable (I know that's not a word), and totally undeserving of any kind of attention. I hoped I was hiding this from outsiders because it's my private pain and my private shame. I think I was successful. Who knows? Maybe that's why I met an angel in the hall. For you fiction fans, I'm about to give you an exit from the dark moment. Yes, friends, our heroine escapes the mire. A lovely gentleman walked up to me while I was browsing a stand in the hall. He introduced himself to me and invited me to a concert he and some of his friends were doing. You see, they sing the blues, and my man JD plays the trombone. How could I refuse? Maybe he talked to me because he could tell I'm too senseless to avoid getting in conversations with strangers. Don't our parents warn against that? I like to think he was my angel. Maybe my insecurities were leaking and he had a moment to choose between leaving me to figure it out and sending me a lifeboat. Those of you who know me know I'd have got my act together eventually, but I am so glad he came to the rescue.

So today, I challenge you: be lifesavers, see someone – really look into another person's eyes and be willing to feel with them, for them. Be an angel.