This house is a shell, its internal organs ripped clean, tossed without ceremony into the mouth of the rusty beast squatting on the sidewalk. Chunks of crumbled, discarded flesh tattooed with saucy red flowers and delicate yellow daisy chains stand testament to a succession of lost identities. Bleached ribs fractured by steel and sweat scream in mute protest, their decades of absorbed memories as broken and discarded as they. Only the skeleton remains, its naked desolation mocked by dusty, silken tendrils. The air no longer holds the whisperings of nearly a century’s worth of life; it rings with the accusing echoes of history’s death.

This house is no longer his.

Or hers.

Or its.

Or even theirs.

This house is a shell.

Waiting to become ours.

The little girl trailed her grandmother through the seemingly endless aisles of the department store. It was almost Easter, and the rows of hollow chocolate bunnies and overflowing pre-packed baskets spewing clumps of staticky plastic grass filled her eyes. The little girl was nearly five—just old enough to know that when a little girl was alone in a store with her grandmother, she could almost always work out a way to avoid leaving empty handed.

Where the toy department ended and the boring merry-go-rounds of clothing began was a shelf stacked as high as the ceiling (or so it seemed to the little girl) with stuffed bunnies. Bunnies just so happened to be the little girl’s favorite things in the world. And these weren’t any old stuffed bunnies; these were massive bunnies. They lay on their stomachs, feet tucked neatly under them in a very rabbity fashion. They had big, blue glass eyes and floppy ears with real white insides. The little girl dragged her grandmother closer, gazing in rapture at the pink, blue, yellow and brown (ick–who wanted brown?) explosions of fur. She chatted about them for quite a while, stroking them to show her grandmother how much she loved them. Her grandmother asked her which color she liked, and the little girl knew she’d won. With all the confidence of one who knows exactly what her favorite color was and would always be, the little girl declared, “Pink.”

Her grandmother agreed pink was a very nice color, and led her away.

The little girl was flummoxed. Usually her grandmother bought her things that were obviously so important to have. And what nearly five year-old didn’t need a pink bunny nearly the same length as she?

Easter passed, and the little girl soon forgot the bunny. After all, her birthday was in late May, and that was much more important than a day she had to share with her siblings. So, her fifth birthday came the way fifth birthdays do, with much excitement and lack of sleep the night before. All morning and early afternoon, the little girl begged to open her presents, but was reminded again and again to wait for her grandmother to arrive. Her grandmother finally came through the chain link fence and passed through the yard to the back patio where the festivities were being held, carrying a pile of presents, and a filled trash bag.

“Mom Mom, what’s in there?”

“My trash.”

“Why did you bring your trash to our house?”

“Because the trash man missed my house and I’m bringing it here so he can pick it up from your Mommy.”

This being a very plausible reason (despite the fact her grandmother lived only a single house away), the little girl skipped off to eat hot dogs and cake.

When all the presents had been opened, the little girl sat on the patio, reveling in all the new toys she had garnered as her parents and grandmother sat in their vinyl patio chairs, watching.

“Here, pumpkin.” Her grandmother held out the trash bag. “One more.”

The little girl stood, but didn’t move closer. She eyed the bag dubiously. “What is it?”

“Open it, and see what’s inside,” her grandmother urged.

“I don’t want your trash, Mom Mom.”

“It’s not trash. Come see.”

The little girl edged closer and carefully took the bag. Her grandmother had never before tried to play a nasty trick on her, so if she said it wasn’t trash, it probably wasn’t. The little girl undid the twist-stick and fanned out the bunches of black plastic. Staring up at her with two beautiful blue glass eyes was the pink bunny. A part of her birthday that the little girl didn’t even know was missing suddenly fell into place, and it became the perfect day.

The little girl loved her bunny, which she ingeniously named, “Pinky.” Pinky guarded her at night, standing sentry at the foot of her bed. As the little girl became not-so-little, Pinky (ten years older and more than a little forlorn) became a backrest for long nights of homework and chatting on the phone. But, one day, the not-so-little girl decided Pinky no longer fit with her impending adulthood. Pinky was bundled up with outsized clothes and other childhood things and given to charity. The not-so-little girl hoped someone would find a bit of unworn spot to love in the tired body, but she knew deep down no one would ever see in the now ragged toy what had once been, and that her beloved bunny probably ended up in the dump. It was never that she stopped loving Pinky, or that even now she doesn’t on occasion wish she had her back. But, as with everything, the turning of time forced the not-so-little girl to relinquish her hold on the solid, real Pinky, and try and content herself with the memory alone.

And that’s what she did, and is still trying to do.
*******
It will be four years ago next week that the not-so-little girl lost her grandmother. And she misses her every single day.

F***ing finally! I got my short synopsis rewritten, and I have to admit, as my friend, X, likes to say, “It’s tangerine-lip-gloss-alicious.” Translation: I think I finally have a winner, here!

Let’s see if the agents agree.

Okay, no videos next post. Promise.

The sun is missing, today. The rain has come down for hours, steady at times, drizzling at others. The wind is whipping through my opened windows, bringing into my office the day’s odd mix of warm humidity and chill breeze. I’m at my desk, staring at the screen with dry, scratchy eyes that are reluctant to stay open.

I’ve been working on my manuscript again, trying to trim it down before the next round of submissions. At this point, I think my generous word count is harming my efforts to secure an agent. So, I’ve begun another death-march through my work, killing as much as can be killed without harming the storyline. So, far, I’ve lobbed off a good seven thousand words. That takes me down to 155,000. A monster, still, I know, but a much smaller one than when I first started out. There are forty more chapters to go, and I’m hoping to make it under 149,000 by the end.

While necessary, this work is wearing on my mind. Everything is a second guess. Each word seems a weak substitute for a more brilliant, wildly elusive turn of phrase. The repetitiveness of the lines–lines I almost know by heart–and the endless stretches of white screen punctuated by little black symbols are having a soporific effect on me. I’m halfway between breakdown and shutdown, and struggling to stay awake.

I’ve made peppermint tea to stimulate my mind. I’ve gotten up and thrown punches at nothing. I’ve chased the cats around the house. I’ve tried downward facing dog to promote blood circulation in my brain. All I’ve managed to do is: 1) make myself run to the bathroom every six minutes, 2) pull something weird–and probably crucial–in my arm, 3) tripped over my fuzzy yellow raver slippers and nearly wiped out on the coffee table, and 4) shown my ass to the squirrel at the bird feeder. Despite all this rousing activity, I’m still sleepy.

Oh, wait. The water delivery guy is here. Well, that ought to keep me up for another five minutes. After that, I’m hitting the caffeine.

The Architect and I had an interesting discussion last night about the correlation between artistic inspiration and contentment–or rather, discontentment. We both noted when we’re happier, we’re less productive. When we feel domestically at ease, the creative urges aren’t so urgent, the drive to show the world our souls less demanding.

We’ve all heard the tales of the genius among us, the boozing, reclusive artists who always teetered on the edge of madness, spinning their masterful works while tap-dancing on suicide’s razor-thin edge. It is their work we grudgingly admire, our esteem tinged with notes of jealousy, tinted gray from pity at their usually disastrous ends. The question today is neither of their eminence in literature, nor their firm hold on the threads of desperation, but merely a question of whether or not their despondency gave fuel to their artistic fire. Did their singularity of purpose drive away all other earthly aims, making them intolerable companions, thus fueling their solitude? Or, did their wholehearted attachment to the pain of life, their complete submersion in every moment of despair, build the foundations of their brilliance? And, if the latter is the case, what would a struggling novice relinquish to attain that level of artistic supremacy?

For me, the answer is, not much. The Architect and I have had eleven good years, the most content of them being the most recent. While I crave even a fraction of the vision that drove our most celebrated authors to craft their respective masterpieces, I have no desire to let go the peace that has pervaded my life these past five years. Here, in my chilly, boxy old house I cook and clean. I grow herbs in the summer and fill rows of bird feeders in the winter. I make garish fifties-retro kitchen curtains and play with my cats. My life is simple and fairly uncomplicated at this point in my existence, and not at all conducive to crafting twisted tales.

In my younger days, when every event around me was a direct wound to my soul, when I was struggling to find both myself and anyone who’d date myself, I wrote much more morose material. Whether it carried the spark of genius–I doubt it. I suppose even then, my life held threads of joy, attachments both material and interpersonal that could pull me from whatever funk I at present wallowed in. These links to life obviously saved me from solitude and misery, but did they remove from me the chance for greatness? I’ll never know. For, despite my adolescent self’s best efforts, I managed to grow up fairly well adjusted.

Having a deficit of inner demons may not sound like it bodes well for one who writes of the dark, but the world is full of evil, torment and pain. It oozes from the pages of the paper every morning, glides from the pseudo-concerned voices of news anchors on a daily basis. It’s all there, ripe for the picking. I suppose in the end the dark doesn’t need to be my own, as long as I, in the end, own it.

What about you? What amount of happiness would you relinquish for a chance at pure genius?

It was always dark (or crazy foggy) when we saw the cities, so you get stuck with the rest: an odd assortment of things that seemed cool or just plain amusing.

http://w184.photobucket.com/pbwidget.swf?pbwurl=http://w184.photobucket.com/albums/x257/AveryDebow/ChristmasVacation/1dabe08e.pbw

It’s about that time. In a couple days I’ll be headed to sunny Florida. So, in-between packing, wrapping and worrying my cat’s controlled heart condition will mysteriously become symptomatic the moment I step foot out the door, I’m going to wish you all a merry Christmas, a happy Hanukkah, a blessed Yule, and a joyous any other holiday you care to celebrate.

I’ll be back after the new year with glorious tales of sunshine and 85% humidity. Until then, go enjoy your families. Like it or not, they’re pretty much the only ones who’ll always love you and be proud of you, despite the fact you put disgusting things in your stories.

Have a happy one, kids!

Yep. I want an agent so bad, I’ve turned to the Big Guy. Thanks to this site, I got a response right away. Seems even He isn’t going to make me any promises though. Dang!

Hi Avery,
I got your note. Thanks for writing!
I am writing you here. Right on your screen.

I like writing this way. Because you see my note right away!

You are already all grown up! It is hard to believe!

I’m really glad to hear you have been good most of the time.

I am very busy again this year. So much to do before Christmas! The elves and I are having fun. We are making presents. And we are shopping for presents too. Mrs. Claus is supervising.

You should see us all running around. We look like a merry go-round!

Blitzen is sure he won’t catch a cold this year. (He catches a cold every year. Right before Christmas!)

He is wearing a red coat with a big hood to stay warm. Only his nose pokes out. He looks like a red coat running around on four legs.

Well, back to work. I’ll try my best to get you the things you want, representation by a literary agent and all. Hmmmm. I had better not promise, though. Because I can’t be sure.

This is a great time of year to be very, very good. What with Christmas coming….

Merry Christmas!

Your friend,
Santa Claus

My newest favorite rejection letter came in today, beating out last month’s poorly Xeroxed form letter, which also came complete with a poorly Xeroxed signature. My new favorite is but a third of a sheet of paper, hearkening me back to the days of zoo trips, bag lunches and permission slips. This brief missive bears a polite dismissal from an individual I can’t quite recall querying. The bottom quarter of the “page” states this mystery rejector’s typed name and is concluded with the slightly stuffy title of “Proprietor.”

For whatever reason, this letter–and it’s honorific–reminds me of a day this past summer when a man with a cooler bungee strapped to the back of his old Toyota pickup rolled up in front of my house, banged on the door and announced, “I’m the manager.” I eyed the battered toy truck and the thick white plastic leaking thankfully clear fluid out of the dropped tailgate and decided, despite my curiosity, I didn’t really want to know just what he was the manager of. I suspect, though, he was either selling half-turned goat meat, or was the proposed manager of my grisly, chopped-up, cooler-stuffed demise. Either way I wasn’t much interested (hey, kinda like how the above Proprietor wasn’t interested in me) and I sent him on his way with a firm locking of my deadbolt. Sometimes a title does little in the redemption department.

At any rate, I seem to be downgrading in responses. As I mentioned before, my first rejection letter was personal and kind–a phenomena I’m only just realizing the value of. Then came the parade of bad copies. Now, I’m receiving mere fragments of paper. Maybe next I’ll get a Post-It, or even better, a Spartan “No,” scrawled on the back of a chewing gum wrapper.

As usual with me, though, I find this wave of negativity more inciting than any potential kindness. Telling me I’m not good enough is the one thing that will make me dig in my heels. Thanks to Mr. Proprietor, the rest can scrawl, “No!” on every printable surface they can uncover and mail them all back to me at my considerable expense. Like Mulder planting the yard flamingo in the neighborhood from Hell, all I have to say is, “Bring it on.”

I’m taking a quick break from dropping off the face of the earth to share what I consider the summation of my torture in revising my book’s opening scene.

Enjoy my torment.