Monday, May 28, 2012


I read what  I've written so far, because I like reading what I write -   I'm not  afraid to admit that I have a huge ego, even though I also suffer from an inferiority complex, an exhausting combination...  - just kidding (maybe).  I read it because I need to see if my thoughts are consistent.  I've written quite a bit about my (see, right here I'm stuck because the word that I first wrote is recovery, but, I don't like that word.  I never have.  If I say that I'm writing about my recovery from alcoholism, to me it implies that I've recovered and am therefore no longer an addict, which isn't true.  I am an addict, inherently, through my marrow, so, I can't say that I've recovered.  If I were to drink again today, I'd do so alcoholicly.  Even if I sipped half a Tom Collins, that half would haunt me until my next beverage and eventually - and trust me on this one - I would not stop at half.  So then, close parenthesis) addiction.  Why, am I being so honest out here in cyberness.  What will people think, Olga?  

Because I am alcoholic through my marrow, the effort that I need to put into not drinking or indulging in various other addictive behaviours, takes up a rather large amount of time in my life, even if at this point, its majorly subconscious time.  It's still a big part of my identity now.  I don't know if this sub-un-conscious focus I currently have ends up becoming a big part of how my characters evolve in my head.  Does it detract from them?  Or does it add a little flavor, a little spiciness.  Some darkness?  You know what sort of darkness I'm referring to?  GenX darkness?  HA HA HA.  I guess if you get that, then you get it. 

For the most part I'm editing work for which the characters are already established but still, I'm adding and deleting and they will be tinged by who I am now, sober, drug free.  But also, I'm experiencing a maturity level that I obviously never knew before.  I don't think that this means my characters will all reflect that maturity, sometimes I barely reflect it myself.  But I do feel it in the way that I have felt all the other stuff.  Stuff.  Good stuff.  Scarey stuff... You know, yikes, emotions.  The same stuff that makes me who I am right now, sitting here writing this down.  Its important for me to work through the idea that they can remain who they are, because even though who I was back then grew up, she's still lurking.  I can write about what it felt like not to know, and I can also write about knowing.  I can write about doubt and I can write about confidence.  I can write about loss, and I can write about hope.  I wasn't familiar with some of those combinations before.  We are grey matter, right? Black and white between the pages, not once we look up.

I did believe a few moons ago, not that many, that in order to be valuable as an artist I had to have a tortured soul.  Looking back on that thought, and on why I needed to feel that way, it kind of makes me giggle in a bittersweet, shaking my head sort of way.  While its never been clear to me what genre I should categorize myself under, I guess, in the big picture - and I hate to admit this - they are love stories.  For the most part they all include paranormal, fantasy twists, and they aren't like, you know, Fabio on the cover love stories, and neither, hopefully, are they stick-my-finger-down-my -throat-gag, sugary-sweet love stories.  Portions of them are dark, after all my sister fed my child's mind with Brother's Grimm, Mother Goose and Disney followed by Poe, Konrad and Hitchcock Presents.  Evidentally, that's the combination instilled in me.  A dash of 18th century poverty and pestilence, dollop of witches, ogres, cauldrons and ovens, a sprig of pixie dust and incantations, rapping ravens, dark hearts and bingo-bango, in gallops Prince Charming on the white horse.  That said, there's a sense in me, and I won't speak for other writer's or painters or musicians, but in me, that thinks I feel too much.  Or feels that I think too much.  My heart seems to break more often than it should or seems fair it should.  So happy ending?  Yeah, but not without a big shake first.  I don't like avoiding the truth as I see it, that life is rough for some of us and still harder for others but then, you know, earth is so frigging beautiful anyway.  I mean, despite us, earth is so frigging beautiful.  I like to wave wands and wiggle my nose and blink my eyes and poof, prince charming because, well, get out of my way, it's my party and I like the magic.     

Olga, the question was, what will people think?  This is supposed to be a blog about your adventure in epublishing.  Why are you getting naked?

Ok. I don't know.  This is who I am.  This is how I write.  A few decades down the road I won't exist anymore.  That almost already happened so, this is my testament to me.  I have dog eared, faded photographs of my grandparents and parents.  The day my dad died, I grabbed his money clip that still held seven dollars, his wallet and a stack of old work id's, some his, and some with my mother's picture on them - they worked for the same maintenance company in New York - and stuck them in  my drawer where they still sit.  Those are the only tangible things that link me to them; pretty much all I have.  I didn't know my grandfathers, one died when my father was five and the other died when I was a little girl and I hardly remember the mention of his name.  What will I leave behind?  Look, this is what I hope:  All these words will float around in space and a few people will happen upon them, or they'll look on purpose, whichever, and they will see two things;  A writer whose words they would like to read more of, and an addict/alcoholic that hasn't had a drink in a few years.  They will think, "look, she can do this.  If she can do it, so can I," and they will know that they don't have to live the way they are living or feel that they are all alone because they aren't.   I'm right here too. 

Writing has everything to do with me.  Stopping drinking has nothing to do with me.  I don't know what it does have to do with but its not me.  And since I know it has nothing to do with me, then I know I have a chance of staying sober, otherwise I'm not so sure I would be very successful at it.  Believe me, if I had anything to do with it, I would still be drinking and the ensuing misery wouldn't keep me from doing it either.  I don't know how spacey that sounds, but, that's just the way that it is.  But did I stop?  Yeah.  And have I stayed stopped?  Yeah.  And has it affected my writing?  Yeah, it's better.

So maybe this is a blog about my adventures in epublishing and maybe its an addicts blog and maybe its a dancing hippopotumus in yellow tights, it doesn't matter.  I believe that what matters is that I am enjoying the bejesus out of this blogging thing. 

By the way, I don't know what a Tom Collins is, I've just heard the name in old movies and it sounds good doesn't it?  My drink was Tanguery and Tonic, but frankly, I don't even like being this close to it.  And. well, I don't know what a bejesus is either, but I think it resides on the edge of our soul.

*Thank you for the picture (and everything else) Disney.

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