I hate algorithms. I loved Pinterest until more than half my feed became, Picked for you.
Yesterday, I searched for red painted chairs. Today, you guessed it, my feed is mostly red chairs. I don’t want another red chair. I have one already, a sentimental ladder back my dad rescued from a junk pile. I love it. But one is enough.
Why did I type red chairs in the search box? Images. I search when I write. I want the perfect red chair to sit behind a computer psychic’s work desk. I want the perfect red chair next to the fireplace in my main character’s log cabin. I have the perfect red chair for me in my own house.
Why does social media insist I’m so meager that I can’t think for myself? What if tomorrow I need to describe yard art? A six-foot, ceramic alligator? Will the Bots-That-Be throw reptiles in my face for a month?
By nature, writers need to be alone. Most days I’m happy-happy talking to myself in strange voices, running the dialog past my favorite critique partner, Jasmine Tea Schnauzer.
And then, I have a day like today. Call it mood. My husband, who usually fills the gas tank, leaves the car on empty. My oldest guilts me into letting her wear my new Keds to school. The characters in my book aren’t yelling loud enough for me to get them off the cliff where they’ve been hanging since Sunday.
I google people I knew in the ’80s. I find out. They’re dead. I obsess over my kids’ grades in the school’s, too convenient, Parent Portal. The meter reader passes through my fenced backyard, eight feet from the family room window. I check myself. I’m covered–albeit in a flannel pajama top and yoga pants. I scramble for cover, wondering if he’ll close the gate behind him. Will I remember before the dog runs out to chase a squirrel?
On this day, I’m a lonely grouse.
I have two choices.
A. Continue on the current path. Write nothing. Search Google for dead acquaintances. Hide out until late afternoon when I’m forced to think about school pick-up and dinner prep. By this time, I’ll be raving, cracked, and depraved.
B. Get the hell out of Dodge.
Opting for B.
Do you like to be alone or are you a lonely grouse, too?
Whew! It’s been a while. I’m still here. Living. Writing. Laughing when I can. I’ve thought about blogging twenty times a day since the last post ten months ago. I have snaps on my phone that make no sense now, but at the time, I connected them to an idea. Something to share here.
I wasn’t ready.
Hence, the graphic ↑.
Last week, Cherry cleaned her room. If you know a normal sixteen-year-old, then you understand the magnitude of the event.
“Mom, I don’t want this.” She handed me a clear acrylic cube of printed cards.
“What are they?”
“Conversation starters. The white elephant gift from the swim team Christmas party.”
It’s been parked on my desk since. This morning, I opened the box and withdrew the first card.
How do you measure success and who do would you consider a successful person?
Taylor Swift. Barack Obama. J. K. Rowling. Elisabeth Crisp.
Success isn’t talent, money, power, or accolades. It’s knowing at the end of the day, I’ve done my job. It’s a line of sequential X’s on the calendar, representing the days I put a pen to paper, fed my family, bound a wound, or made another person laugh. Success is measured in quantity time.