A Perfect Writing Day

On a perfect writing day, I'd wake up around 9 AM, feeling fully rested and refreshed. I would remember all my dreams. They would be intricate, with plots and twists and turns of fate. Perhaps I would awaken from a dream of my blond guardian angel, who has been with me since I was fourteen. The beautiful colors and scenes in my dreams would inspire me.

I'd power up the computer, turn on word, and away I'd go. My fingers would fly over the keys. Maybe I'd write poetry or an essay. A short story would appear fullblown and pop onto the screen, almost without my fingers having to intervene.

After writing for hours I would shock myself by looking at the clock and seeing how much time had passed. I would stagger away from the computer, a little disoriented, and find myself a delicious lunch of cheese, crackers and fruit. I'd make myself feel like I was at a party. Then I'd bring a glass of diet soda back to the computer and jump back in.

When I stopped at dinnertime, I'd have a first draft of a story or article that I'd know was sure to be a hit.

Job Interview

You could call her passionate; you could call her a motormouth. I didn't know what to make of this woman, and after interviewing with her for an hour, I still didn't know what to make of her. She was interviewing me for a part time job but you'd never have known it.

Instead, she talked on and on about the organization; about all that needed to be done. She told me about the Board members and all her contacts. It seems she's friends with anyone who is anyone in the known universe (New York City being the known universe, that is).

Was she bragging or just telling me her story? I couldn't tell. Every so often I tried to wedge a word in with a shoehorn. I asked her, almost desperately, wasn't there something else she needed to know about me? "Oh, yes," she replied, as if pulling a question out of a ready-made jarful of Things to Ask at an Interview. "Why should I hire you? What's do you bring to the table that's better than the others?"

I countered with questions about the organization, the board, the future plans. In between, I studied her. She must be in her mid-fifties, with hair dyed a stark black, matching her little black dress. I thought little black dresses were evening wear but I see they have somehow made it into the boardroom. She's smart, she's sophisticated, she's out of my league. I don't think I'll fit in with her crowd, and that may very likely blow me out of the water.

But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe she wants someone who is more down to earth. Maybe she is looking for someone who can tone down her personality a bit. She's strong, she's forceful, she knows how to be a catalyst for change. Those are good things, but talking to her was like coming up against a steamroller. I learned much more about her than she could possibly have learned about me. Was that good or bad? Only time will tell.

Savage Hope

I just finished reading "Savage Hope" by Cassie Edwards. Generally I enjoy her series. But there are some things that trouble me. First, the men depicted on the covers and even in the photograph on the inner cover, are not Native Americans. They are very clearly white men given copper skin and straight black hair, but their features are in no way Asiatic the way American Indians really look.

Given that Ms. Edwards has some Native American ancestry I'm surprised she lets this kind of thing go on. It's insulting really. The whole point of these books is overcoming prejudice and two races coming together in love and harmony. So why make them look like they are really the same race and there are really no characteristic differences?

The book itself kept me reading but it was a bit disappointing. The heroine was too sweet and the hero was too perfect also. They had one disagreement and that was all. The whole conflict was based on outsiders: a villain who wanted the girl for himself and was willing to do anything, even murder, to get her, and society's prejudice against interracial marriage.

So this one doesn't get four stars. But in general I enjoy her work and I certainly will go back for more. Just a little more conflict between the main characters, please. I like a Hollywood romance where they fight until they fall in love.

Maybe the next romance will be more like that.

Hospital

I thought I was all packed for the hospital but now I have learned there are more things I should have taken along. I brought the toothbrush but forgot the toothpaste. And in fact I never took the toothbrush out of the bag. I brought two books and finished one of them, never opened the second. Last time, with the same amount of time spent there, I got through two novels instead of one.

This time it was different. Harder. They made me wait all day for the surgery. We got there at 11 AM and I was supposed to be called at two. Instead they kept calling me "Mrs. Rosenzweig." I kept saying, "I am not Rosenzweig. I'm Leibowitz," but the next person would come over and call me Mrs. Rosenzweig again. I began to fear they would give me Mrs. Rosenzweig's surgery, whatever that was supposed to be.

When they finally called me it was still "hurry up and wait." The anesthesiologist had to talke to me, the nurse had to talk to me, the surgeon had to talk to me. They all asked me the same questions over and over. Why don't they just check each other's notes? Hospital files must be so stuffed with duplicative paper.

Finally they got me into this cold, blue operating room with electronic gadgets everywhere. They put me on the table and put those sleeves on my legs so I wouldn't get a blood clot. Why would I get a blood clot from lying down for a few hours, when we sleep every night and don't get blood clots? I have to wonder. I asked the anesthesiologist to say a prayer for me and to say positive things. He agreed and then he asked if he was the only one to get this honor. I said, no, everyone could do the same.

He told me soon I would feel sleepy but I went out so quickly I never felt it coming on. Too bad, I kind of like that feeling just before the wave of unconsciousness hits. It seemed very quick and I woke up in the recovery room. Bruce was there and the team of doctors came in and said everything went fine and the growth would have to be biopsied but it was benign.

I knew it had to be but I had worried. The surgeon told me that if they found cancer they would have to open me up the old fashioned way and intubate me. So I knew that if I woke up in the recovery room and found a tube still in me that I would know I had cancer. I dreaded waking up to find that. But I didn't. Bruce wanted to stay until I got a room but I told him to go home and be with Jason.

The night nurse was friendly and we talked about our sons. She had four kids: I don't even know how people do that and maintain a semblance of sanity. But the boys all seemed to have similar issues with reading and writing to my son, so we had a lot to talk about. Also I must have had plenty of morphine in my system so I was feeling fine. You feel best right after surgery. It's later that the pain kicks in.

They found me a room after two thirty in the morning and I got less than three hours sleep before nurses came in and started waking me up to take blood pressure, sticking me to get my sugar, etc. At first they used a huge cuff on my arm and got a low blood pressure reading twice in a row. Then they switched to a smaller cuff and got normal readings. But the damage was done and because of the two low readings the doctor team decided I had to have an upper GI series.

I didn't argue though perhaps I should have. It was so obvious that it was a "cover your ass" test but I went along with it. After 42 hours of not eating and drinking even the foul swill they make you drink when they do the GI series actually tasted good at first. However it lost its appeal by the time they gave me a second bottle. Of course there was no leak and I knew it and they knew it. I would love to see the bill that comes through now on account of that.

So this was Wednesday morning. The team of doctors came in, and I learned that the growth had been "ectopic pancreas," a little splitoff of pancreatic tissue that ended up in my stomach. It dated back to when I was a fetus. All along, except when the cancer paranoia clouded my brain, I knew deep down that this thing was harmless and it had been there all my life. This is the down side of all those great tests that look inside you. They find things that are harmless but can't be identified, and they generate worry and wind up causing unnecessary procedures.

I was told I was cleared to go home but I felt weak and tired and not ready for that. It was a good thing. Jason and Bruce visited and at dinner (soup and jello) I had terrible gas pains. Finally when they started coming through instead of just passing gas I developed a nasty case of diarrhea that got worse and worse. To my horror they would not give me medication for it nor would they give me even a disposable diaper so I would not keep soiling and messing the bed, the floor and everywhere else. It was repulsive. I don't know when I have felt so ugly.

Plus, the nurses said they wanted me to produce a stool sample so it could be checked for infection. I couldn't seem to go in the right place! Either it was on the bed or on the floor but never in the toilet into the correct container. I was so revolted by my own body by this time. It continued into Thursday morning. By then I was running 101 degrees of fever and a nurse told me they wouldn't clear me to go home if it did not come down. So I kept playing with the breath machine and walking around the halls (crapping everywhere) until it came down to around 100 degrees.

A nurse told me I was cleared for discharge, and I signed the paper and got ready to go home. Bruce went and got me immodium but I still had two more accidents on the way out of the place. Fortunately I had the sense to ask him to bring the grungiest, most ripped up pants he could find in my closet so I could simply throw them away after I had an accident in them. And that is exactly what I did. I had an accident in the lobby, and felt so humiliated thinking everyone saw liquid gushing out of my ass and all over my pants. But we just got in a taxi and as soon as I got home I chowed down some more immodium and threw away the revolting pants.

The diarrhea cleared up by the next day thanks to immodium and the brat diet (bananas, rice, applesauce and toast. Well, skip the toast, I was only allowed to have soft foods). Soon that hospital stay, like the others, will only be a miserable memory. That will happen when the bruises on my arms where they stuck the IV's fade, the stitches dissolve into my body, and the hair on my belly that they shaved grows back and stops itching like a case of poison ivy.

Writing Class

I signed up to take a writing class today and we are supposed to take a few minutes every single day to write. As if I don't. I used to do more but there are too many secrets and too much I don't want found. So now it has to be relegated to certain areas of my life.

We're supposed to put down thoughts and ideas we'd like to write about. So I can do that. I made a huge list of possible magazine articles. The trouble is that I have not followed through on any of it. At least, not much. I did get the book review published and now I will have to hunt down my money in order to get myself paid.

I haven't had an idea for a story much lately. I tend to write erotic stories and that's not so suitable for this class. Maybe I will just hold off on that. For the most part, fiction doesn't interest me anymore. Only the erotic romance novels and some fantasy hold an attraction. But straight literary novels? No. I find them dull.

Of course, how can I say that when I haven't read one in years?

Maybe tomorrow I will write about my surgery and the hospital stay. That's more interesting than trying to state what my writing ideas are.