learning about myself
I knew I had found my identity when I started skipping lunch. Instead I ate vending machine cookies and hung out with my newfound friends who dreamed and laughed and extrapolated and made snarky comments about the snarkable.
It didn't make life ideal, but it sure made it bearable.
Later, I befriended a boy who had gotten kicked out of the nearby city school for knifing somebody. My parents warned me about him, but it was too late.
Life did get easier after that. Somehow it helped for everyone to know you were close to the boy they all feared.
Eeep.
Just sent the chapter outline/breakdown/synopsis/thingie to the nice agent. (Okay,
my
agent. I have to get used to saying that.)
Why am I nervous? I shouldn't be nervous, should I?
Just sent the chapter outline/breakdown/synopsis/thingie to the nice agent. (Okay, my agent. I have to get used to saying that.)
Why am I nervous? I shouldn't be nervous, should I?
I love you, Jilli.
Buffistas are the publishingest.
I love you, Jilli.
I swear, I am going to figure out how to teleport so you and I can get together, dye each other's hair, play with makeup, and go
geeble geeble geeble OMG publishing!
at each other.
(Which is a roundabout way of saying I love you too.)
(aging unmakeupabble publishing crone, er, hag, er, veteran, sulking in corner from lack of geebling)
Jilli, go get 'em!
The Geebling Buffistas.
Worthy sucessors to the Gargling Gershwins.
I am guilty of envy. I am also guilty of feeling guilty when something lovely happens to me. I had an entry about that in LJ today, that I'm trying to get beyond that response. Basically, in my very own life, I think I've earned any happiness, joy, or pleasure that comes my way. That life is far fuller of grey, leaden, draining events and endless joyless times than it is of fun, but the joy is so wonderful, the happiness is so piercing-- Well, it has to be, to achieve that balance. And that I--myself, nobody else, for I'm only sharing, not advising--am far happier if I hold onto the joyous moments, if I experience them vicariously through loved ones' and friends' achievements and blessings, and let the wearisome neverending greyness go, as much as I can.
I used to believe I controlled what happened to me. Now I believe life is a lot more random than I used to think--and that everything that happens isn't necessarily my karma. Sometimes it is just random, and I need to accept that if I did what I could and didn't screw up on purpose, that whatever bad stuff happens really isn't my fault. I take responsibility for my screwups, and for lots more than just that, for more than just my own. But I don't think I control much, if any of it.
Um. Sorry for the ramble. I'll delete, if anyone objects.
(aging unmakeupabble publishing crone, er, hag, er, veteran, sulking in corner from lack of geebling)
Oh stop that. That's not true in the slightest, and you know it.
Sometimes it is just random, and I need to accept that if I did what I could and didn't screw up on purpose, that whatever bad stuff happens really isn't my fault.
Beverly, that's what I believe. Which is why I also believe that when good, wonderful, joyous things happen, people should celebrate them.
(For the record, I also do believe in some sort of Powers That Be; I just don't think they pay a lot of attention to the day-to-day running of The Universe. Sometimes they step in and Do Something, just to keep in practice. But mostly, The Universe is random. Very, very random.)
Oh stop that. That's not true in the slightest, and you know it.
Honey, my tongue was so far into my cheek, it was poking a hole through it. Trust me, any time I want to paint up and geeble, I'll do precisely that thing.
Which is why I also believe that when good, wonderful, joyous things happen, people should celebrate them
So do I. I just like celebrating cool shit happening to people I like, though. Nothing to do with random or not-random, in my head.
It just feels nice when nice stuff goes down. A reason to dance? to drink prosecco with fresh berries? to occasionally cry like a widow and take a bit of healing away, and then maybe do a decent job sharing it with language?
Hell yes. If pain's the price of admission, what's joy but the payoff?
