May the Odds Be Ever In My Favor

Hi. I’m Teresa and I write quiet novels. It’s an addiction. And currently not marketable.

For those of you who do not understand the industry term “quiet”, it means introspective. The major conflict of my novels is internal. Sure, I have actions scenes, but I focus on my characters. What they are feeling. What they are thinking. Write the book you want to read? That’s what I’m doing. I want a character study that gets deep into why we act like we do.

 I’m tired of go-go-go. We’re so rushed through life. The work week starts like we’re shot from a cannon. The stress starts as soon as the alarm goes off and it’s sustained through the entire day. Our sleep isn’t restful because it’s brief and riddled with dreams about work. People talk about mindfulness and being in the moment, but we make it into another task for the day. Something else to tick off our list. We stop to see the flowers because we’re told it will help, not because the colors are beautiful or the scent is sweet. We live in a world where even our downtime is pumped with action, binge-streaming shows where the fate of something BIG hangs in the balance every forty-eight minutes. The stakes are so high, we forget what it’s like to be grounded.

 I want to take it down a few notches and plant my feet firmly on the earth. I want more than adrenaline levels that make my muscles twitch. I want characters that come to life on the page even if they aren’t saving the world or their own life/relationship/family. When I close a book, I want the satisfaction of knowing it’s possible to dig through all the bull of our daily lives and remember what makes us human.

 Introspection allows us to know ourselves. When we become self-aware, we understand life. We learn the reasons behind the actions, and knowing the reasons arms us with the power to change. And not just ourselves. Seeing the root cause of a bully’s attitude, of a person’s depression, of the oppression and harm we perpetuate without intent… it is all possible to change.

 Entertainment doesn’t always need to be serious, but it should be taken seriously. There’s a correlation between reading fiction and developing emotional intelligence. I hear the naysayers arguing already, but everything we experience, be it the sun on our faces or what we consume as entertainment, it all becomes part of us. It takes an understanding of ourselves to see it, to know if we watch Thor because Chris Hemsworth’s physique is a work of art or because we yearn for the person who will end the suffering. I watch superhero movies with the full knowledge of them being allegories for the military, ingraining the idea of the (usually white) savior, and that violence and destruction are perfectly fine if the ends justify the means. I see how it affects me and I can make a conscious effort to live in a way that says, “No. The ends do not justify the means.”

 There are plenty of novels that will whisk a reader to a world of magic and mystical creatures in the fantasies, to the mind of the psychopath in thrillers, or to the detective who’ll solve everything in a neat little package. There is nothing wrong with these genres at all. I read Anne Bishop, Jim Butcher, and Gillian Flynn. But I also read Barbara Kingsolver, Anna Quindlen, and Sue Monk Kidd. These are authors who delve into the inner workings of their characters and place their complex, imperfect people against the backdrop of a plot, and the result is nothing short of perfection.

 I spoke with someone in the industry who is gracious and encouraging, but also blunt in reminding me I have an uphill battle to be traditionally published. I knew that going in; she really didn’t tell me anything new. I write about recovering from trauma and right now we’re all too marred in traumatic times to even think about another’s woes. But the key word here is recovery. Life can beat you down to a messy lump of flesh, but recovery is possible. We can get through it.

 I may write quiet and dark… but ultimately? I write about hope.

 Maybe the time and place for my novels isn’t right now, but the opportunity will come. I won’t give up.

Quelling the Monkeys

My therapist tells me a story of a shelf in her house. It bows under too much weight. The manufacturer swears up and down it should support the load placed on it.   

It doesn’t. 

Well… perhaps it does. Just not in the way the consumer intended. After all, it hasn’t broken or given any indication it will. 

The books sit atop the shelf long enough to make the bow permanent. There is no denying the shelf is damaged even if its load is lightened. The once promising wood sags for all to see but is still deceptively strong. 

The metaphor sits with me for days. The lesson isn’t that I’m damaged but still strong. I’ve already learned that:  I’m still here. It’s not even that a book or two can be removed. I’ve done that and I’ve ripped some chapters out of the books that are part of my permanent library. 

The shelf should be able to hold the weight. Its materials and construction are on target. It shouldn’t bow. In fact, the manufacturer has stated it should sustain even more. 

It should.  It shouldn’t. It doesn’t.  But. It. Should. 

But I should be able to do the thing. Whatever the thing is. I’m better than I was. I shouldn’t need a break after making the bed. I should be able to concentrate enough to finish an article. I should be able to work by now. 

I should all over myself. 

A woman in a previous support group called these thoughts Monkeys. They screech and rattle the bars to be heard.  Each has a different, often contrary message.  But it all boils down to noise in my head. 

The shelf story addresses the Should Monkeys.  

It should. It doesn’t.  That’s where the thought ends. 

Insisting that it should do what it doesn’t is circular thought. No amount of insistence, desire, or willpower will change the situation.   It is what it is. Don’t add any more stress to the shelf. Accept the shelf’s limitations despite all the Should Monkeys screeching. 

Accepting a chronic illness is neither easy nor giving up. The latter has stuck with me for a long time.  I’d like to think I’ve ripped that chapter out but the Authors like too much to let it go. 

I am chronically ill. It doesn’t matter what my diagnoses are. My shelf is bowed. I may lighten its burden, but the damage is done. I can say it should bear a heavier load, but it doesn’t. Getting another shelf isn’t an option. It’s imperative to take care of what I’ve got. 

Because with the proper attention, that shelf will hold up just fine for as long as I need it.