Hidden …. My favorite way to be.
When Forms of Defiance was chosen by publisher Unsolicited Press, the selection was the providential conclusion of one of my most successful escapes. I’d found a way to completely disconnect from knowing much of anything about anyone who read any sentence of mine, thereby avoiding awful vulnerability and the truths of accountability. My friend, for an entirely reasonable fee, did it for me: I sent her my stuff, she sent it out repeatedly. This friend saved me from the consequences of Severe Anxiety Disorder laced with Secret Arrogance and Denied Ambition. In short, she saved my life.
For years, I hid behind my mother’s morals, my husband’s competence, my children’s fascinating gifts and the joy of grandchildren, not to mention myriads of ideas which may or may not have been my own. Writing however, was the one inner landscape in which I did not search frantically for cover. When I was actually doing the work, my aggressive, not altogether pleasing, self could be revealed … and I could revel in my drive for the unvarnished expression of whatever my imagination happened to see. Sending my stuff out, though, was an entirely different matter.
This went on for years. In one way, I was thrilled when my friend informed me that the book had an offer; in another way, I seriously considered bleaching my hair Marilyn Monroe platinum and moving to the locale furthest from my current address. Over the months until publication, however, the reality hit me that I’d been given a chance to stop fleeing. I had the chance to stand behind my own work – to own the fact that I love the printed word more than I can say. The fact that, for me, stories – even my frail attempts -- are more true than most anything else in my life.
My fantasy had been that I would just throw the book out to the world and see where it landed. Instead, I had to stand behind it, offer it to real people standing in front of me, even read it out loud regardless of any terrifying reaction of the one listening.
Sometimes a person needs to rip the Band-aid off.
Sometimes a person needs to rip the Band-aid off. So I hosted an Open House to celebrate this book. I invited some friends I’ve garnered over the years, offered food, wine and hopefully a good time. My book was offered for sale too – though in an out-of-the-way part of my house; people can’t change themselves entirely. I was asked to read a few stories, and I did – I chose the ones about death because after all, this was the death of me not admitting my own existence.
In the end, nothing but love come to me during the hours everyone was here. Everyone DID have a good time. Actually no one was particularly surprised I’d written a book after all. No getaway was needed. It was strange and wonderful to feel the good flow of literature all around me. If there’s such a thing as being ‘drunk on love’ then I was certainly beyond tipsy.
Open House Gallery
