Does that make me crazy? Probably....

Yeah, I know.  Not the best subject heading for a post talking about how May is Mental Health month, but my small group of loyal readers understand my sense of humour.  At least, I hope they do.
  Anyway, so.  May is MHM, and as everyone who reads this blog knows, I live with a long list of diagnosis which make my life, for lack of a better word, interesting.  Things lately have been rough.  Issues with family and friends, getting final closure of a long term relationship, pining for my dead husband, have made many things hard to bear.
 The other day I walked into Barnes and Noble and saw a BOOKCASE full of the Infernal Book.  I wanted to scream.  So many people have told me in the past few weeks "This book is what people want." If that's truly the case, I'm screwed.   I can't and won't write that stuff.  It goes against almost everything I believe.
  Like I said this past week has been a mess.  So, last night, after crying for at least an hour, I called our County's Helpline.  Their advertising reads, "Feeling hopeless? Call----" I've had bad experiences before with them, people were short and occasionally downright nasty to me.  This time was no exception.  I got put on hold just as I started to cry because another line was ringing.   This is about the 5th time this has happened.  In frustration, I hung up .  When I called back I was told "If you're NOT suicidal, I have to answer another line, " in the most uncaring tone possible.  Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.  I found out this morning that the people who staff this line are PAID.  Again WTF.
So, I wrote a letter to the editor this morning.  I don't know if anything will come of it, but, here it is.

 To whom it may concern-
  I am a consumer of mental health services in Poughkeepsie.  While I am blessed to have Dr. Scott Barkstrom, who works at the Mental Health clinic at St Francis Hospital as my primary therapist, I am only permitted to see him once a week.  Since I live with major depression, there are on occasions, other times when I need to speak to someone.
 As F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "In the dark night of the soul, it is always three in the morning." and it is often late at night when I am feeling most hopeless.  As the clinic is not open I have availed myself of The Department of Mental Health's Helpline, and therin lies the the problem.
  I'm not sure who trains the people who answer the phones, but in the last few times I have called, I've been met with indifference,combativeness, and impatience.
 There have been many times that I've been put on hold because another line was ringing regardless of how upset I'd been.  This happened again last night, and in frustration, I hung up.  When I called back I was told, quite abruptly, "If you're NOT suicidal, I have to answer another line".   I was shocked, stunned and hurt  by this response.
  People who suffer from Mental Illness need compassion and patience.  If Helpline is ONLY a number to call when an individual is feeling suicidal, the advertising should state that.
  It's only through the grace of God that I am here this morning.  Strangely enough, it was this incident that almost made me forget my own problems and want to bring this to people's attention.  I can't imagine what might have happened if another, person maybe more distraught than myself would have received this sort of response.
  In closing, I just want to say I'm not writing this to complain, but to shine a light on this problem.  I hope that Bill Cuscak, who is the supervisor of Dutchess County Helpline will read this letter, and hopefully implement some real changes.
Thank you.
Anne Mikusinski

Like I said, I don't know if anything will come of it.
Monday I'm going into NYC, just to have a day away from everything.  Whether I come back or not, remains to be seen.  I understand it's very easy to 'get lost ' there.

In the mean time, listen to this song---it kicks ass.

Submitted for Your (Dis) Approval

So after writing that last entry, I figure why not go for it.  So, I'm putting it out there, and looking for some feedback, I suppose.   This is, what I hope will be the beginning of my novel.  I'd like the working title to be "Real Werewolves Have Chest Hair" but I'm wondering if that will fly with an agent.  Anyway, for better or for worse, here it is.     Please, if you are reading and would be so kind, let me know what you think.

If you're not sure what to say, here are some questions to answer.

1.  Did it hold your interest?

2. Does the main character seem/likable ?

3. Does reading this make you want to know what happens next?

Thanks in advance!

Here it is-have at it. :P

Good Morning, Dad, Good Morning, Warren”. In some distant, quiet, part of my brain I hear them both answer, “Good morning!” It kills me hearing them so cheery but if they are where I believe they are, I suppose that makes sense.

You need to understand one thing about me right off the bat. (Cue the eerie music). I talk to dead people. No, I don't see them, like that creepy little kid in “The Sixth Sense “ or that stick woman with the surgically enhanced boobs in “The Ghost Whisperer” I talk to them. Some of the time they talk back, most of the time, they just listen. Sometimes, when they feel like it, they pay me a visit and strike up a conversation.

I talk to my dad, who's been gone for seven years now. I still miss him like he passed yesterday. He and I were close, and he, well, he got me, like only a few of my friends now, do.

Warren is Warren Zevon, the brilliant musician who was taken by cancer much too early. I used to listen to him in high school and college, and recently started listening to him again, discovering that he wrote some profound, and almost beautifully painful songs. I'm reading his biography right now, and the more I learn about him the more I'm sure that he and I would have been friends (and possibly more) if we'd run into each other . Maybe I'll get to talk to him in the Next Life, that is, if I survive this one.

Now that you know that, I'll introduce myself formally. I'm Sydney Wallace, 42, aspiring journalist, writer, and former publicist for Mr. Peter Sampson, the famous Broadway actor. If you haven't been living under a rock, you'll recognize the name immediately, if not, trust, me you're better off. I say 'former publicist ' because I just left my job a week ago and am now frantically searching for something new, so that I can continue to pay my rent and eat. Fortunately I saved some of my paycheck so I can make it for two months, maybe three if I eat Ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It also gives me time to work on the novel I've been trying to write for two years now. At least that's what I tell myself those days I don't job hurt, but stare at the blank page on my laptop and curse that blinking cursor that whines “you don't give me enough to do”.

No, a writer's life is not an easy one, but, seeing as I've been writing stories and little poems since I was seven years old, and making them up for as long as I can remember it's kind of hard to stop now. Even though my mother nags, “find a real job, one with stability and a nice 401K plan that will see you through your golden years.” What she doesn't say is that if I had a job like that I'd be more likely to find an acceptable man with money so I wouldn't have to work, and who would support me in my golden years. Ugh. That's her idea of a wonderful life, not mine.

It's not that I wouldn't like to have someone to share my life with, a companion, a friend, a guaranteed date for big events and holidays, but I seem to have a tendency to fall for the unavailable whether they are fledgling sociopaths, (I almost married that one), already married, or dead. (I've told you about the dead one already.). I'm pretty sure that marriage is out of the picture for now, and I've been trying to muffle the ticking of my biological clock with about twelve pillows. Some times that works, other days, not so much. I've basically accepted.that I will be alone, and the more I stay that way,the more I realize that there aren't many men who could put up with most of my more, well let's just call them eccentricities.

So, that's where I am right now. It's not perfect, but it's a damned sight better than where I was a week ago.

Note to Gilbert and Sullivan...

A writer's lot is no more happy than a policeman's is, or was in those days.  In fact, in many ways, I often think a writer has a harder time of it, especially in these times of e-books and self publishing.   When I first started writing, computers were massive towers that hummed in cold basements of office buildings, televisions only had   channels 2-13, vampires were to be feared, not loved, along with werewolves, dragons, and all other paranormal creatures of the night, and the only wizards that merited the world's attention either lived in Middle Earth or Oz.
  I have always been in love with books and reading, and I can't remember a time when I didn't have a book in my hand.  My parents always read to me before bed, and of course my grandparents never had to ask me what I wanted for a birthday/Christmas present, my answer was always the same-A book.   I even think 'read' was one of my first words, and I taught myself how to do it myself when I was three years old.
   Books have saved my life more times than I can count.   They are my sanctuary and my solace, a soft place to fall and a place to go without leaving my house---a blessing for a borderline agoraphobic with minimal social skills, as I am sometimes.   I joke that they are my friends and my comfort, things that only a true lover of words will ever understand.
  So I suppose it's no surprise, that at the age of seven, I started writing.  Poems, stories, and dare I say, even some elementary fan-fiction.   I've been writing ever since.   I feel as much peace when I'm writing as I do when I'm in church, or out walking somewhere beautiful.  
   Lately though, that peace and well being have ebbed a bit, alright, to be honest, a great deal, and this change seems to be concurrent to my decision to stop feeling guilty, and be a real writer.   Which means, basically, since the reality of my life right now consists of waiting for the beginning of the month so I can pay the co-pay on my new depression meds, and then seeing if they will work so that I can be in position of actually feeling like I can look for a 'real job', the only thing I'm doing that has any semblance of work to it, is reading articles about writing, looking for magazines, and contests where I can submit my work, and then waiting to hear back, researching publishing houses, agents and how to write a good query letter, and what was that last thing?
  Oh yeah, ACTUAL writing.  So, I suppose, for lack of a better word, doing all that is my job right now.
    Some days, doing this seems to have the same angst and frustration level as a couple who are trying to get pregnant would have, and I PRAY I don't offend anyone by saying that.   The waiting, the failures, the rejections, seem to be all, somewhat the same.  I'm pretty sure however, those couples eat better, sleep better, and at times enjoy their creative process more than I do.
  Which makes me worry.  Seeing how upset I get at each contest loss, each rejection letter, I wonder if I'm cut out to be a writer.  I can understand, the longer I stick with it, why so many writers drank, self-medicated, had endless bouts of melancholy.   Then again, even before I was writing seriously, F. Scott's "Dark Night of the Soul " and I were very well acquainted.    In fact, it is during some of these black times that I am the most creative, and that I turn out the best work.
  Rejections and being ignored do sting, but after pursuing writing, and ONLY writing(meaning not even thinking of doing something else) for six months, I am beginning to understand the people who say 'each no makes you try harder for a yes"
I have my days where I throw fits on twitter, where I rail at my friends over some other writer's success that I cannot understand, but when the shouting's done and the dust settles--(and I'm usually in tears), I take a deep breath and start over.
  I love this work.   I adore my muses.   That's not going to change.  Someday, maybe,  someone will read my work and  believe as I do-I was MEANT to be a writer.
Now, you'll excuse me ---crying again.  :P

25 1/2 Shades of Mauve

Okay.  I swore to myself, I even swore on my father's grave, that I wouldn't justify the existence of this book by blogging about it.   After today, however, when someone I admire(d)? greatly mentioned it as something that might make worthwhile reading, I just couldn't stop myself.
  Unless you've been hiding under a rock there is a trilogy of books, which are being labelled as 'Erotic Novels" by the author E.L. James. (a pen name, perhaps)?  The first one is called "50 Shades of Grey".  I'll confess I haven't read  the book itself, but I've read PLENTY of excerpts, as I've struggled to figure out what the appeal of such a story could be.
For those of you who still don't know what I'm on about, I direct you to this wonderful blog post.
http://www.readreactreview.com/2012/01/30/50-things-about-50-shades-of-grey/#.T430EqtO_dU

  Are you finished reading?   Have you stopped laughing?  Here's my point.  A long time ago, in this same galaxy, there was-ok, there still is-, a genre of writing called 'erotica'  D.H. Lawrence's "Lady Chatterly's Lover" fits into it.  So does Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer"   Not to mention the rather enigmatic author Anais Nin, who wrote several novellas which fit into the genre.  Let me find an excerpt of her work
WARNING:  this is not work safe, AND, if you have any kids, tweens, teens etc, tell them to stop reading over your shoulder.
"He not on­ly con­tin­ued to kiss her as if he were drink­ing her whole mouth, tongue, breath, in­to his big dark mouth, but his hands mauled her, pressed deeply in­to her flesh, leav­ing marks and pain ev­ery­where. She was moist and trem­bling, open­ing her legs and try­ing to climb over him. She tried to open his pants.

'There is time,' he said. 'There is plen­ty of time. We are go­ing to stay in this room for days. There is a lot of time for both of us.'

Then he turned away and got un­dressed. He had a gold­en-brown body, a pe­nis as smooth as the rest of his body, big, firm as a pol­ished wood ba­ton. She fell on him and took it in­to her mouth. His fin­gers went ev­ery­where, in­to her anus, in­to her sex; his tongue, in­to her mouth, in­to her ears. He bit at her nip­ples, he kissed and bit her bel­ly. She was try­ing to sat­is­fy her hunger by rub­bing against his leg, but he would not let her. He bent her as if she were made of rub­ber, twist­ed her in­to ev­ery po­si­tion. With his two strong hands he took what­ev­er part of her he was hun­gry for and brought it up to his mouth like a morsel of food, not car­ing how the rest of her body fell in­to space. Just so, he took her ass be­tween his two hands, held it to his mouth, and bit and kissed her. She begged, 'Take me, An­to­nio, take me, I can't wait!' He would not take her.

By this time the hunger in her womb was like a rag­ing fire. She thought that it would drive her in­sane. What­ev­er she tried to do to bring her­self to an or­gasm, he de­feat­ed. If she even kissed him too long he would break away. As she moved, the big belt made a clink­ing sound, like the chain of a slave. She was now in­deed the slave of this enor­mous brown man. He ruled like a king. Her plea­sure was sub­or­di­nat­ed to his. She re­al­ized she could do noth­ing against his force and will. He de­mand­ed sub­mis­sion. Her de­sire died in her from sheer ex­haus­tion. All the taut­ness left her body. She be­came as soft as cot­ton. In­to this he delved with greater ex­ul­tan­cy. His slave, his pos­ses­sion, a bro­ken body, pant­ing, mal­leable, grow­ing soft­er un­der his fin­gers. His hands searched ev­ery nook of her body, leav­ing noth­ing un­touched, knead­ing it, knead­ing it to suit his fan­cy, bend­ing it to suit his mouth, his tongue, press­ing it against his big shin­ing white teeth, mark­ing her as his'

Oh, fan yourself, take a cold shower, whatever. ;)

    Holy cats, that gal could write.  Most romance writers should take notes.  Yes, it's a graphic scene, but there's emotion, and feeling behind it.   There is no profanity, no barnyard animals(ie roosters and kitty cats--do I really have to explain further?)   That said, it's not what I would read on a regular basis, but the writing is excellent, the emotion is there.  It's not just sex, for sex's sake.

   And I suppose that's my point. "50 Shades" with its sadomasochism, its demeaning portrayal of a young, naive woman getting an 'education' at the hands of an older, urbane, man who controls her throughout the first book, is well, harmful to anyone who reads it.     The sex scenes are even more graphic than what I quoted above, and they are so clinically written it's almost like an instruction manual.   There does not seem to be much love between Christian Grey and Anna, and the whole idea of her 'redeeming and saving' a 'brooding and emotionally damaged man' as so many of the trilogy's fans protest the story is truly about , well that's just not realistic.  Besides, Charlotte Bronte did it much better in "Jane Eyre", and I don't think Jane and Edward ever did the mattress mambo.  In print, anyway. :P

  It's disturbing to hear that young girls are reading this and blogging, texting and IMing that "Christian Grey is so hawt'!  It's even more disturbing to know that wives are reading it in bed while their husbands ask for attention(and I'm not necessarily talking about SEXUAL attention"!  It is supremely upsetting to me, a single woman that both men and women are reading this and thinking Christian and Anna's story is the model for a good relationship. This book is a fantasy, and sometimes, fantasies can be dangerous.

  I suppose that's all I have to say.   Just my .02 for what it's worth.  A healthy relationship, as anyone who has worked to have one knows, is work.  And when it works, it's about so much, MUCH more, than sex.  

.PS-I still do admire the person whose comment inspired me to write this.   And, if he's reading this post,  I hope he never, EVER reads that Infernal Book.  You are so much better than that, dear Walter. Trust me. ;)

A Quiet, 'Normal ' Life

Alton Brown ‏ @altonbrown

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“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live".-Charles Bukowski  Yeah, I snagged a tweet again.  Deal with it, it fits the topic.

  Anyway, is everyone ready?  Then let's begin.
   If, for whatever reason, the FBI or CIA decided to set up surveillance of me, or if we all wound up in that voyeuristic society that Orwell wrote about, it's a sure bet that anyone watching me would either be bored to death, or to tears, in a matter of days, if not hours.
  I don't do anything particularly exciting.  I putter around the house, I read, I watch too much television.Sometimes, I go out with friends.  Sure, someone might for two seconds be intrigued on the strange hours I keep, but I'm a textbook insomniac, move along, not much to see here.  Let's be frank, I'm not that interesting.
   Most days, anyway.
The last six months have been, for a lack of a better word, more dramatic than usual.  I've talked about some of the reasons why in recent posts, but today, I'm going to talk about the rest of it.
I want to give people insight (at least I'll hope that's what this is) into what it's like to live with an as yet untreated mental illness.   I describe myself to my closest friends, as "A box of Fucked Up".  And I say that with great affection about myself.  I don't have any shame about it, and it's taken me a long time to say that.   I know I'm not my diagnosis(es)*yes, I have more than one*, and that in fact, I wouldn't be who I am today if I hadn't gone through all I've been through, even though it's left me with battle scars.   So, in terms of what the DSMIV would tell you, I have--drum roll, please---
(Reading from top to bottom)
Major depression (recurrent)
Anxiety disorder
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
DID(formerly known as MPD)-- in English, I have multiple personalities, or alters if you will.  Yes, the same thing Sybil had. Only I have twelve less than she had, I have four. (counting myself).  Sometimes they drive the car, sometimes I do.  Why/how do I have them?  That's a long, brutal depressing story that I don't like to dwell on.  The short answer is in my forty-eight years on the planet I've been repeatedly physically and emotionally abused, with some sexual crap in there just to keep things interesting.
And honestly, that's all I want to say about that.  I am NOT my diagnosis, I am NOT my illness, although in the past few weeks, I've been thinking, acting and believing like I am.
  That stops today.  Acting as if I am damaged in some way helps no one.  It makes me cranky.  It makes me lash out at the people I love the most.   I won't say it's stupid, but it's as close to stupid as it gets.
I want to be the best person I can, but after trying six different medications, and being in therapy for thirty of my forty-eight years on the planet, I just don't know.   I know I'll never be 'normal'.  I despise that word.
Mental illness has a stigma stronger than almost any other disease, including AIDS.  Even AIDS, nowadays is accepted more than mental illness still is not.  See, I look at that sentence and know it's going to get me into trouble, and I am torn between caring and not caring anymore.
  I am lucky to have one dear friend who's stuck it out these past two years, when my alters started manifesting more, who has held my hand through all of this, through the late night phone calls, and the screaming and crying, who has saved my life twice, who has talked me down from the figurative ledge a million times.  I will never understand why she stays, why she loves me why she's my best friend, but, as she says, she does, and that's all that should matter.   If I mention her name she'll kill me, so I'll just say, "Thank you sis....for EVERYTHING.." and she'll understand.
  I don't think my life will ever be normal.  But I hope, that by blogging about my experiences here, by sharing my thoughts, I can at least make one person, maybe just maybe THINK before they use the words 'normal' or 'crazy'.
So much is NOT known about most mental illnesses, so much disservice is done to people with Mental Illness by the media.  Right now I don't have the power to do much.  But I do hope, and hope so hard, that people will at least read here sometimes, and think twice before they judge.
A girl can dream, can't she?

Tupperware Sucks, and Other Things That Are Pissing Me Off Today

In no particular order, here they are.
-Tupperware sucks.  It truly does.  It is not 'airtight' or 'freshness protecting' or any of those other things it claims to be.  Things still go stale and get moldy in it.  Sometimes, they go bad just as quickly as if you didn't have them in Tupperware at all.  Tupperware SUUUUUUUUUUCKS!!!!!!
-Rachel Ray, I'm sorry.  Putting limes or lemons in the microwave to make them yield more juice is a lie. It just makes them hot, so you now are trying not to burn your fingers as you try to squeeze miniscule amounts of hot juice into your cold drink.  Stop trying to deceive the American Public.
-My dad and Warren are still (as is Franciso Franco) dead.  It makes no sense.  Of course it didn't help that my dad smoked like a chimney for forty years, ate two eggs and four strips of bacon or sausage every Sunday and had a massive sweet tooth, but he still shouldn't be dead.  Not many people enjoyed life as much as he did.  He was far from a perfect person, but he still was one of the best men I knew, and even though he's been gone for almost eight years I miss him horribly.  I probably always will.
 As for Warren, he shouldn't be dead either. At least, he shouldn't have died of mesothelioma.  A drug overdose, drinking himself to death, AIDS, that would have been understandable, if no less sad.  But to die from lung cancer caused by sleeping in an attic room when he was young  that had  an asbestos ceiling?  Senseless.  I would have loved to hear his commentary on some of the things that go on in music today, in politics, in just about everything.  He still gets ignored by the HOF every year, and I probably care about that more than he does.   I just wish he was still here so I could get a chance to see him, talk to him, and tell him how much his music means to me.  I don't want to wait until the next life to do it.  Hell, I may not even make it there, at the rate I'm going.
  -I have two dear friends who don't see their own worth.  It's not that I don't understand what they're saying, I just disagree with it.  I love them, and don't like to see them in pain.   I wish I could fix it, but I can't.  I just hope that my being there for them helps, even a little.
   -The people who work for the Department of Social Services must have Masters Degrees in making poor people feel like shit.  I would love to see them try to survive on what they give people to live on.  They forget that if not for people like us, they wouldn't have jobs.   I consider myself one of the lucky ones because I get a little family help.  So many of these people don't.   I can understand working at a job like this can, at times get frustrating and depressing.  I just wish the people who work there would try to understand how the people who need these services feel.
- I think it's really sad that over at some social media and writing websites, you give someone the privilege of being a moderator for a message board, and it goes right to their heads.  Yesterday, I was banned from a board I really enjoyed reading and posting on because I DARED object to the fact one of the moderators called my credibility as a writer into question.  God forbid I didn't tow the party line and accept her constructive criticism.  What's worse is that she's blocked me, so I am unable to point out both the error in her judgment, her meglomaniacal personality, and her horrendous, glaring errors in logic and spelling.
-My godmother is in a geriatric unit in Brookly, fading away from Alzheimer's disease as we wait to have her guardianship finalized.  She had a cat when she lived at home.  Right now, the super of her building is feeding the cat.   I had wanted to take the cat when I moved, and my mother had said that was a good idea. Now, suddenly, she's going to let the manager of the condo have it for their office. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.
  I wanted that cat.  As went everything else since my GM was diagnosed, what I want, feel, think, doesn't matter.
   So, you ask, has anything good happened lately?  Well, yesterday, there was this.
http://iecastellano.blogspot.com/
It is forty kinds of awesome to see my poem featured like this.  People have been telling me it's beautiful.  I don't know.  It honestly was written in an hour.   Blame my muse.   Who knows what will come of it.  Still, it's massively cool.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go stare at a blank screen and a blinking cursor and see if anyone feels like talking to me.    Thanks for reading. :)

And Now a Word (Or Two) From Alton Brown, And a Musical Interlude From My Dead Husband :P

Alton Brown ‏ @altonbrown

A man can be destroyed but not defeated. ~ Ernest Hemingway

Alton Brown ‏ @altonbrown

What he meant was that a can be destroyed but not defeated at the same time. Defeat is something you let happen to you.

  Mr. Brown tweeted these two things over the weekend, and it got me thinking.  What is the difference between feeling destroyed and being defeated, and more importantly, how do you avoid "letting defeat happen to you."   It's something that's been on my mind frequently during the last six months, which explains why I've been absent from the blogosphere.

  Long story short, my depression has gotten much worse, despite many attempts by my wonderful treatment team to alleviate the problem, I've suffered long bouts of writer's block, and my family has pretty much disowned me.   That's the bad news.   'Is there good news?"  you ask?  Well, in a way, sort of.

A few days ago, one of my dearest friends asked me "What do you do when you feel so awful you think there's no hope, no future, nothing?"

I'm still not sure where the answer came from, but this is what I said.  "You go on.  You go on because you have to.  If you don't feel like doing anything at all, well then, don't, but don't let that go past two days to a week at most.   You can't quit.  Eventually, you'll find something that makes you want to go on, to want to try."

And, as it so happens, they did find something, not that I doubted they would.   She's a wonderful woman, who's spirit, faith and perseverance put me to shame.  I am blessed and grateful to have her as a sister.

  So, I suppose my point is, nothing is necessarily over, even though you may feel it is.  Here are some things that help me to find hope in those dark times.

  My faith-It has nothing to do with my being a Cradle Catholic, because believe me I've done more than enough exploration of other religions and philosophies.  It works for me in a way sometimes nothing else will.  It gives me peace and solace, in these very uncertain times.

  My friends, and, over the past two years, I've lost a lot of them.  I know why for some, not so much for others.  I feel some of it has to do with finding my own voice and not being afraid to speak up for myself instead of retreating, keeping quiet and tacitly agreeing.   Leaving an abusive relationship helped with that.   One thing I know is that the friends I've managed to keep are priceless to me.  I would do anything for them, and they me.  I love them all more than the Purple Prada bag I will one day purchase for myself, and you'd best believe I will. :)

   My writing-  I've been writing since I was seven years old.  It is my salvation, and my vocation, and while it is, at times, the bane of my existence, I have no idea it's the reason I'm on the planet.   I may not ever write the Great American Novel, or even a NYT Best Seller, but I will be published one day.

I can't believe I've been given the gift some people tell me I have if I'm not supposed to use it.

  My deep, abiding, inexplicable love and respect for Alton Walter Crawford Brown.  Despite the way he sometimes presents himself on Twitter, and some of the people he supports, I have personal experience of the man, and will always say that every time I've seen and spoken with him, he's been nothing but genuine, warm and gracious to me.   There's just something about him, I suppose.  I believe we all encounter one or two people who have an impact on our lives as he's had on mine.  Last year, after spending far more time talking with me than he should have, he actually turned back to me to answer a question.  I asked, "I know you say you know where you're going after you die, but what do you do when you're feeling badly about yourself and have a hard time believing that?"  

  He paused for a moment, then said, "Well, that's when you need to believe it the most."  I've thought about that often over the past six months, and he's right.   God loves us even when, (and I feel sometimes, especially) when we don't see the God things about ourselves.   If and when I see AB again, I will thank him for that, and for everything.  I hope he will understand how he's helped me.

  Finally, my deep, constant and just mystifying love for Warren William Zevon.   Listen to that song kids.  Seven/four time, bitches I like to say, and that's just a sampling of the talent that man had.  He was brilliant, and tortured in life, but at his core, he was a good man.  I don't think anyone who's read his bio can think differently.

He always wanted to be a Catholic, and I like to think he is one now.  His words and music have inspired me greatly, and just yesterday, I got the news that a poem I wrote, that was inspired by him, will be featured on an author's blog tomorrow.   Here's the link, and the shameless plug.

http://iecastellano.blogspot.com/ 

I feel drawn to Warren in a strange way. I'm not sure what it means, but I do love him as much as if he were alive.   Yeah, it's nuts, but I don't care.

  So, that's about all of what I do to keep mind and soul together when things get bad.  If you've read this far, don't be shy about telling me what works for you.

 Now, if you'll excuse me, empty pages are calling, and well, I've gotta go on.   Watch this space. :)