VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 5

As we begin walking Earnest’s phone begins to ring. He looks at the display.

“I have to take this. I’ll catch up with you?” He asks.

I nod and with a turn begin walking away. Slowly, but not so slowly that I can overhear. I am not sure if it is out of a need to be polite or because Earnest is a hallucination and I don’t want to add any more details to the mess that has emerged so far. The less that I know at this moment will make things easier later. You know, when I’m in the nut house and they're deciding on treatment, not hearing his conversation may save me from electric shock therapy or something worse. Can it get worse than electric shock therapy?
  I walk at my chosen pace and find calming thoughts. When I hear his footsteps come up behind me and feel him come into step at my side I start asking questions. “So what is it that you do for a living?”

“What does it look like I do for a living?” An irritated voice asks.

I turn and find myself looking at the groundskeeper. He’s not happy.

“Where did he go?”

“Where’d who go?” He asks.

“I’m sorry. I thought that you were someone else.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He grumbles and continues his way down the walk, collecting discarded bottles, containers, juice boxes, and empty potato chip bags.

I turn and look back at the bench Earnest was headed to when he left me. No one is there. I make a slow 360 turn, studying my surroundings. He’s gone again. Panic pushes at my insides. Fight it...fight it. Whatever this is...fight it!

Deciding that I’m stronger than whatever is happening, I continue on as originally planned. This time opting to enjoy the park instead of going to the art museum. I walk around for a bit until I spot the gazebo. A large white gazebo sits alone on a peninsula in the center of the park’s lake. No one appears to be sitting in it. I walk out on to the path leading to it and study the lake. There are couple of kids on paddle boats, no one seems interested in the beautiful gazebo. I decide to claim it for my own if only for a time. I have an urge to run to it, secretly wishing that I had the supplies necessary to lock myself in, indefinitely. Into peace, solitude, and safety. I settle for a seat that affords me views of the park, the lake, as well as the gazebo’s entry, and a long meditation.

“Are you ready to trust me?” Earnest asks.

I open one eye. Earnest is sitting next to me and looking at me intently. He’s studying me. My eyes, my face, the angle of my head, my body language.

“And I should trust you, based on what?”

“I’m not a Spaniard.” One corner of his mouth raises in a grin.

I do not smile back.

“I’m not the Spaniard in your story.” He corrects.

“That is still a weak argument for trusting you. What is it that you do? For a living? The thing that makes you disappear for random bits of time without explanation?” I ask.

Earnest’s eyes change. I feel like I’m watching a wall go up.

“That’s classified.” He says.

“As in what?”

“That’s classified.”

“Why are you following me? Why is it so important that I accept that you exist?”

He looks away and studies the lake in front of us. His eyes return to mine before he answers.

“Let’s just say that it's important to me that you know that you’re okay.”

“Why?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?”

“Once or twice.” I answer, attempting a sly grin.

My lack of control over my facial expressions must not have changed because Earnest smiles. It's a lovely one. I use the lull in the conversation to calmly communicate what's most important at this moment.

“You need to go Earnest. I need you to go.”

He looks at me. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” I say looking at the floor.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Why?”

I look at him. “You aren’t real. I need you to leave so that I can accept that you aren’t real.”

“I am real.” Earnest says. He smiles reassuringly.

“You’re a hallucination, an eerily good hallucination, but still, a hallucination. I need to challenge the hallucination. I can’t do that until you leave.”

He reaches out, takes my hand, and places it to his chest. “I’m real.”

“No.”

“You can feel my heart beat. How can I not be real to you?”

“I have never hallucinated before. There could be tactile aspects to a hallucination. I don’t know.” On the other hand, his heart is beating at an alarming rate. “Have you been...running?”

There is no response.

It is my turn to raise a wall. “It’s time for you to go. It was nice meeting you Earnest.”

“No.” Earnest says. “I’m not going. I agree that you believe something that’s not true. I agree that you need to challenge it. The idea that you’re hallucinating is what’s not true. Challenge the hallucination, accept that I’m real.”

I shake my head.

“Vin. Listen to me, if I go, no matter how the rest of your life continues, you’ll always worry, something inside of you will always be a little bit less than sure of whether something is real or not. You’ll always be questioning. You need to accept that I’m real. That others see me as real. It’s the only way to get through this. It’s the only way to move forward.”

I find myself unsure of what to do. This could be a moment to call for help and be in and out of therapy for the rest of my life or a chance to change things. Do I trust him?

“Let me in a little bit Vin. Let go of the burden that you’re carrying. Tell me about your world. The one in your dreams.”

I want to let go of it. It’s difficult. I feel as if I’m adrift. I have crafted a beautiful dream world. The ultimate fantasy, but to describe it to someone...

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 4

After a few moments, I feel like I can breathe a little better. I look around. People are still smiling and walking around me. No one is showing concern. I must be hiding things well. I need to get out of the way, find a quiet place. There’s a park close by. Where? I join the rest of the foot traffic and head east. I walk two...no three blocks. I turn to the left and find the open space of the park and notice a narrow trail on the far side of the parking lot. I take it. A pair of kids ride up the trail on their bikes in front of me. I follow quickly hoping to find a secluded spot and end up on the outer fringe of a rose garden. This must be part of the museum grounds. There’s a stand of shade trees and a bench at the garden’s entrance. The bench is empty until I claim it.

As I sit down, the panic that I have been holding back pushes forward. The waitress’ words echo in my mind, “He left. Ten minutes ago.” Oh my god, I was talking to someone who wasn’t there. What do I do now? I let go of the thought as quickly as I can and substitute it. I settle on. It’s never happened before. It’s never happened before. It’ll be okay.

Eventually, I shorten it and ‘it’ll be okay’ is the phrase that I hold on to. I start to go home with a plan to lock myself in the apartment with Don Quixote and concentrate on not having a full blown melt down. I stop myself in the middle of the park. Isn’t there this thing about challenging things that you believe to be true? At the moment, I believe that for some crazy reason I spoke to someone that wasn’t there. How do I challenge that belief? By proving that Not-Necessarily Mean Man is real. I shake my head. There’s no way that he’s real...why? It reads too much like my story notes. Hiding really won’t help. I decide to continue my outing and put my mind to work on the problem. That will give it something else to do besides panic. I turn around and retrace my steps, walking through the rose garden and around to the front of the art museum.

Not-Necessarily Mean Man stops me just outside the door.

“Where did you come from?” I ask

“Where did you go?” He asks.

“The waitress said that you left ten minutes ago. I went to look for you outside and you had disappeared. I’m fighting off a panic attack right now. If you don’t mind.” I say gesturing towards the door.

“Don’t go in. Please.”

I look at him. Normally, I would have ignored him but today...“What do I get?”

“A piece of candy.” He says with a grin.

I glare and reach for the door.

“Oops. Not funny.” He says and reaches out to stop me. “Sorry. I am sorry about everything. Will you please talk to me? I’m Earnest, by the way.” He smiles.

It is a charming smile. Disarming to many I’m sure. I am not one of the many. “Earnest..like anyone names their kid that anymore.”

“It is my name.” He says. “I can offer you another if you’d like.”

I think for a minute, wondering whether I should believe him. Who goes around offering other names, hookers? Maybe. But on the other hand, who would admit to having a name like Earnest if it wasn’t really their name? Against my better judgment, I let Earnest lead me to a nearby tree with a bench under it, explaining his lack of physical existence to him all the while.

“I am a real person.” He says.

“If you’re a real person, explain this.” I order, handing Earnest my notebook.

“If I wasn’t a real person could I be doing this?” He asks as he sits down and flips through the notebook’s pages.

“Probably not, but on the other hand, I do have a vivid imagination.”

Earnest looks at me. “Where is it?” He asks.

“At the front. You have to go back to the front.”

“It just says, ‘Vin’.”

I sigh. Explaining my insanity is becoming frustrating. “The page before that one.”

He turns another page. “This one? With all the writing on it?”

I give him my ‘duh’ look.

“From the top?” He asks.

I nod.

“Okay, from the top.”

He reads without making a sound. “Very interesting. This is almost our exact conversation.” Earnest looks at me. “How do I know that you didn’t write this after our conversation in the diner?”

“Let me think about that, write it after, claim that I wrote it beforehand, and then freak out? Why would anyone do that?”

“Attention?”

“Getting carted off to some hospital while half the city watches is not the kind of attention that I would want. Under any circumstances.”

“Nor I.” He says as he looks at my story.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“The difference between your story and reality. Something that proves to you that I really do exist. Ah! Here it is. The handsome stranger in your story is described as a Spaniard. I’m not a Spaniard.”

I lean in close and read over his shoulder, “What else?”

Earnest offers no other supporting evidence of my sanity.

“That’s it?” ‘I’m not a Spaniard’ is your entire argument?”

“It’s what I have for you.”

A feeling rolls through my stomach, one of pure fear. My hands begin to shake.

“Whoa. Whoa.” Earnest says when he notices my response. “Wait a second. That’s not everything. There’s something that I want to tell you.” He gestures towards the trail in front of us. “Shall we walk?”

The Eleventh Hour

There’s a famous quote about writing: Writing is easy. You just open a vein and bleed. 

   Last night upon arriving home from work, I counted the days before my next blog post and I realized that the two weeks that I had so looked forward to in which I planned on finishing “Untitled” had quickly evaporated. It was time to push that puppy out and my project was due tomorrow. I put on my work clothes and angrily proceeded to mow my yard. It was hot but the heat index was predicted to shoot up dangerously high on Saturday and I wanted to see the work done before then. As I said. I angrily mowed my entire yard. Taking stock of everything that put me in this position, after five minutes, yep the storms are big but they tend to be short these days, I began to look at what was really keeping progress from being made. I was blocked. Yes, blocks do exist. Not in the way most people imagine. But I am one of the writers that knows first hand that writer’s block does exist. 

   Why do I normally become blocked? I usually become blocked for one of two reasons. 1. I don’t have the story fleshed out in my mind enough. 2. Emotional block. The cure for the first block is fairly simple. When the mind is thinking, put it to the story. Flesh it out. The second cure is difficult but easier than one might think. Find the emotion(s) causing the blockage and release them. 

   It did not take long to identify my offenders. During the last several weeks I have been working on some personal things. Trying to make changes, be a better me, live a happier life. All that happy crap. Sorry I had to throw that in. It’s negative, but I love that expression which might be part of my problem. Any who, I opened up some deep vulnerabilities hoping for a change that did not come about. A couple of days ago I decided to tuck a few things back in, temporarily at least. The problem is that some of the emotions that helped me to craft and propel the story are intertwined with the vulnerabilities. Oops. You see the problem. How do I change it? 

   I came up with a solution. It was a messy one but I was pressed for time. I let myself open up a vein and bleed. I usually keep that crap in the house. I was tired and frustrated. I was already sweating anyway. I let her rip. I cried all over the damn yard. As I mowed, I have a push mower just so you know by the way, the sweat from my head diluted the tears that fell allowing a stream of consciousness to come forth. That and one really bad poem.

  With the vulnerabilities out there again, I am feeling better and I can focus on what I want to say. There were already notes before eight o’clock this morning. I don’t know if I will get to the end by nine o’clock tonight, but I will work for as long as I am able. As my mother always says, “We’ll see what we get.”

     May your day be sunny, your temperatures mild, your journey easy.

--Respectfully Yours,

   HR Apostos

   A Writer Lady, Teller of Tall Tales, Weirdo

Unexpected Gifts

I woke up to one of the greatest gifts that I could have hoped for this morning. I am not sure how to describe it. About six years ago, I decided that I got so much enjoyment out of writing that I wanted to make a conscious effort to hone my skills. I wanted to treat it like a second job. I wanted to do the work and find a way to make my way in this world as a writer.

I cut back on the baking, I put away the quilting, I put less thought to fun activities and focused as much of my life as possible to telling good stories.

I also set up a five year plan. A plan to be supporting myself with my writing at the end of five years. Five years came and went. The ultimate goal had not been reached. I kept at it. I decided that if I dedicated myself more fully to the work things would happen for me as I had planned. I started thinking about changes. Am I doing too much of what everyone else is doing? Is it just the wrong time? Am I just not very good at this? Going into year six, I found myself at a crossroads.

I have been standing at that crossroads questioning everything. From approach and Internet accessibility and geography, to officially choosing my audience and actively pursuing them.

I have put in the time, the hours, the work, began learning marketing, cover art, and other essentials. I have even delved into the world of YouTube. I have had lots of fun with all of it but still, as my sister Vonda loves to say, no joy. How could something that is giving me new skills, helping me to grow as a person, and generally makes my life fun and meaningful not be my purpose? How can I not be reaching the goal completely? What am I doing wrong? What is wrong with me?

This morning, I realized the most important thing. I am still here.

It is something that I ran across while grieving the death of my late husband, Sam.

The concept is that you accept that one of the worst things that you can imagine has happened to you. You also recognize this one thing. I am still here. This morning I was able to do that.

I worked out a specific plan for my future that did not work out. I am still here. All of the hours, the weekends and vacations spent writing. I am still here. Lightning has not struck me down because the pursued success was not achieved within the preset time line. I did not wake up one day with a second head. I am not a pariah of society because the first plan failed. It was just the first plan.

I looked at what these last 66 months have gotten me. Over 200 posts on my fiction blog, two novels, the beginnings of two screenplays, and ideas for two more novels. Two novellas as well as all of the lovely other bits and bobs that have popped up randomly over the years. I have never been without something to do on a Saturday night, my clothes are always comfortable, and shaving my legs is my option. The venue is also always my option. I never have to argue with someone over what music I decide to play. I have laughed and cried a couple of times. I get a sense of accomplishment and I know that something solid will still exist long after I am gone.

If the writing is the potatoes and the plan for being successful is the gravy...I may not have gravy, but I do have one helluva pile of potatoes. Gravy is nice but you don’t have to have gravy to enjoy a good batch of mashed potatoes. Good cooks know that.

Do I have a second plan? I am glad that you asked that. I do. The second plan is to call over one of the flying bubbles that is so common in Faerie and let it guide the way. Flying by the seat of my pants has been working so far with the fiction, why not let it help me in other areas as well? Things may not work out but at least I get to see more of Faerie this way. I know that there will always be potatoes waiting for me. There is nothing like a good batch of potatoes.

Today I would like to raise my fork in acknowledgement of everyone with naked potatoes. We’re still here.