Morningside Fiction Group has two available seats at our roundtable. There are currently three men and one woman. We would like to keep an equal female to male ratio, but wouldn't turn away dedicated, serious, and talented male writers with a body of work.
If interested in applying, please visit the following link: Morningside Fiction Group Apply
Morningside Graphic Novel Group has two available seats at our roundtable. There are currently three men and one woman. We would like to keep an equal female to male ratio, but wouldn't turn away dedicated, serious, and talented male writers with a body of work.
If interested in applying, please visit the following link: Morningside Graphic Novel Group Apply
Morningside Screenwriting and Playwriting Group has one available seat at our roundtable. There are currently three men and two women. We would like to keep an equal female to male ratio, but wouldn't turn away dedicated, serious, and talented male writers with a body of work.
If interested in applying, please visit the following link: Morningside Screenwriters Group Apply
Monday, February 12, 2007
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Blog of the Day & Granny's 90th Birthday!
Today's Granny Gums' 90th Birthday, and I received a gift. I was chosen as Blog of the Day: Fuel My Blog.
Family Photos
Inside multicolored homemade and store-bought albums are a collection of photos that are moments frozen in time. The clear adhesive pages hold the images in place, arranged by year, theme, and family importance. The uncomplicated architecture and furniture a sign of the times, and the framed photos lining the living room walls keeping watch over the family and frequent visitors. The past when dreams were still ahead of us and we thought that each dream would come true. Fading images and clothing styles that show us in a different physical and emotional space as we trace the faces with an aged finger on the laminated pages.
Some of the memorialized are friends and classmates we once thought would always be there to share life's defeats and triumphs. These were simpler times when people seemed innocent and unassuming, unaware of what awaited them on the succeeding pages. A sleeping baby in a bassinet and the miniature sailor alongside him grinning brightly, as he probably was instructed to do. An expectant newborn waiting on the edge of an ornamented sofa for his mother's return, quiet and patient. A son's love for his mother as he looked into her face, and her misguided quest to find a husband and substitute father for her only son. A young mother teaching her son to tie his shoes while he listened attentively to interspersed life lessons.
The smiling, laughing faces captured on celluloid betray over the years. A time capsule to a forgotten era when family members got along without much preamble. Family ties were strong from the onset until the first argument shattered the delicate porcelain; slamming doors and raised voices echoing in the wake of hurried escapes. Harmony was expected after that last disruption, betrayal, or lie. Bruised egos and misunderstandings were common, apologies far more difficult to attain. The ones who were closest to us knew each button to push and emotional landmine to avoid when necessary.
Photos capture moments in time that can't be repeated; each smiling face posed alongside either an ally or an enemy depending upon the occasion and guest list. Sometimes memories betray those in the picture, but the pictures never lie. Not all were happy to be there, not all wanted to be there, bunched together while the official photographer snapped several pictures to record the auspicious event.
The frozen faces reveal innocence and naiveté that faded over the years. The past can be a mirror into what a family meant to each other and the neighborhood. Our mind wanders to a distant place that seems otherworldly, as if aliens inhabited the homes, churches, and community centers displayed in the dated photos. The musty and discolored pages won't disclose their secrets of how and when this family disintegrated. The best intentioned family can fall prey to the ravages of time, hidden agendas, unresolved anger.
Sometimes the missing photos are the ones that hold the key to our true identity; a photo that couldn't have been taken under the cover of dawn as a petite grandmother pushed her grandson in a wheelbarrow in his footed superhero pajamas from a rental house down the street to the house her deceased husband built and paid for years ago. Missing photos of births, miscarriages, abortions, and deaths - a life's cycle of photos, smiles, and experiences to pass on to subsequent generations.
There are those who refuse to look into the eyes and faces of the photographed, for fear of competition, comparisons, and haunting. No one wants to compete with dead relatives that met unfortunate ends, forever held in awe or prestige by surviving relatives. No one knows if the deceased, had they survived, would've achieved greatness or succumbed to the family legacy. All is fair in love, homage, and conjecture.
There were family members who didn't like taking photographs because of animosity, their ridiculed looks, and loss of control. One or two family members rallied the troops, positioned and posed everyone, and snapped the photo. People came together on a variety of cultural, religious, and spiritual holidays and celebrations. Birthdays and their requisite family and neighborhood parties brought out the best and worst in the host family and guests. The birthday boy or girl was usually the best dressed and the center of the table and celebration, but sometimes a parent of an invited guest tried to upstage the celebrant, dressing their child or children in their Sunday best. A family conference off to the side remedied the situation, and the offending guest was cut in half in the photo or wasn't included at all.
Looking closely at the assembled photographs, one can see the tension in the faces and distance in the body language. Smiling faces tell lies, and sometimes those lies are carried to the grave. The smiling faces on parade, which one will reign supreme? Family secrets are bargained and traded at family gatherings, in the heat of the moment, and with children who shouldn't have been told. Children should listen and learn, and not be burdened with adult matters. It was irresponsible of his mother to disclose her nephew's paternity to her son, regardless of what her sister had said or done to tear the fabric.
The colors fade in color photos, blacks become gray and white collect age spots and airborne contaminants. In an ideal world, the pictures, personalities, and demeanors would be frozen in time, but that wouldn't be realistic. Time must march on, people age and change. It's unfortunate that time travel isn't possible; more people would travel back in time when places were less expensive, inhabitants less demanding and complicated. Without dreams, hopes, and faith, families would not survive. A family dream reborn and recycled for the longevity of the family is the best gift we can offer.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Random Attack by Teen Gang
This is a broadcast e-mail I sent my mailing list:
Dear All,
Please be forewarned this holiday season if you see a gang of African American teens approaching you that they may up to no good. I was sucker punched and knocked to the ground one block from my apartment Tuesday night (9 p.m.) after leaving a coffee shop.
After I collected myself, my neighbor called the police. It turns out that there's a gang or perhaps several small gangs of teens who are randomly attacking, robbing, and chasing people during the day and well into the night. The cops know about this gang (these gangs) and can't seem to do anything about the problem because of the nature of the attacks. The cops believe that this is a gang initiation of sorts.
They have their routine choreographed. The attacker is in the first part of the swarm. S/he attacks, and runs away while the 'second string' feigns comfort/disbelief. If said victim does not fall for the ploy, the 'third string' tries to continue the intimidation. What saved me was an oncoming livery cab driver and car that happened by. All fled toward Frederick Douglass Boulevard.
I'll be fine after a night's rest and a shot of whiskey. Who am I kidding! Two or three shots of whiskey. My head's pounding and my ear's ringing as I type this e-mail.
I don't know if they're working Uptown only . . .
* * *
My first instinct was to turn around and walk back inside the coffee shop, or to cross into the street. I didn't want to be noticed by that many rowdy black kids. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted not to have stereotypical or racist thoughts. I should've have followed my gut instinct. Had I listened to the still, small voice inside, I'd not be sitting with a towel doused with alcohol and filled with ice against my head in between sentences.
I saw fire engine rage as I pulled myself to my feet. I imagined I had a gun to shoot into the crowd as haphazardly as they chose me as their next victim. I imagined gutting the obnoxious person who lurched forward to spit on me, but missed, with a serrated knife the same way my uncle cleaned the fish we caught in Galveston.
I looked over to see a livery cab driver and another car waiting for the signal to change. I wondered where were the cabs or other passersby when I wanted or needed them. I felt alone in the darkened area that used to house a hardware store and bogeda.
I've lived in New York for many years and nothing violent has happened before now. Immaturity and violence knows no race, creed, or nationality, yet I was offended as an African American by these kids who have no regard for life or personal property.
As I rounded the corner to my building, it felt like a scene from a movie. I was floating above myself, sure that I was in fact dreaming or imagining a scene to write in a future fictional work. My reflection in the first floor lobby mirror brought me back to reality. I was indoors, safe. Fears of being outside alone after dark had been realized in a matter of seconds within steps of my home.
I'll recover from this episode, a bruise for a day or two, but wiser for having survived it. I wasn't robbed, stomped, or disfigured. Days before Thanksgiving, I am thankful not for turkey, ham, or sweets, but for my health and life.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Writing Group Moderator Blues
When I originally set out to form a writer's group, I didn't expect I'd have difficulty recruiting other well-read, skilled, and dedicated fiction writers. Over the years, it's been anything but. My earliest attempt to form a writer's group was a mixed genre of aspiring fiction, playwrights, and people who didn't quite have a handle on screenwriting.
We alternated meetings in our apartments in the various boroughs, except Staten Island and the Bronx. Mainly because none of the assembled lived in either place, and I personally wouldn't have trekked over to Staten Island (sorry to the Joeys and Veronicas over there).
Those early meetings were filled with neophytes and people who will most likely not publish because they had too much going on in their lives. People with razor sharp tongues ready to rip fellow writers apart, and their manuscripts fit for lining my cat's litter box.
I cooled on the idea of writing groups and concentrated on full time work. Perhaps writing groups weren't for me. So I enrolled in a writing correspondence course to work one-on-one with a writing mentor/editor to shape my novel in progress. That felt sterile and distant. I wanted to sit in the same space with a person discussing my writing and see their face, not climb the stairs, trying to imagine the sound of their voice. I needed a human interaction. Not the USPS as an intermediary.
I think my need for human interaction is borne out of my having grown up in a large southern family. I trace all my strengths and shortcomings to these origins. Aren't most things a double-edged sword? Too much of something can be bad, too little, not enough. Or honing in on me specifically, I'm an oldest child, raised to take care of my younger brothers in my mother's absence when she returned to work.
When I couldn't contain myself anymore, I created a name, bylaws, rules, and structure. I would create a writing group that would last more than three or four months. I would create a writing community that would be the envy of other writing groups. I grew up in Texas, one of the beauty pageant capitals of the south, I knew how to smile and wave. My god-sister had won more beauty pageants in a twenty mile radius, so I knew a thing or two about public relations and winning people over. But a New York crowd. Yankees.
Four years ago Morningside Writers Group was born. Back then, a website was but a glimmer in my eye, as was a screenwriting division. The graphic novel division is new as well.
Along the way, I've met lackluster people who couldn't get out of their own way. I have been publicly attacked from online postings, or after someone has applied to the group and wasn't accepted, they return to the original place of the posting and post a tirade: Who they think they are? I have an MFA! My response. But you can't write your way out of a corner. Your writing is hackneyed, and your personality during the two-way interview was foul and superior.
I've met my share of good people with bad timing. Not exactly salt-of-the earth, but good intentions to write and improve. It can be a gamble bringing five strangers together to workshop fiction, screenplays, or graphic novels. I only moderate/participate in the fiction and screenwriting groups. Someone else has the job of sheriff in the graphic novel group.
My chief complaint is that I'd like to find and build a community of serious writers in the New York City area, not transients, hobbyists, or people with secret agendas.
There are several competing ads online for writing groups, which doesn't frighten me, I know who we are as a group, and what we offer. Bring on the competition. What concerns me is that I've become a father or caretaker to adults, sometimes foregoing things that I want or need to do to ensure the smooth operation of the group. I didn't set out to be a wet nurse. Only to coordinate the meeting places and times, workshop, improve, and get published and produced.
Time to find my way back to my original goal. Time to cut the umbilical cords, separate the baby from the bathwater and allow nature to take its course.
We alternated meetings in our apartments in the various boroughs, except Staten Island and the Bronx. Mainly because none of the assembled lived in either place, and I personally wouldn't have trekked over to Staten Island (sorry to the Joeys and Veronicas over there).
Those early meetings were filled with neophytes and people who will most likely not publish because they had too much going on in their lives. People with razor sharp tongues ready to rip fellow writers apart, and their manuscripts fit for lining my cat's litter box.
I cooled on the idea of writing groups and concentrated on full time work. Perhaps writing groups weren't for me. So I enrolled in a writing correspondence course to work one-on-one with a writing mentor/editor to shape my novel in progress. That felt sterile and distant. I wanted to sit in the same space with a person discussing my writing and see their face, not climb the stairs, trying to imagine the sound of their voice. I needed a human interaction. Not the USPS as an intermediary.
I think my need for human interaction is borne out of my having grown up in a large southern family. I trace all my strengths and shortcomings to these origins. Aren't most things a double-edged sword? Too much of something can be bad, too little, not enough. Or honing in on me specifically, I'm an oldest child, raised to take care of my younger brothers in my mother's absence when she returned to work.
When I couldn't contain myself anymore, I created a name, bylaws, rules, and structure. I would create a writing group that would last more than three or four months. I would create a writing community that would be the envy of other writing groups. I grew up in Texas, one of the beauty pageant capitals of the south, I knew how to smile and wave. My god-sister had won more beauty pageants in a twenty mile radius, so I knew a thing or two about public relations and winning people over. But a New York crowd. Yankees.
Four years ago Morningside Writers Group was born. Back then, a website was but a glimmer in my eye, as was a screenwriting division. The graphic novel division is new as well.
Along the way, I've met lackluster people who couldn't get out of their own way. I have been publicly attacked from online postings, or after someone has applied to the group and wasn't accepted, they return to the original place of the posting and post a tirade: Who they think they are? I have an MFA! My response. But you can't write your way out of a corner. Your writing is hackneyed, and your personality during the two-way interview was foul and superior.
I've met my share of good people with bad timing. Not exactly salt-of-the earth, but good intentions to write and improve. It can be a gamble bringing five strangers together to workshop fiction, screenplays, or graphic novels. I only moderate/participate in the fiction and screenwriting groups. Someone else has the job of sheriff in the graphic novel group.
My chief complaint is that I'd like to find and build a community of serious writers in the New York City area, not transients, hobbyists, or people with secret agendas.
There are several competing ads online for writing groups, which doesn't frighten me, I know who we are as a group, and what we offer. Bring on the competition. What concerns me is that I've become a father or caretaker to adults, sometimes foregoing things that I want or need to do to ensure the smooth operation of the group. I didn't set out to be a wet nurse. Only to coordinate the meeting places and times, workshop, improve, and get published and produced.
Time to find my way back to my original goal. Time to cut the umbilical cords, separate the baby from the bathwater and allow nature to take its course.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Medical Mysteries
I began having unexplained headaches about one month ago, and as of today, my neurologist and I can't isolate the reason or reasons for the pain that starts at the base of my neck, and floats throughout my head and temple during the course of the day. This pain, more like a persistent humming doesn't bother me while I'm sleeping, only when I'm awake.
I originally thought it was an extreme case of caffeine withdrawal after I went cold turkey and stopped drinking Café Bustelo, but that apparently isn't (wasn't the case). I'm on my second prescription, and still no relief in sight. The last draw would be a spinal tap, which I'm not rushing to do.
It seems every few years my body breaks down only to build itself up again. People have joked recently that I'm getting old, family members have chimed in that there's this, that, and the other in the family tree (which I don't care to hear, but alert doctors of all the same). At the end of the day or break of dawn, I want the strength I had when was eighteen or nineteen, and not feel like I'm older mentally and physically than my eighty-nine year-old grandmother.
I've never thought I was invincible. Expressionless people in white labcoats can bring the most optimistic person down to earth. I have met and been prodded by so many doctors and technicians in recent weeks, that someone should pay me!
Faith, religion, and God comes to mind during these visits and exams. I was raised to believe that God does not want His children to suffer sickness and pain . . . that the devil is behind all mental, emotional, and physical attacks. I wish the devil would pull up stakes and leave me alone. I'm sick and tired of being sick, tired, irritable, and restless. The battleground is in the mind, and I must admit sometimes I lose small battles along the way when I've curled up in the fetal position in bed rather than leave the apartment for a walk around the neighorhood.
My current roommate has blind faith. Before every test I've taken recently, he's said: You'll be fine. God will take care of you. I've had an MRI and an MRA on my head/brain, both came back negative. There are no signs of aneurism, or other ominous, multi-syllable conditions or diseases that are causing the headache-like symptoms. I have a genetic history of migraines which I outgrew. The neurologist thinks it might be a low-grade chronic migraine. My question: Why does it only bother me while I'm awake? Next question: Why do I feel sporadic tingling in my hands and legs?
I feel as if I've fallen off the wall next to Humpty Dumpty and no one's around to put me back together.
Through it all, I'm doing my best to keep my chin and spirits up -- it's a challenge keeping the boogey man (devil) at bay while in transit to doctor's appointments. It doesn't help that the primary care physician shows no interest in my medical care, but thankfully the referred specialists have better bedside manner.
I need answers to the question of what ails me. Is it all in my head, or is there something really the matter? Is it time I start thinking about moving out of Manhattan to a place with a babbling brook and wild deer because the people, pace, and stress of city living have become too much for the southerner?
Decisions to make, but at least now I've a new pair a glasses to help me see clearly down the road ahead.
I originally thought it was an extreme case of caffeine withdrawal after I went cold turkey and stopped drinking Café Bustelo, but that apparently isn't (wasn't the case). I'm on my second prescription, and still no relief in sight. The last draw would be a spinal tap, which I'm not rushing to do.
It seems every few years my body breaks down only to build itself up again. People have joked recently that I'm getting old, family members have chimed in that there's this, that, and the other in the family tree (which I don't care to hear, but alert doctors of all the same). At the end of the day or break of dawn, I want the strength I had when was eighteen or nineteen, and not feel like I'm older mentally and physically than my eighty-nine year-old grandmother.
I've never thought I was invincible. Expressionless people in white labcoats can bring the most optimistic person down to earth. I have met and been prodded by so many doctors and technicians in recent weeks, that someone should pay me!
Faith, religion, and God comes to mind during these visits and exams. I was raised to believe that God does not want His children to suffer sickness and pain . . . that the devil is behind all mental, emotional, and physical attacks. I wish the devil would pull up stakes and leave me alone. I'm sick and tired of being sick, tired, irritable, and restless. The battleground is in the mind, and I must admit sometimes I lose small battles along the way when I've curled up in the fetal position in bed rather than leave the apartment for a walk around the neighorhood.
My current roommate has blind faith. Before every test I've taken recently, he's said: You'll be fine. God will take care of you. I've had an MRI and an MRA on my head/brain, both came back negative. There are no signs of aneurism, or other ominous, multi-syllable conditions or diseases that are causing the headache-like symptoms. I have a genetic history of migraines which I outgrew. The neurologist thinks it might be a low-grade chronic migraine. My question: Why does it only bother me while I'm awake? Next question: Why do I feel sporadic tingling in my hands and legs?
I feel as if I've fallen off the wall next to Humpty Dumpty and no one's around to put me back together.
Through it all, I'm doing my best to keep my chin and spirits up -- it's a challenge keeping the boogey man (devil) at bay while in transit to doctor's appointments. It doesn't help that the primary care physician shows no interest in my medical care, but thankfully the referred specialists have better bedside manner.
I need answers to the question of what ails me. Is it all in my head, or is there something really the matter? Is it time I start thinking about moving out of Manhattan to a place with a babbling brook and wild deer because the people, pace, and stress of city living have become too much for the southerner?
Decisions to make, but at least now I've a new pair a glasses to help me see clearly down the road ahead.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Will Work For Food & Benefits
Why must we work fulltime just to have medical benefits in America? I've never lived in Canada or Portugal, but I know that both countries have free medical care regardless. Why can't the same exist in the richest country (on paper) in the world? Capitalism.
I think as I get older, medical benefits have become more important. I didn't have many aches or pains in my twenties as I seem to have in my thirties. I'm not crying wolf or that the sky is falling, but there is a problem in America when senior citizens play Russian roulette with expensive prescriptions, or when they feel they have no choice but to eat pet food to afford their medications.
Is it idealistic to want a rewarding life in America? I think not. If this is the land of opportunity, why are there so many homeless people living under bridges, in abandoned buildings, and scrounging for food in dumpsters and along outdoor cafés?
Is the argument based soley on rich versus poor? I wasn't born rich, but wasn't dirt poor growing up. I wore clean clothes to school and church, and began working to buy my own clothing that my mother wouldn't. I'm not advocating handouts or rigged lottery tickets, but a redistribution of resources and power.
I know I'm blessed living in America, witnessed by any number of PBS documentaries and specials showing the hardships of Africa, Brazil, and Eastern Europe.
The American workforce can be a land of nepotism, favoritism, and personality contests. The most qualified applicant doesn't always get the job. The position might go to the first or next minority or disabled candidate.
What's the heart of my argument? I have often worked for sustenance and medical benefits, rather than personal interest and professional growth. I've worked in several industries because I happened upon a restaurant, classified ad, or terrified I'd have to call my family and return to my birthplace. I've worked as a software trainer, helpdesk agent, rollerskating host in an outdoor café, an office temp, and a retail salesperson, none of which caused me to spring out of bed and dash to work.
In recent years I've freelanced from home as an English as Second Language Tutor, Essay Writing Instructor, and Accent Reduction and Vocal Clarity Coach. I enjoy these hats, but wish I had a professional space to hold classes rather than at my kitchen table. The private workshops are exhausting, but I'm happy. It's not stable work because students filter in and out at will. I had to incorporate a contract to ensure a steady stream of income because people can be flaky.
Maybe I belong in a different country and era, a time and place where teachers and artists were valued. Where wealthy citizens and governments commissioned operas, novels, and plays.
It's not that I don't want to work, I, as many other writers, only wish it wasn't so difficult to sustain a living as an artist. Sometimes I feel otherworldly, like a character in The House of the Spirits or One Hundred Years of Solitude, two magical realism novels.
In deciding to work for food and benefits, I might be faced with a decision that might alter research, writing, and editing time. That shouldn't be an issue because as the previous post asks and answers, I know why I write. I must refine my process to yield better results. I must broaden my scope to include other forms of writing, not strictly fiction, screenplays, and personal essays.
The inherent fear in working for food and benefits, is that I could teeter of the precipice of losing myself to a job. I refuse to become a bitter or stalled artist, sulking in a corner office because I've a wife and family.
I know I've creative and editorial work to contribute to the world. I must place myself under a microscope and figure out what or who stands in my way of publishing success in this age of self-published novels being reprinted by reputable publishing houses.
Should I self-publish my short stories that I workshop in Morningside Fiction Group? Should I set up a table on West 125th in Harlem and hawk my book as many others before me have done? Should I ride the New York City subways to sell the aforementioned collection like the people who brandish alkaline batteries, giant Snickers and M&M's?
I know I will have to stop stressing about food and medical benefits and concentrate on researching, reading, and completing more creative works. Stress causes health problems, and without medical benefits as a freelancer, it's a double-whammy. One note on freelancing and medical benefits. I responded to an online ad for free medical benefits through the Family Health Plus Program sponsored by the current New York Governor. I was told that I had to be destitute or close to qualify and be ultimately approved. I think it was a waste of time because I've not heard a peep from the commissioned sales rep or the agency in three months.
I've applied for so many jobs in recent months just to have medical benefits. I can deal with a lower salary because I have a roommate and decent savings and investments. I've received few responses because I've been out of fulltime work for several years. My skill sets aren't what they used to be, and I know my tolerance for office politics has decreased.
Do I believe in energy and thought projection? Have I cast myself too high too soon, and haven't done the grunt work to get there? No bitterness or envy implied, but everyone can't be a wunderkind like Zadie Smith, Jonathan Lethem, or Dave Eggers for that matter. No need to be a wunderkind, I'll be myself, with minor and major tweaking where needed.
Will work for three square meals a day, full medical and dental benefits, and a corporate-sponsored gym membership (to look good for the book jacket photo). Is that too much to ask? I hope not.
I think as I get older, medical benefits have become more important. I didn't have many aches or pains in my twenties as I seem to have in my thirties. I'm not crying wolf or that the sky is falling, but there is a problem in America when senior citizens play Russian roulette with expensive prescriptions, or when they feel they have no choice but to eat pet food to afford their medications.
Is it idealistic to want a rewarding life in America? I think not. If this is the land of opportunity, why are there so many homeless people living under bridges, in abandoned buildings, and scrounging for food in dumpsters and along outdoor cafés?
Is the argument based soley on rich versus poor? I wasn't born rich, but wasn't dirt poor growing up. I wore clean clothes to school and church, and began working to buy my own clothing that my mother wouldn't. I'm not advocating handouts or rigged lottery tickets, but a redistribution of resources and power.
I know I'm blessed living in America, witnessed by any number of PBS documentaries and specials showing the hardships of Africa, Brazil, and Eastern Europe.
The American workforce can be a land of nepotism, favoritism, and personality contests. The most qualified applicant doesn't always get the job. The position might go to the first or next minority or disabled candidate.
What's the heart of my argument? I have often worked for sustenance and medical benefits, rather than personal interest and professional growth. I've worked in several industries because I happened upon a restaurant, classified ad, or terrified I'd have to call my family and return to my birthplace. I've worked as a software trainer, helpdesk agent, rollerskating host in an outdoor café, an office temp, and a retail salesperson, none of which caused me to spring out of bed and dash to work.
In recent years I've freelanced from home as an English as Second Language Tutor, Essay Writing Instructor, and Accent Reduction and Vocal Clarity Coach. I enjoy these hats, but wish I had a professional space to hold classes rather than at my kitchen table. The private workshops are exhausting, but I'm happy. It's not stable work because students filter in and out at will. I had to incorporate a contract to ensure a steady stream of income because people can be flaky.
Maybe I belong in a different country and era, a time and place where teachers and artists were valued. Where wealthy citizens and governments commissioned operas, novels, and plays.
It's not that I don't want to work, I, as many other writers, only wish it wasn't so difficult to sustain a living as an artist. Sometimes I feel otherworldly, like a character in The House of the Spirits or One Hundred Years of Solitude, two magical realism novels.
In deciding to work for food and benefits, I might be faced with a decision that might alter research, writing, and editing time. That shouldn't be an issue because as the previous post asks and answers, I know why I write. I must refine my process to yield better results. I must broaden my scope to include other forms of writing, not strictly fiction, screenplays, and personal essays.
The inherent fear in working for food and benefits, is that I could teeter of the precipice of losing myself to a job. I refuse to become a bitter or stalled artist, sulking in a corner office because I've a wife and family.
I know I've creative and editorial work to contribute to the world. I must place myself under a microscope and figure out what or who stands in my way of publishing success in this age of self-published novels being reprinted by reputable publishing houses.
Should I self-publish my short stories that I workshop in Morningside Fiction Group? Should I set up a table on West 125th in Harlem and hawk my book as many others before me have done? Should I ride the New York City subways to sell the aforementioned collection like the people who brandish alkaline batteries, giant Snickers and M&M's?
I know I will have to stop stressing about food and medical benefits and concentrate on researching, reading, and completing more creative works. Stress causes health problems, and without medical benefits as a freelancer, it's a double-whammy. One note on freelancing and medical benefits. I responded to an online ad for free medical benefits through the Family Health Plus Program sponsored by the current New York Governor. I was told that I had to be destitute or close to qualify and be ultimately approved. I think it was a waste of time because I've not heard a peep from the commissioned sales rep or the agency in three months.
I've applied for so many jobs in recent months just to have medical benefits. I can deal with a lower salary because I have a roommate and decent savings and investments. I've received few responses because I've been out of fulltime work for several years. My skill sets aren't what they used to be, and I know my tolerance for office politics has decreased.
Do I believe in energy and thought projection? Have I cast myself too high too soon, and haven't done the grunt work to get there? No bitterness or envy implied, but everyone can't be a wunderkind like Zadie Smith, Jonathan Lethem, or Dave Eggers for that matter. No need to be a wunderkind, I'll be myself, with minor and major tweaking where needed.
Will work for three square meals a day, full medical and dental benefits, and a corporate-sponsored gym membership (to look good for the book jacket photo). Is that too much to ask? I hope not.
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