It was another shock to hear of the passing of Leonard Nimoy yesterday. Another icon of SF&F has gone to the Great Beyond. I am not a cosplay or con rat. I spent most of my adult life either in the Navy, following the military, or recovering from a disease that could have been caused by my service. However, when I was a child, I saw the landing on the moon.
Plus when we lived near my grandparents, the entire family including aunts, uncles, and cousins would come together to eat dinner and watch TV shows like Star Trek and Mission Impossible. While the others in the family cheered on Kirk and his solutions, I privately enjoyed the logic of the half-human Spock.
He played the outsider, the observer of humans and human nature, while not quite being one of them. I knew then that Spock was a representative of me. I didn’t feel alone anymore.
So long, and thanks for all the fish. (Douglas Adams)
Each day is another day without him. I keep touching that wound in my heart because I know from experience that if I keep examining it, then it will heal faster. This is not like a physical wound… where you keep from picking the scab. A spiritual wound is much different.
I have said before that the internet is a boon to introverts and writers. I am both.
I can scream my despair and sometimes my joy to the voice of my imagination and a little voice will speak back to me. It can be very comforting. In my experience there are people who lie to your face and look like they are telling the truth. Most people don’t bother to show that mask on the internet. Yes, there are deliberate lies floating around in the ones and zeros that make up the digital sea. But I have found that the majority of voices out there have found anonymity so they say what they want to say without the social constructs.
I am not saying that it is the greatest of outcomes. I do know that the lies are the ones you are telling yourself. You tell me your truth. I tell you mine.
I discovered yesterday that one of my new friend’s old friends is on the last legs of fighting cancer. I felt sadness for my friend because I am already past that point and am forging into a territory of living without– the smiles, glances, hugs, and love.
I was told once that we have the little deaths – dogs, cats, and other pets– so that we are ready for the ones that knock us on our ass. Its not true. If you love that other person and if they are a part of your daily life, then that death will always knock you on your ass.
So I pick at my wound. The twinges become less. I even have some new interests. I put up that hummingbird feeder and now one of the little ones have come to feed. I take Foxy, the chihuahua friend, for a walk and clean up after her. She sits at my feet and sometimes on my lap.
I am cross-stitching and writing. Plus I watched some folks playing pool and shooting arrows. Not at the same place of course. Although I might want to watch that… a new sport, if you miss a shot, then someone shoots an arrow at you.
This morning, I made coffee, walked the dog, and sat down in front of the computer for a facebook binge. Part of the problem that I have lately is that I escape into facebook and talk to other people who are writing or having problems. I use social networking instead of writing. I need to change that.
In my most productive writing period. I had a whiteboard with the name of the novel and the chapters. I would write down what came next etc, etc. Then I had my rituals to get me into the trance-like state that I called writing.
These were my writing rituals–
1. Have a cup of coffee where I could sip
2. Light a candle, preferably one with scent
3. Turn on some writing music
4. Do a ten minutes clean out my mind by writing. Usually using a pen and paper. I can complain and bellyache all I want. These pieces of paper can be shredded later.
5. I check over what I wrote last and then start writing. Usually by this time I can see, feel, smell, and sometimes taste the story.
6. After an hour, I would come back from the story and do something around the house.
7. Sometimes I would go back to the story, but other times I would do other jobs that were piling up.
It’s been hard to get back into a daily routine where my writing is concerned. I have had two appointments a week (including blood work, doctor’s appointments, X-rays, physical therapy, etc. etc) for a few months. They become distractions after awhile even though I need to stay well. They also interrupt my writing.
So time to go back to one day at a time and one step at a time.
A fan blog for the rest of us.
So he is gone. I can say those words, roll them in my mouth, and loose them off my tongue without the stabbing through the center of my chest. He is gone.
I did a few things yesterday to remember him and to form new habits. I found a gun instructor. Otto was my range master. He took care of my guns, loaded them, and played spotter when I shot. I was a better shooter with him around. So I want to continue shooting.
Since we married twenty-two years ago, Otto and I used to go out to eat. For me that was just too much. I am still finding it hard to go out to eat as a single person. Before I met him, I used to go to restaurants by myself and watch the folks around me. I am an outsider in many respects. Plus people watching helps with my writing. Now, I am too self-conscious. I get nervous, watching people watch me.
So I ate at home, lit a candle to his picture, and talked to him like I used to do as we sat together in the restaurant. This might not become a thing. It was comforting this time around.
I have said before that the internet is a boon to introvert outsiders like myself. It is really hard to meet new people or to go to new places. To even find the shooting instructor, I had to stir up my courage for half a day before I drove to her place of business. She wasn’t there. I then had to stir up my courage for an hour, just to dial her number. I miss Otto. He was my courage.
My late-hubby told his co-worker that I was a warrior babe. That I had the courage of ten men. Well, I don’t. I just have the stubbornness. When I decide to do something, neither the nausea caused by nerves, or my introversion will stop me. I power through it. Sometimes it even becomes a great experience. Sometimes, not.
Yesterday, I survived my first anniversary alone.
The last month I moved into my new apartment and then started putting together the paperwork for my taxes. Needless to say, it was boring, and every time I looked at the money coming compared to the money going out, I get little heart palpitations. According to the EKG and to my doctors I have a perfectly good working heart.
Between talking to family members (they are actually reading my books) and looking at what I need to do with the rest of my old paperwork (shred it), I finally got it through my stubborn brick of a head that I need to write again.
I did write in November and December, but didn’t finish anything so I am write back where I was then. I have a mystery that needs to be finished, one fantasy, one contemporary fantasy, a sci-fi short, and so forth. If my late hubby was here, he would be asking me what I had finished lately.
So today, I will take a few hours to write. Then I’ll go through a bit more paperwork in the afternoon, since I write better in the morning than in the afternoon.
Wish me luck.
I put this picture up to remind me that he had the Trickster side to him. Plus he loved to tell jokes–
When I was first dating him, he told me every blonde joke he could find. He went through some hard times, (foster child, Vietnam Vet to name a few), but he was able to think positive.
I have been talking to a few of his old friends and it reminded me of his irrepressible humor. I would prefer to laugh at his jokes than cry about his death. I am a gloomy type– (read some of my books and you’ll see) and he was the sun to my rain.
And for old times sake– an elephant joke:
Q: What do you call an elephant with a machine gun?
And the anniversary fast approaching? We married on Feb 16, 1993.