Update and verdict

I’m still writing away, and it appears that 3Sum, the column that I contribute to in RedEye is going to be appearing online, so here’s the link, in case you’re interested.

And I’m also writing feverishly for National Novel Writer’s Month. I’m beginning to think that I’m crazy for this. I’ve been writing in Starbucks in Old Town, which can be a good place, but is also a people-watching extravaganza. The book itself is going slower than I’d like — it’s a hard story to tell for many reasons. I’m SO grateful for my saving grace, which is an anonymous blog that I wrote to document my mother’s illness. Without it, I would probably not remember the dates and details.

Anyhoo . . . thanks for the encouragement. I’m still writing this for the remainder of November.

To close the loop on my foot pain, I went to the orthopedic surgeon. He twisted my foot around, did some probing for pain, and ordered an X-ray.

Post x-ray, he examined the film and asked if I wanted good news or bad news. I replied that I just wanted news.

He said that the good news is that what I have isn’t a stress fracture. The bad news is that I’m in pain and he doesn’t know why. Here are my options:

1) A bad sprain, which we’re assuming is the problem, which means that I have to strengthen that foot with a bunch of exercises that the doctor gave me.

2) An occult fracture, which isn’t detectable in an x-ray, only through a bone scan or MRI.

The doc would like for me to do the exercises first, and said that my progress wouldn’t be measured in days — probably in weeks or months. But if it doesn’t get better, I’m going to have to go back in for an MRI.

I swear, my illnesses are never easy. But at least I got it checked out.

Stress and stress fractures

Sometimes I intentionally give myself challenges that will stress me the hell out. Anyone who writes will probably know that November is National Novel Writers Month, where (insane) writers everywhere challenge themselves to write a novel in one month. And, of course, they’ve chosen one of the shortest months in which we’re to craft these 50,000 word works of art. I know . . . it’s only a day, but what a difference a day can make!

I’ve tried this once before, but I got off to a bad start after contracting the flu during the first week in November and was never able to get back on track. I’m trying not to get sick this time so that I can get through this torturous exercise. Besides, I have a better story this time.

I’m using this as an avenue to talk about something that I’ve been wanting to get out, which is the 10 months of my mother’s illness which led to her death. So already I’m cheating because it’s supposed to be a novel. Even though I’m technically fictionalizing some of it, to protect the innocent (or guilty, in some cases).

It’s not being written to be published, per se, but I’m looking at it as more of a cathartic experience. If anyone’s ever lost a parent, you understand the emotional wreckage and how you can look up one day and realize the weird ways that grief manifests in your life. Since, unless I’m angry, I’m not an overly expressive person, this could be the emotional detox that I need.

That said, who knows if I’ll make the 50,000 word requirement, or meet the 11/30 deadline? At least it’s the kick in the ass that I need to get started. And the best part is that, when I’m done, nobody has to read it.

To avoid driving myself and everyone else crazy (or crazier) I’m not going to provide regular updates about my project, nor willl I post excerpts, but I will check back in at the end of the month and let y’all know how I did. (And of course I’ll blog about other stuff intermittently. Not that I need to direct any writing energy away from the main project, but really? What’s life without a good rant?)

On another note, a few posts back I talked about an injury sustained to my left foot. Well . . . I’ve taken my commentors advice to heart and spoken to a few medical professionals about it. Taking into account my symptoms (the most telling being the gradually developing pain, particularly with any weight bearing activities) it is suspected that I have a stress fracture in either my 4th or 5th metatarsal (feels more like 5th). I’m going to an ortho surgeon to get x-rayed this week.

So, what would a stress fracture mean to me? Well . . . according to everything I’ve read, here are my three treatment options:

Rest — I don’t even know what that means. Because of my knee, I’ve already been warned against running, or anything that could shock my knee. However, I’m assuming that speedwalking, tennis and dance classes should be off the docket.

Protective footwear – orthopedic shoes, here I come. I’ve often fantasized about abandoning my heels in favor of less attractive but comfy Naturalizers. This might be my chance.

Cast — perish the thought. That would be torturous for me in this season, with my dry skin issues.

Surgery — Ummm . . . SURGERY?? How is this cosmically possible?? With 6 surgeries already under my belt, it hardly seems fair that I would have to endure a 7th. Crossing my fingers HARD that surgery isn’t my best option. What they would have to do in surgery is insert an internal fixator, such as a pin or a screw, to hold it in place. It sounds evil and invasive. I want no parts of it!

I’ll post the final verdict, but I’m putting positive thoughts into the Universe that my treatment option is the least severe.

Collabo – no

One of the (many) reasons why I’m still single is that I’m a HORRIBLE collaborator.

I’m not a great team player, and although I have to be somewhat teamy at work, I’m a much better individual contributor. I’m just wired that way. I’m an only child, and we tend to either need to have partners in crime, or not. I’m the latter. My friend Lorrie is an only child who’s my polar opposite. She loves a co-conspirator.

People occasionally ask to write articles with me, and I can’t think of anything less appetizing. In true only child fashion, I cringe when I hear anyone say: “We should collaborate on . . . “ I find ways to stave them off, and I’m pretty sure they think I’m being a bitch (which wouldn’t completely unheard of), but it’s not personal. And it’s REALLY not because I think I’m some great writer whose work shouldn’t be tainted (I’m very grateful for my editor). My process simply isn’t organized enough to bring someone else into the fold.

I often write in the middle of the night, sitting in my bed, after having spent the entire day thinking about how I’m going to put it down. I don’t want to talk about it; I want to either write it, or keep thinking about it. I’m introspective, and in my own head a lot.

I don’t want to have ideation sessions, or drafts of outlines. I do that at work, and I only tolerate it because of the amount of money that I’m getting paid, and the fact that what I’m doing during my 55 hour work week is hardly considered creative. When those processes spill over into my creative world, I’m totally miserable. Writing becomes depressing.

In certain cases, the suggestions come from people who aren’t really writers who think their ideas are great, but can’t express themselves. In other cases, the would-be-collaborators are interested in getting something out, but only doing half the work. Sometimes people think that I have a better chance of getting published (little do they know!) In some cases (a very select few – like only one that I can recall), it’s a person who has really given serious thought to our styles and how they would combine.

Or — and this is my fave — it’s a guy who wants to inject a counterpoint to my very opinionated point. I’ve received multitudes of these suggestions – typically from men who recognize me at parties (most of whom have trouble structuring a sentence verbally, giving me low incentive, but I digress).

I’m more aggressive about giving them the Heisman — Dude, if you want to express your opinion, trust me when I tell you that it won’t be in the context of my column. I have no interest in having witty banter with you in print. None whatsoever. That’s not why I write what I write. The purpose of my column is to give perspective, not to berate men. Believe it, or not.