Monday, March 7, 2011

Potential New Material!!!

First of all, I must share with you that a friend who has published 3 (or 4?) books has asked my opinion of his new one, as yet unpublished. He wants me to read it first! Friend = 4 books   Debbie= 0 books. The equation is a little off. It‘s like if I, a diagnosed obsessive compulsive, asked a pot bellied pig to check and see if I've dusted my house thoroughly.  I'm extremely honored nonetheless. My suggestions will probably be absurd, if I can even think of suggestions. He doesn't know that I read paragraphs over and over again...so 157 pages will take me approximately 2 years to complete, considering I have about an hour and a half (on a good night) of down time to read.(There's all that dusting to do.) But I’m going to give it my all. The less he considers my suggestions seriously, the better his book will be..rule of thumb.

But not only has a really good writer asked me to critique his work, I've also decided to go back to a SHRINK! Technically a shrink is a psychiatrist. And as those of you who suffer from maladies of the brain know, a shrink no longer counsels and advises people while they lay on  leather fainting couches. That was the old days. Now a shrink merely peers over his or her glasses and writes a prescription. Once I realized I was paying a higher deductible for a specialist to write a prescription, I opted to assign the task to my general practitioner. After several years I have come to the conclusion that I really need to talk to a total stranger with a PHD in psychology. Anyway. I have an appointment next week. I have no doubt she will scare up new perspectives from the bottom of the chute...things I didn't notice before when I gazed up that black tube from the cold, dark basement floor. That’s what the chute is all about really, perspectives from a strange place.

My sister has a theory. She decided that an unhappy pregnancy may be the root of my melancholy. Mom was close to 40 when she realized she was pregnant with me. She had an 11 year old daughter and an 8 year old son. They were finally at an age where they could perform the rudimentary aspects of life independently, like dressing themselves, personal hygiene, eating, and playing alone safely,(if you don't count the time Jim rode his bike off the very high front porch of Grandma Grindle's house, or the time he locked Mom's bedroom door and zipped himself into a hanging garment bag in the closet and almost suffocated because he was playing hide and seek but forgot to tell anyone. He‘s a Dr. now.) Mom thought she could finally get the two of them raised, then she and Dad could enjoy their late forties together. See, they loved us very much, but they loved each other more.

But noooo. She had to wear a new tube top at the lake one summer. She and Dad had a fling on the beach. Often they would  recount the story while I’d hum really loud with my fingers in my ears.   Anyway, Linda said Mom was miserable most of the time she was pregnant with me. Then in April she gave birth to a very serious little baby girl. That would be me. You won't find a single baby picture of me smiling. Even then I loved to sleep more than play. Babysitters fought  each other to get the job of watching me sleep.

So, during their late forties when they should have been enjoying each other at elegant cocktail parties, listening to Mantovani and Herb Albert’s music played on stereos, they had to contend with a wild child. Sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. I did all three...usually at the same time.

But, as bad writers say, I digress. The point is, counselors have been part of my life as much as dance instructors or coaches have been part of other kids' lives. It's been awhile though. Maybe it’s been too long. I haven't been to one in years. It's time to examine the stuff in the attic. Or the closets.

Or the dark basement.

It's B horror movie time. You know what I mean. There's monsters down there, but the stupid people go down anyway.

I'm going to go down there for awhile too. If I find anything good, I'll let you know.

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In the Look-Back

In the Look-Back
P coat and twiggy hair

Riding the Stream Down

Riding the Stream Down
Snap shot from the Look-Back