Tag Archives: Battlestar Galactica

Send Me An Angel, Johnny Angel, or Seven Spanish Angels, or an Angel that Flies from Montgomery…

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There are angels.

And I don’t mean fakey, Battlestar Galactica angels.  Spoiler alert, but hey, they spoiled it.  Not me.  And I don’t mean brooding vampires.  Love that Angel.  Love that Buffy show.  It’s real good, like them french-fried taters.  Hmmm, humm.

I have been touched by angels.  And not in the Michael Landon type of way.  And before all you TV people get up in arms and barrage my website with comments, let me just say, I know Michael Landon did Highway to Heaven.  Please.  Do you think I went to prom or kissed a girl ever when I was in high school?  No.  I stayed at home, watching angel shows, and crying.  Thanks so much for bringing up such painful memories.

When people show up at the right place, at the right time, to help you out, well, those are angels.  Later this week I am interviewing Linda Rohrbaugh, and she, my friends, is an angel.  And many of you who will stumble upon my blog will know what I am talking about.

I was at my first ever writer’s retreat, and had my first ever rejection, from my first ever agent, in person.  Most of you have gotten a nasty letter.  Or better, the anonymous email.  Or better.  You were ignored by the universe because you aren’t even worth the stomp on the ant that is your soul.  You are less than ant.

Well, I got stomped.  Now, the agent who did it was very nice and kind and my horror story isn’t what others are.  She just saw me as I was, a rank amateur, and she tried to be helpful.  And every word knifed me good.  Some people call it a slingblade, and I took one to the groin.  To mix metaphors, I was reduced to ashes.  Cut up, tore up, my dream, gone.  Goodbye, cruel world, I’m leaving you today.  Cue Pink Floyd.

I was on my way to shave off all of my body hair and do drugs until I methed my heart out of my chest so I could slice that up, cook that up on a spoon, and inject my own heart back into my veins.  Actually, that’s not true.  I was fully clean and sober.  I was going to eat a pound cake.  First rejection is such drama.

And who found me?  Linda Rohrbough.  She was at the right place, at the right time, and she has a servant’s heart.  She was an angel.  She gave me the rules of writing.  Which I still have.  And she helped me to stand up.  And convinced me I didn’t need the pound cake.  And we have kept in touch, and she continually has lifted me up and let me go beyond myself, what I can do.

Robert Browning wrote, “A man’s reach must exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?”  And that is what an angel does.  Helps us reach beyond ourselves.

And do you know what the coolest thing in the world is?  You don’t need to have wings, a halo, a mighty sword, or even faith in the Divine.  All you need to be an angel, right now, is a caring heart and the courage to reach out.

Of course, this is all in the The Never Prayer.  One of my characters says, “Heaven is empty.  We must be the angels.”  I don’t know about the empty heaven part, but it’s hard down here on earth.  We all need as much help as we can get.

And do you know the hardest place for me to be an angel?  In my own home.  With my friends and family.  Sad, but it’s true for me.  And true for a lot of people.

So be an angel tonight.  For someone who needs it.

Curley Sue: A Cautionary Tale

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I met a guy at a writer’s conference who only wrote in suburban Marriott bars. He was jaded, sad, tragic, frustrated with the poverty, oppression and generally suckiness of being a writer. Of course, I loved him. He was drunk. He couldn’t pitch his book. He loved his story. I might have been talking in the mirror. Except for the drunk part. None for me, thanks, I’m driving. Sober as a judge.

I’m in the bar at a Hilton in Toledo, Ohio, and I want to warn you all of the tragedy, frustration, and general suckiness of squandering time. Last night, we got done early from the software installation at a local hospital. I had hours to write, and write, and write. I have a lot to do. I have stuff to read for my critique group. I have stuff to read for friends. I have stuff to do. Being writer means having homework for the rest of your life. I think Lawrence Kasdan said that. He wrote The Empire Strikes Back. Oh yeah.

But did I write, and read, and do my homework? No.

Stay with me. I’m about to jump. Like in Battlestar Galactica. JUMP! Back in 1998. I was thirteen years younger. Late twenties. I was just married. I was flirting with the idea of writing for reals. Just flirting. Nothing serious. I was too scared for serious. I was terrified of serious. And one Sunday, I watched the movie Curley Sue. I was in that tragic state of wanting to do something, but not being motivated to do anything. I knew I didn’t want to watch Curley Sue. But I couldn’t move. John Hughes had me spellbound. I was trapped. Like a rat. Like a writer at a suburban hotel chain, in the bar, writing books no one would ever read.

Life is too short for watching movies you don’t really want to watch. Life is too short to avoid doing the things that bring life and power to ourselves and others. Life is not about hiding in ice cream and TV. Life is about doing the hard things that task us. Like from Star Trek II, it tasks me, it tasks me.

So last night, I Curley Sue’d. I watched Monday Night Football. It was tragic. I did feel manly, and the game was good, but it was still Curley Sueing.

And so, tonight, we stayed late at the hospital. There were bugs that needed to be stepped on. We got as many as we could, but here it is, late, and we have to be there early tomorrow morning. I blew it. But I’ll get my homework done, well, the little piece I can, and I’ll be a little light on sleep, and I’ll regret the hours I squandered when I had the time.

Do you know what the trick is? It’s to put writing first. Yesterday, I went up to my room, thinking I would write later. Later will never come. So tonight after dinner, I headed for the bar. I’m drinking de-caf coffee. It’s very fine. But I’m doing my writing first. Because writing will never happen later. Other things will happen later, but not writing. Writing will only ever happen right now.

I love de-caf coffee. Not manly, but it beats Curley Sueing myself out of life.