“She’s Alive!”
- At October 26, 2011
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 2
It’s Wednesday, the third day after returning from the Surrey International Writers’ Conference, and I do feel somewhat like I’ve risen from the dead. (Or maybe it’s because my kids got me into watching Walking Dead. Which is awesome… and I don’t even LIKE zombies.)
But the past year for me has been something of a dead zone. Like various bits and pieces of my life have been stuck on “pause.” Like I’m living in that ominous time between the flash and boom that lets you know how close you are to the storm. (“Pause?” “Flash?” Duh. Try “menopause.”)
This conference, and the friends I meet up with there every year, brings me back to life. You know who you are – or maybe you don’t. Our interactions might be brief and maybe I met you this year for the first time, but you did something that helped me believe in myself again.
Pam Patchett, my eloquent and thoughtful friend – and fellow dog-lover – on the other side of the country, who is so generous with her hugs, and whom I never get to spend enough time with! Deb Andersonwho always has the coolest hair, and so much energy!
Sheri Hart who I only met last year but I feel like I’ve known for much longer, Nick Andreychuk who always inspires me with his productivity and cool ideas, the whole gang at the RWA Greater Vancouver Chapter…. and then, of course, the Big Name Authors…
… the Celebrities who inspire We’re-Not-Worthy Fan-girl moments … after which everyone settles down to have an ordinary conversation over butter chicken.
After all, wherever we are on the path of publication, we’re all writers struggling with the same stuff:
Butt in chair, hands on keyboard.
Sit down at the typewriter and open a vein.
Thank you, my friends, for reminding me that I’m not alone.
Hic, Pik and Otis
People who blog regularly are divided on how much to share, how much to keep quiet. “I never post pictures of my kids,” says one blogger who refers to her kids as Freebird and Bubba online. That makes sense, with weird kid stalkers and all out there.
“I never write about health stuff,” says another. “That’s just gross.” See, now I find health stuff fascinating. The grosser, the better. Sorry, but sooner or later, I’ll write about my own medical adventures (I want “I told you I was sick” carved on my headstone.)
So the concept of overshare gives me pause. I decided that perhaps I need to censor myself occasionally, for the sake of my offspring, who may or may not have reputations they’d prefer to ruin themselves.
I mentioned it to my daughters, who shall hereby be known as Hiccup, Potsticker and Owodunni (Yoruban for “it is good to have money.” We believe in head starts.) AKA Hic, Pik and Otis.
“Oh god,” moaned Hiccup. “She’s gonna give us crazy nicknames.”
“Yeah,” added Potsticker. “Something stupid. Like Saffrine.”
Don’t worry, Hic and Pik, your identity is safe with me.
PS: Saffrine’s looking pretty good right now, isn’t it??
30 minutes post blog-publishing:
“Moooom,” complained Potsticker. “You screwed up our nicknames.”
“Yeah,” said Hiccup. “I said ‘Saffrine,’ not her.”
Yes, you read correctly. They are arguing over who gets credit for a non-existent pseudonym.
Right now, Saffrine is my favourite child.