Prison Retreat

I don’t remember exactly when I heard the news story, sometime in the past year (though definitely before December). But just today, I came across this little tidbit I wrote in reaction to it. Perhaps you remember the story…

“So I was listening to NPR this morning. I wasn’t having a particularly bad day; in fact, the day promised to be quite relaxed and enjoyable. But I heard about a French journalist who had been held captive for five months and I have to confess, part of me was jealous. I thought, wow, five months without diaper changes; laundry; dishes; cooking; deciding what to cook; feeding a husband, two kids and a dog; running errands; and all the other stupid stuff that fills up my days. In five months, as long as I have access to paper and pen, I could probably write a novel. Sure, the food wouldn’t necessarily be good, but then I guess I could lose those last five pounds.”

So then that just begs the question: does that little glance into my psyche indicate that I’m an optimist (seeing the best in an obviously horrible situation) or a pessimist (seeing what’s sucky in my life)? Then again, does it really matter? (Does that make me a defeatist?)

Thinking more deeply about the concept of imprisonment, especially in light of the recent journalist that was kidnapped in Iraq, it’s really got to work out for writers. Instant bestseller, and it hasn’t even been written yet, or even completely conceived (unless she needed something to think about while she was imprisoned). Everyone will buy it, or at least feel guilty about not buying it. I’ll make millions. I mean, you know the quality will be good; I’m a writer after all. And if I do something a little different, like tell it from the kidnapper’s point of view, or write a how-to survive a visit to a war-torn land, then maybe I’ll even get invited to the Oprah show.

I just heard about a nineteen-year-old girl who has received some incredible advance (over a million dollars) for her novel. Nineteen! On the one hand, good for her. On the other hand, grrr. So I’m on my kick again to get a novel written. Apparently this blog just isn’t good enough for me. And I’ll use this little tidbit of info to motivate me. If some nineteen-year-old can get published (no, I’ve never read her writing, and yes, she could be a brilliant writer, and yes, I did write some damn good stuff in high school, but still), then so can I. I’m almost twice her age. Surely the knowledge and maturity I’ve acquired in that extra lifetime counts for something (like not getting all jealous over someone else’s good fortune, perhaps? – don’t you hate it when you talk back to yourself?). I can do it. I can write a book that’s not just drivel (like this blog generally is). Let’s assume all my crappy writing has been punted out of my system and onto this blog (don’t you feel special reading this now?). All the good stuff can go into my novel. And it will. It’s in me, and now that I’m in the habit of writing (thanks to this blog), it can come out. So, some time in the next couple of years, expect to hear something about my novel.

And hopefully it won’t just be another blog entry, written from prison, talking about how I used to be moronic enough to think I might one day actually publish a novel.