I’ve been absent.  I’ve not communicated.  I’ve pretty much been thinking aloud, but I’m back on the keys eager to be what you wanted.  Tendonitis has reared its evil head and held me hostage for a couple weeks, but I’m easing back into overusing my hand again. 

Since you’ve been gone, abandoned my Hyperbole as it staled during my ailment, a lot has happened.  So lift your eyes if you feel you can, and I’ll show you a plan.  Okay, no more Air Supply references, I promise.

I’ve hit the 100 page mark on my manuscript, and instead of another rewrite or continuing on to the next 100, I’ve decided that I’m going to start shopping it.  Bear in mind, I started writing the book in 1998 and laid it down for a year nap at the ripe page count of 150.  When it woke up to the milk and cookies of my intermittent creativity, it aged like a fine wine to 250 pages.  Of course the sultry mistress of circumstance told my wife of writing that we were having an affair, so I was kicked out into the mean streets of making money.  My soul prostituition was becoming a cross I could no longer bear, so I pulled out the manuscript and whittled it down to the bare bones of 50 pages.  Without a real story, I went back to my roots and carved into the branches a splinter-free 100 pages.  Ten years later, I’m throwing the manuscript to the wind for either a serendiptuous pairing or a door stopper. 

Writers are a funny bunch, and I’m pretty convinced we’re the only species that can span many diagnosis codes without being in a straight jacket.  Highs and lows within one sentence, and obsessive compulsive fingerprints left all over the manuscript.  I’m not sure about other writers, but I can manage to watch a (legal) YouTube Music Video of Boys II Men’s “Down On Bended Knee,” write a blog, text, gather passport documents, and skim a short story I wrote a few years back for any elements to be used in my forthcoming romance novel. 

Excuse me?

Oh, I said ROMANCE NOVEL. 

After much debate, I have decided that I’m not ready to rouse memories that make me spiral into depression again.  I’m finally stable, and unfortunately the trauma (I was officially diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder circa NYC 2004) still saws me to the core.  We struggled to survive for the five years my brother was missing and in 2006 when we found out his fate, we were finally able to grieve.  Grief is like an old sports injury, just when you think you can run like a kid again it’ll give out on you and make you fall.  I knew it was too soon when just his name in generic passing evoked tears, so sitting with all that he was (see now I am crying again) and all he has become is like labor; unbearable pain that results in a miracle.  I’m not ready to have a baby.

I’ve struggled with my books and they have always mimicked my life’s theme, so now I’ve decided to escape a little into a world that is made-for-television.  It’s already proved to be a gateway to creativity, and so now I’m going to be lost in love for a while.  Besides, Alisa Olander is TOTALLY a romance novelist name!