Diana Rowland — Writing, Life, and the Stuff in between

I had a lengthy blog post written–a quasi-whine about how I haven’t had any extended time to write in the past few days, and how I’m pushing hard to get books written so that I can get more books under contract, and how this whole writing gig only gets harder and the stakes only get higher, etc…

But, by the second paragraph, even I was sick of reading about “oh poor me, I’m living my dream and it’s really hard work too” and if I’d been in the room with me, I’d have slapped myself and said, “HEY! Get over yourself! Just write yer damn books and shut up!”

So I’m going to shut up now and go write some damn books.

Tomorrow is apparently the day that the BBC will be announcing who will be playing the next Doctor. I’ve been listening to all of the talk and whining and moaning from the die-hard David Tennant groupies who insist that they will never watch the show again after he leaves and that they will no longer be Who fans…

Speaking as someone who has been a hard-core Doctor Who fan for close to thirty years, I would just like to inform the aforementioned whiners and moaners: You don’t get it.

You just don’t get that the regeneration of the Doctor is one of the key things that makes this show so terrific, and is what has allowed it to last as incredibly long as it has. There are many shows that have lasted a long time where cast members have come and gone, but the characters they play have always come and gone as well. With the Doctor, the show essentially gets a reboot every few years, without having to change themes, story, or essential character traits. Every few years the show gets new life breathed into it as the main character suddenly develops an entirely new personality, without losing any of the core concepts that made the character so appealing. It’s a wonderful mix of continuity and dynamic change that allows each actor who plays the Doctor to build on the character that every previous actor has helped to create. I think David Tennant is a very fine actor, and yes, I think he is up there with Tom Baker as one of the better Doctors. However, I’m not sure Tennant’s character would have been as strong if not for Christopher Eccleston’s portrayal, brief though it was. Eccleston was able to give the Doctor a dark and tortured edge that was necessary for the revival of the series, and then Tennant built upon that dark foundation, tempering it with boyish good looks and a lighter sense of humor.

I could wax poetic about the show for eons, but my main point is: Stop saying you won’t be a Who fan when Tennant leaves, because if you’re saying that, then you were never a Who fan–you were a Tennant fan. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with being a Tennant fan, but you really should be aware that you’re missing the point of what makes Doctor Who great enough to last for so many decades.

We did nothing exciting last night other than go to bed about an hour later than usual, which meant we were asleep before the clock turned midnight. Since there were so many firecrackers/fireworks in the area, we let the Kid sleep in the bed with us.

Today we went to a New Year’s Day/housewarming party, and since we were with another couple, we ended up going to a couple of other party/gatherings after we left the first one. There was no loud music or heavy drinking or anything like that, but they were all the kind of gatherings where I had to put on my “social face” and be “On,” i.e. do the whole smiling and friendly and charming and interesting bit. I’m fully capable of doing that, but it completely wears me out, and by the time we got home I just wanted to crawl under the covers and drink up about half an hour of dark quiet.

I can’t remember where I first heard the term “gregarious introvert,” but it most definitely applies to me. I spent most of my childhood and teenage years as an awkward, lonely, socially inept outsider. During college I was lucky enough to fall in with a great group of friends who had similar interests and goals, with whom I was able to learn some of the finer points of social interaction and general public behavior. Then, after college, I worked in a casino for several years, where I learned how to “fake” being gregarious and outgoing–vitally important in any service-industry profession that relies heavily on tips for income. Over the years I’ve developed some pretty good social skills, but it’s never stopped being work. This is one of the main reasons why I almost never share a hotel room when I go to conventions. After a day of being “On” at a con, I need that quiet place of retreat as much as I need food, water, and sleep. It’s worth the extra money, because otherwise I won’t make it through the entire con.

Looking back at today, I realize that I should have found some quiet corner at some point to do some mini-decompressing. It was a fun day, and we met a lot of interesting people, but the day loses its luster when I feel completely strung out and frazzled at the end of it.

2008: I sold two books. I quit the worst job I’ve ever had. I started writing full time. I got more sleep. I cleaned my house more. I started bicycling.

Plans for 2009: Write more. Exercise more. Eat less. Spend less.

‘Nuff said.

Well, I’m tickled. Yesterday’s post earned a “Best of Holidailies,” which gives me two “Best of”s this year! Woo!

The funny thing (at least to me) is that this year there’ve been a few posts I’ve written where I’ve finished them and said to myself, “Self, now that’s not a bad piece of writing at all. If I were to win one of the Best Of thingies, this might be a post that would do it.” And, of course, none of those ever got a nod, while two posts where I jotted off something fun and interesting did.

Now then, there are a couple of lessons I could take from this. The first could be that obviously the posts that have received Best Of nods have been more casual and relaxed, and therefore are obviously more “me” or “from the heart” kinda things.

The second could be that maybe I’m just a really shitty judge of my own writing.

I’m thinking it’s the second.

Well, most of it. I don’t have time to write the entire full-blown story with all the details and color commentary, but the gist of how Jack and I ended up together is as follows:

Back when I was a street cop, I was involved in an call that started out as a shoplifting, turned into a pursuit, and ended up as a shooting/possible hostage situation. During this incident, the suspect shot at another deputy and then tried to shoot me, only failing to do so because his gun jammed. (Note: This is the incredibly abridged version of that incident.)

Suspect was apprehended and arrested, and several months later the matter came to trial. The prosecutor was an older (than me), seemingly gruff man, and because my role in the incident and arrest had been somewhat significant, I ended up testifying for close to an hour. After the trial the prosecutor called me and told me I’d done a good job on the stand, and then told me he’d call me about coming to the sentencing hearing. (Note: Again, somewhat abridged, but you get the drift.)

Fast forward another couple of months. I was at court for some routine traffic-type trials, and a DWI attorney asked me out. I wasn’t too sure about him, so I asked one of my teammates to ask his wife–who happened to be a prosecutor–what she thought of this DWI attorney. He came back the next day and said, “Julie said, ‘Not no, but HELL no, but what about going out with Jack?’” I said something like, “Jack Who?” at which point my teammate reminded me that Jack was the prosecutor during the big shooting trial. I said something encouraging like, “Sure, what the hell,” and the next day I got a call from Jack, asking me out.

Jack told me he was interested in taking me to a restaurant in Ponchatoula, and since he lived on the side of the parish that was closer to Ponchatoula (and I lived on the opposite end of the parish) I offered to drive to Mandeville and meet him at his condo.

Now, a quick side note: During the trial, I was dressed like a Cop. I’d just been through a several-month period of extreme fitness and weight loss, and was in the best shape of my life, however, when one is dressed in combat boots, brown polyester uniform, and duty belt, with minimal makeup and short-ish hair, one does not necessarily look terribly feminine. Or cute. Or attractive.

For this date, I’d dressed like a Girl. I was wearing black, low-rise stretch pants, a fitted white blouse, I had makeup on, and my hair was nicely styled. I looked Hot.

I made it to his condo, and when I got out of the car he looked at me and said, “Y’know, I had no idea what you really looked like. You look nice.” It’s difficult to recapture the ho-hum nonchalant way he said that, but be assured, it was definitely without any sort of exclamation mark. (I did not know at the time that he has the dryest sense of humor on the planet.)

Anyway, despite that strangely lukewarm start, I got into his car and we headed to this restaurant. We ended up having a terrific time, and talked about all sorts of things. He was funny and intelligent and interesting, and after dinner we went dancing, and then went out to the lakefront and talked about a million more things.

Eventually we returned to his condo, where he asked me if I wanted to come in for a few minutes. I said Sure. We went inside, and he started to show me around the place. All was going well until we reached the master bedroom, where he stopped and said, “I don’t remember that being there.” (Referring to a wrapped present on his bed.)

When he said that, I went into Cop-Mode and said, “You should check the rest of your residence.” (I did not realize, at the time, that Jack is frickin’ deaf, and didn’t hear me say that.) I went back out to the living room, and then suddenly heard Jack’s raised voice saying, “What are you doing here?! You need to leave!”

I turned around to see a statuesque blonde coming out of one of the other bedrooms, and Jack with a horrified expression on his face. The first thought that flashed through my mind was, “Shit. My gun is in my car.” And so, I did the only other thing I could think to do: I folded my arms across my chest, leaned back against the kitchen table, and gave her a Cop Stare. I don’t know if she realized it was a Cop Stare. She might have been thinking it was a Drunk Bimbo Stare.

Anyway, whether it was my Cop Stare or Jack’s horrified pleas, she slunk out without causing any scene. I then gave Jack a Questioning Look, at which time he informed me that he’d recently broken up with her.

I later found out that “recently” meant the day before. [insert eye roll.] Apparently she had thought that I was someone else, and when she saw that I was not the someone else who she thought I was, she was hideously embarrassed enough to not want to cause any sort of incident. (To be honest, I actually felt kinda sorry for her.)

But, despite the eventful end to the evening, I went out with him again. After the third date we were definitely “an item.” Six weeks later he asked me to marry him. By May we’d found a house to rent and had moved in together. In July we were married.

Seven years later, and we haven’t killed each other yet!

Rainy, yucky, chilly day. Needless to say, we spent the majority of the day inside.

However, on December 28th, 2001, Jack and I had our first date. We were married the following July, but somehow we end up forgetting that anniversary every single year. But we always remember and celebrate the anniversary of our first date. It was a memorable date in many ways–not the least of which was finding his ex-girlfriend hiding in his apartment when we got back there. Actually, the entire story of how we met and got together is pretty interesting, beginning with the guy who tried to shoot me when I was a street cop.

Unfortunately, it’s a little too late tonight to get into the whole story, so I’ll have to see if I can work up a better summary for tomorrow.

Anyway, since it was our anniversary, we braved the weather and went out. Nothing major or fancy–just some appetizers at a local sushi place, and then a movie. We went to see Marley and Me, which was a really great movie, and far more deep and touching than the previews would have one believe. One scene in particular really hit Jack and me hard because it was a damn strong echo of a very painful experience (FYI, the link will be a bit of a spoiler for the movie.) But even without that, I think that anyone who remains dry-eyed throughout the movie is obviously made of stone.

As a side note: Yesterday’s photo essay was taken by my husband a few weeks ago while we were having brunch at one of my favorite restaurants. I didn’t realize he was taking the pictures until much later, and I’d forgotten about them until yesterday when I pulled Christmas pictures off of his camera and saw those as well. I don’t think it would be possible to capture the moment any more perfectly.

The Kid submits a request to foment chaos:

The Mother denies the request:

And reinforces the denial with The Look:

Then continues the denial with The Direct Look:

The Kid capitulates. The Mother celebrates her victory:

The Kid plots more chaos:

I woke up at 5am so that I could put the presents under the tree for Anna. (I was afraid that if I left them there all night, the cats would pee on them.) Jack woke up a bit later and we read the newspaper and drank tea while we waited for Anna to wake up.

And waited.
And waited.

Finally at 7:30 I went in and woke Anna up. “Anna! Santa came!” After a few repetitions of this, she finally woke up and became appropriately excited. She opened her presents, seemed quite happy with her haul, and then it was time for last minute cleaning since the Entire Family was coming over at 2.(The Entire Family included all five of Jack’s other kids, all five grandkids, spouses and boyfriends of the kids, mother of the kids (yes, that would be the ex-wife, with whom I get along quite nicely), husband of the mother of the kids, brother of the mother of the kids and his wife and kids, mother of the mother of the kids, my sister and her kids, and my mother. I’m sure I missed someone in there.)

Everything was going great. I had the timing of everything down pat, and I figured I’d put the turkey in the oven so that it would be finished about half an hour before everyone arrived.

That plan held out until Jack spoke to one of his daughters who told him that everything was, in fact, supposed to start at 1pm. Since it was 10 at the time, I proceeded to have a minor freak-out.

But, amazingly, everything came together, I finished the cleaning, people arrived shortly after 1, and when the turkey as finished I assigned one of the mensfolk to carve it. Everything was going great.

Until the eighteen-month old grandkid smacked his head into the edge of the dining room table and opened up a significant gash on his forehead. I did the sensible thing and yelled for my sister-the-pediatrician. She proceeded, with utter calm, to a)comfort baby and get him to stop crying, b) create a makeshift pressure bandage from one of my cheap Walgreen’s kitchen towels and a hair pony, and c) assess the injury and inform the parents that it really needed stitches in order to avoid a fairly significant scar. (My brilliant contribution was yelling for my sister in the first place.)

While the parents were getting stuff together to take the kid to the ER (since all of the Urgent Care type places were closed for Christmas), another kid came in with a nose streaming blood. Fortunately, that one was a minor issue, and was easily dealt with by her mother. But there was definitely more blood than I’m used to on a Christmas!

We waited until the parents came back from the ER to do the gift exchange, and fortunately the ER was fairly empty. They made it back shortly over an hour later with a glued-together kid, and the rest of the gathering went smoothly and with no further bloodletting.

Overall it was a pretty terrific day. Everyone got along, we ate too much, we laughed a lot, and injuries were minor. What more could you ask for?

Okay, less blood for Christmas would probably be a good thing, but I don’t want to be too demanding.

Very large number of people over today for Christmas celebration. Very full house, and only one trip to the ER. Very nice Christmas overall. Very very tired. Very disinclined to write a more coherent blog entry at this time. Very much writing this last sentence just to get to the “minimum” of fifty words for Holidailies.