AURIA CORTES

He worked his way to the top. Grew up on welfare and hasn’t looked back since. He’s a millionaire. And not a “fake” one where he only has one or two million in liquid assets ((smile)). He’s worth lots.

At the time, during the conversation I’m about to discuss today, I was young. Starting out in life and in business. I asked him how it felt to be a millionaire. He said, “Great.”

For some reason, I expected a longer answer. But as most millionaire’s that I know, he didn’t speak much.

He is mostly an observer. Many times I watch him watch other people and I try to read his mind. He’s caught me looking at him a few times and I’m sure he believes I have a crush on him. I do not. Never have.

Fast forward to another time. Another conversation. I asked him what’s the best advice he could offer me. This is what he said paraphrased: “Never worry about what the other guy is getting. Just take a look at your piece of pie. If it’s enough, enjoy it. If it’s not, negotiate.

That’s the best advice I ever received. It’s one that changed my outlook on how I view success. It has also limited the amount of jealousy I feel towards others. In fact, jealousy in my life is virtually nonexistant. The last time I remember feeling jealous was when Patricia Cornwell wrote the book about Jack the Ripper.

I felt I should have been the one who wrote that book. After a few days of Cornwell hating, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. The sense of entitlement I felt for a story that didn’t belong to me. To a story that I researched a bit and knew enough to perhaps write a short story, but not a whole book.

For whatever reason, I focused on her piece of the pie, shoving my plate to the middle of the table.

It’s a pathetic state to be in. Really it is. Fussing over the success of someone else who clearly worked hard for recognition.

So what was my problem?

In short, me. I was the problem. As the millionaire said, if I don’t like my piece of the pie I should negotiate. So I did. I negotiated with myself. In return for loving myself more than I did when I thought of Cornwell, I would write.

And so I did.

I’m on a roll. I got so much writing done today that it’s scary (in a good way).

Tomorrow I think I will work on a proposal that is thisclose to completion. This is a book I want to write with my big sis.  The two of us sharing the spotlight on a book cover is an exciting proposition. 

Aside from that, I want to brainstorm other book ideas tomorrow. I want to work on a biography. I’ll conduct research on a few people I’m interested in (don’t know who yet). Does anyone pique your interest? When you read biographies who are you most attracted to (i.e. actors, musicians, politicians, famous for doing nothing people)? Once I have an idea, talk to my agent about it. 

As you may have noticed, I’m working more on my nonfiction stuff. After I finished the first draft of Mija, I needed to change gears. Though I have been working on a fiction outline here and there.

The rain lightened up so I went to the store to buy a toaster because I was in the mood for toast. Instead of buying a toaster, I bought a convention oven. Please don’t ask me why. I don’t know. But at least I can toast some bread.

I then went to the supermarket, walked out with pineapple/coconut Haagen-Dazs and no bread to toast.

I ate the whole container of ice cream, but that’s not the sick part. My tongue gets numb after a few spoonfuls of ice cream so I can’t taste it after a while. So I downed 920 calories and I can’t feel my tongue.

Oh, the writer’s life. It’s not easy, my friends.

For the last two hours I haven’t accomplished anything. I want to. I do. But my eyes are tired and my brain is fried. By the end of last week, I knew burn out was creeping in. To avoid the possibility, this past weekend I didn’t write, work on my paint project (as I planned to do), or fiddle with my guitar.

Even though I did nothing, my mind was working overtime. Thinking about stories, book proposals, impressionist paintings, Spanish folklore, my business, and on and on. I don’t know how to shut off my brain. Usually I don’t mind, but there are times - like today - where I literally can’t see straight.

I’d go for a walk, but it’s raining. I’d go shopping, but that isn’t an activity I enjoy.

My stress relievers (reading, writing, painting, gutiar playing) are the cause of my stress.  What’s this poor little Puerto Rican chic to do? Please don’t suggest that I lay down and just relax. Relaxing stresses me the frakk out.

It has taken me 34.75 years to notice. This surprises me since I am usually atune to the feelings of others. That’s emphathy. My first grade teacher taught me that. I didn’t learn the lesson right away. I figure it was in the second grade when I started to put the pieces together. It’s such an easy concept. Simply put yourself in the position of the person you are judging. It’s difficult to take a harsh stance against another’s actions when you slip into their shoes.

So I don’t know how I missed it, but I sure did.

Though I did notice that the word nigger is used in the classics (Of Mice and Men, To Kill a Mockingbird), I never, until today, thought about how the black kids in my classes felt reading books where the black characters were referred to as a nigger. This struck me today while reading Of Mice and Men. A female character threatens a black one. She uses the word nigger and states that one word from her and the next day he’d find himself hanging from a tree. Wow. Just typing that brought tears to my eyes.

I wish this post had a point, but it doesn’t. It’s a thought that hasn’t left my mind all morning.

Aaron over at Copious Notes blogged about his Kindle experience. In his post, he wrote, “Anyone who discounts it without first trying it has no grounds for their opinions.”  Okay, that’s fair. I won’t give my opinion on the reader’s Kindle experience. I’m sure it’s a fabulous one. But a thought did pop in my mind. Though the Kindle or other readers are a long way off - if they ever get near - to killing off the hard and soft cover books, I wonder how writers will feel if their books are never produced in published form. Sure the writers who haven’t been born yet could care less, but what about us oldies? You know, writers over twenty.  Would you rather have your readers carry a book in their hands? Or in a reader such as Kindle? Or may be it doesn’t matter to you as long as your book is read and enjoyed by others. Though I’m sure I’ll adapt to whatever the industry standard may be in the future, I’m glad that I have a commercially published book that is sitting on library and bookstores shelves, that there are people riding the subway, in their living rooms, or on a flight and have a published copy of my book in hand. As a writer, I doubt that the ability to download my books will come near the feeling I had when I held my book in my hands.