The Jumper

Yesterday a man wearing a ski mask walked into the building where I work, rode the elevator up to the 13th floor, shouted Goodbye to no one in particular, walked out onto the balcony and jumped.

Had I gotten into the elevator ten minutes earlier, driven my car around the block ten minutes earlier, I would have seen a man’s guts splattered across the parking lot.

I heard what had happened as soon as I stepped foot in the elevator, where a maintenance man said a bit too off the cuff that a man had just jumped off the 13th floor. Another woman, who had also just stepped into the crowded elevator, simply turned to him and said, “yeah right.”

“No really,” he said, with no expression.

I work on the 18th floor, so as the elevator descended more and more people were looped into the horrifying drama that unfolded below.

When I got to the lobby, because I’m human and curious, I started to walk out front to see if it was true. But as I was about to leave the building, a woman was coming back in muttering about how gross it was.

She must have seen my face, because then she said, “Oh, no, they’ve covered it up now.”

I turned and went to my car instead. But I did drive around the block so I could pass the scene of the crime.

All I saw was his shoe. And I remember saying to myself, ‘that looks like a homeless man’s shoe.’ A solid black, decades-old Reebokish shoe that had likely been thrown from his foot on impact. It just lay there in the middle of the parking lot while policemen busied themselves around it, interviewing witnesses.

On each corner, curious bystanders craned their necks up toward the balcony from which he dove. Everyone wondering why? How?

I heard later that it was a homeless man, which doesn’t make it any less tragic.

Yesterday was already a gloomy and rainy day in Austin. It’s only saving grace being that it kept the children who attend the private pre-school on the second floor of the building from being outside. Any one of those kids could have seen a man kill himself yesterday. For all I know, one of them did.

That’s the one thing I can’t get out of my head.

The children naively playing so very close to that shoe.

Identity crisis

I struggle with identity issues. I always have. Especially in adulthood. And especially when I’m trying to express myself as a writer.

What kind of writer am I? And what kind of writer do I want to be?

I also struggle with the ability to stay on a consistent path. I’ve always had trouble with that, too.

Restlessness is in my DNA. I get bored easily, mostly with myself.

So, in the aftermath of this graduate school rejection, I’ve been doing a bit of quiet soul searching. I’ve been wondering…now what?

My mind flits about from possibility to possibility.

One minute I say, “F it. I’ll start playing my drums again. Being in a band is more realistic, especially in Austin. It’s the freakin’ live music capital of the world for pete’s sake.” The next minute, the little devil of insecurity appears on my left shoulder and forms his counter argument. “You’re 38 years old. You’re in bed by 9:30. What makes you think you’d make it in a rock band?”

The next day, I’m thinking I’ll refocus my energy back into writing personal essays and pitching them to magazines. I do a lot of thinking about this. More thinking than doing. And then I spend even more time telling myself how competitive this pursuit is, and how little it pays, and wondering if the effort is really worth the payoff.

Is the effort really worth the payoff?

This is something I ask myself often.

With my children it is. I never question my identity as a mother. But as a writer?

I write daily for an advertising agency. And even there the questions come up. I write headline after headline after headline after headline and I wonder.

Why?

In my 20s, I wrote a lot of poetry. I even took a poetry class at UCLA. When I submitted writing to magazines, it was poetry.

In my 30s, I got more into fiction. I took more and more classes, only now in NY. I went to writing conferences. I tried. And tried. And tried.

I started this blog in my mid-30s so I could practice writing again after taking some time off to birth a baby. This led me to nonfiction. I wrote personal essays and even had three of them published in the local paper.

Then, I began to miss writing fiction. I miss writing essays. I miss writing poetry.

But, more than anything, I miss knowing where I want to go from here.

What kind of writer am I?

And who am I if I don’t know?

Rejection hurts

Here's the lovely letter I found in my mailbox on Friday.

Dear Ms. Zellmer,

Thank you for your application to the graduate college at Texas State University. The Creative Writing program has conducted a comprehensive review of your application and I REGRET TO INFORM YOU that the program recommended that you be DENIED ADMISSION. The Dean of the Graduate College had concurred with the recommendation. The selection process is extremely competitive and only a limited number of applicants are admitted to the program.

We appreciate your interest in Texas State. Best of luck with your future work.

Sincerely,

Linda Stab You Through the Heart
Graduate Admissions Coordinator

Toilet Triumph

Yesterday was what my husband likes to call a banner day for the Davis Family, based on a line from his favorite movie, "It's a Wonderful Life."

Nothing unusual happened really. Unless you want to call MY DAUGHTER GOING TO SCHOOL IN BIG GIRL PANTIES AND NOT HAVING ONE SINGLE ACCIDENT ALL DAY unusual.

How proud am I?

The latest in cute

I got a pedicure yesterday. And because she's so close to the ground, my daughter was the first one to notice. Which of course led to the painting of her little toes and fingers.

She sat very still for me on my lap while I held her foot in my hand and dabbed hot pink nail polish on each of her toes. Then I set her up on the kitchen counter, where the light is better, and she placed her hands on her knees while I did the same for each little fingernail.

Then I plopped her on my bed in front of Dora and told her to keep those feet still and those little hands on those little knees until Dora was over. Then, for good measure, I put on Diego.

She sat absolutely still through both shows so she wouldn't mess up those nails, which she had declared herself were "so byootiful Mommy."

And even after I told her they were probably dry, she walked around with her hands held out like zombie hands and touched things with the heel of it only, still not wanting to mess them up, just like all ladies do.

She is just like her Gammy in a lot of ways, but especially at times when her nails are drying.

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The Little Man is running. At 16 months, he's finally getting air when he does his laps across the house. His little legs carry him from room to room so quickly his hair blows back from his face and his fat cheeks tend to bounce.

And he's climbing. I'll look up from a magazine or my computer and he's sitting on the arm of the chair, his sippy cup placed in front of him, which he's dragged up there with him, and he watches TV from his perch. I worry that he'll fall, but I also adore his desire to elevate himself so much that I let him be as grande as he can be while I linger close enough to swoop in and catch him if he does.

They're growing up so fast. Tonight Z wanted to read Goodnight Moon before bed, which is a book she rarely picks out anymore. But it made me remember how often we read it to her when she was a baby. The pages are frayed and chewed on.

As she sat on my lap and we began to read, I said, "Oh, Goodnight Moon. I love this book." And she said, "I love it, too." She is expressing emotions so much now and responding to things I say with adult-like retorts. I say thank you, she says you're welcome. I say "I love you." She says, "I love you, too." The last time we read that book she couldn't say things like that. She coudn't say things like, "Mush? What's that?"

What is mush anyway? And why was it in the room with the red balloons and the picture of three little bears sitting on chairs?

Anyway, the point is I've been too busy to blog lately. But partly that's because I've been living in the moment of these lives that are growing up around me almost too fast to document. The cute happens before I can think to pick up the camera. Because if I did, I'd miss it. And the life is so precious at times that even a writer can't find the words.