Writing, I've come to realize, is a dangerous profession.

In many senses, you become a slave to your work.  You put yourself in precarious scenarios, just for the sake of something interesting to write about; you nearly crash your car because you just have to write down each idea that comes to you, even if it comes to you in rush hour traffic; you get so sucked into the scene you're working on that in a matter of seconds, twelve hours have passed.

It also has a tendency to mess with your social life. 

Just look at Hemingway.  Divorced several times, heavy drinker, deteriorated mentally as the years went on, suffered from eventual paranoia, and finally, shot himself with his "favorite shotgun."

And he's one of the best.

Now, to be fair, the guy had other diagnoses that made him a risk factor for suicide, but I like to maintain that in the end, it was his profession that got to him.  Writing is lonely.

Anyone can tell you that.  It demands long hours in a quiet room stressing over minor edits and punctuation changes, as well as days on end of focused reflection as you try to come up with a story worth writing.  

According to Wikipedia, loneliness has been linked with an increased risk of cancer, stroke, and cardiovascular disease.  It results in poor sleep and therefore a diminished restorative process, alcoholism, several forms of anti-social and self-destructive behavior: most notably, hostile and delinquent behavior.  It has a negative impact on learning and memory, and its disruption of rest patterns can "have a devastating effect on the ability to function in everyday life."

As I write this, I can hear Debbie Downer's theme music drifting through my head, so I'm going to move on to the point: 

No one tells you about the effect that a lonely profession has on your socialization once you do finally get out there in the real world.  In Emily Dickinson's case, the result of sequestering herself while she wrote finally manifested itself in the form of a penchant for white dresses, adamant refusal to greet guests, and a physical inability to leave her room.  In my case, I haven't gotten that far yet.  I don't own much white, no one comes to see me anyway, and I'd much rather lock myself in my kitchen.  I have, however, noticed a change in my social graces.

For example, I spend so much time with my feet up on my desk, chewing on a pen, that I've come to believe this is acceptable behavior anywhere.  At the homes of people I've just met, at local coffee shops - I catch myself with a leg casually thrown onto the table as I lean back in my chair and think out loud.  Meanwhile, I spend so much time staring intently at my computer screen, that I've come to believe it's normal to stare at anything this intently.  Therefore, someone introduces himself to me, and I turn around and fix my gaze on him like it's the apocalypse and he's the last cut of Prime Rib.  These are all behaviors that need to stop, but I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until a few weeks ago, when I boarded the 22 Clark bus.

I sat down in one of many available seats, yet when an elderly man got on the bus, he headed for the one right next to me.

Now, a well socialized Melissa would have done something to deter him from picking that particular seat - put my purse down, turned up my iPod and looked away, burped loudly.

Instead, I found myself hoping he'd sit there. And when he did, I inched closer to him.  It was right around the time I caught moving his walker so I could more easily snuggle up to him, about to put my head on his shoulder, that I realized something was terribly wrong.

I did a quick mental calculation of the last time I'd let anyone hug me.  It had been awhile.  Next I tried to figure out how long it had been since I'd seen another human, and landed on somewhere in the vicinity of 72 hours.  Suddenly I was having horrific flashbacks of the last three days - days filled with lively conversation and boisterous laughter - between me, my coffee machine, and the cast of FRIENDS, respectively.  The worst part was, I hadn't even noticed it.

So, I decided right then and there it was time to get a job - any job - that didn't require sitting at a desk for hours on end.

I'll still do that, of course - it's just now going to occur during a well-managed period of time, with a start - and end - in sight.

Three weeks later, I not only have one job lined up - but 4 - in fact, I'm wondering now when I'll ever find time to write, within this new schedule.

But, considering the apparent alternative is sitting alone in my parents attic dressed as a bride and writing poetry - or, drinking myself into paranoia, I'm fine with it.  It's too bad for the man on the bus, though.  He seemed on board with a little mid-afternoon spooning.  

I know it's not a Monday, but I'm going to write a "Manic Monday" post anyway, because thanks to the long holiday weekend it feels like a Monday.  (Something that will continue to throw off my week, and will probably leave me putting in a 10-hour work day on Saturday, wondering why no everyone else seems to be taking "Friday" off.)

Plus, I ran into a few manics worth writing about.

Here in the city I'm usually prepared for some sort of crazy daily encounter.  Yesterday as I drove down Lakeshore drive, for example, there was a man casually relieving himself on the side of the road, waving to oncoming traffic.  

Only a few feet away sat a cop who did nothing - upon further investigation I discovered that he was unaware of this mans behavior because he was sitting behind the wheel simultaneously talking on his cell and reading a comic book.  

There you have it, the city's finest, working hard to serve and protect us.

As I write this, I'm watching a woman in shiny snake-skin leggings standing on the corner with her arm raised, yet she's politely declining every cab that stops for her.  Hers may be a profession you don't usually get to see in action at 11 am...I feel lucky to be witnessing it.  I also feel like if I watch long enough, I'll see another of Chicago's upstanding officers pull up to reprimand her.  At least I hope that's what happens - if he never shows up - or worse, if he does show up but picks her up for any reason other than an arrest - I will lose all faith in where my tax dollars are going, and promptly leave Illinois.

Anyway my point is that I'm used to 'crazy' living downtown. Make a trip up to the North Shore, however, and 'crazy' becomes a little more of a surprise.  Winnetka is a suburb full of multi-million dollar homes, well manicured lawns and shiny Mercede's SUV's.  It is not a place for those who have lost their source of income, their sense of hygiene, or their minds.

So, when my aunt and I passed a nice looking middle-aged woman on the sidewalk as we made our way up to the Glencoe Starbucks, I smiled - fully expecting a casual comment on the weather.  Instead, she put her hand out to stop us and said:

"Tell me, is there anything more ludicrous than the American point of view?" 

As she said this she shook her head, although she was disappointed in us, and I had to stop and think for a minute - completely at a loss for how to respond to that.

"In regards to what?" my aunt asked her, as I spun in a circle looking for anything at all that could pass for ludicrous around here, besides the woman posing the question.

"You know," she said.  "Tunnel vision."  With that, she picked up a small dog from the yard we were in front of and walked away.   I've been keeping my eyes open for "missing dog" posters ever since, ready and waiting with freshly sharpened colored pencils, to provide a full color sketch of the suspect if asked.   

Soon after this encounter, I headed for Wisconsin, where I made a stop at the post office.  As I was filling out my forms, a man came in and barged past me.  He had a beard that left me wondering if he'd parked some sort Biblical vehicle outside - but was dressed in head to toe leather covered with Harley Davidson insignia.  All in all, I got the impression that he wasn't the kind of man you invite out for tea, crumpets, and pleasant conversation.

Suddenly I was startled by what I thought was a gunshot - but turned out to simply be this gentleman slamming a package down on the counter.

"This got delivered to my house.  I didn't order it, I don't want it, so you can send it back."

If there was a place in that sentence for "Aint" to be used, he would have found it.  I could hear it in the way he pronounced didn't and don't like "daidn't" and "dain't."

"Ok," the woman behind the counter tried to be nice.  "I'm just going to need you to sign-"

"I ain't signin' nothin'," he said.

There it was.

He left just as quickly as he'd come in, and I watched him sail his ark away behind the rest of the Hells Angels.

I guess if these encounters taught me anything, it's that you can't avoid crazy, whether you live in the heart downtown or in small town America. 

They also taught me that I may be able to get away with public urination or daylight prostitution, depending which officer is patrolling the area. 

Part of my marketing plan is networking.  I'm trying to get involved in as many different types of literary events as I can.  So I signed up for a series of writers workshops through National Louis University, and got ready on Tuesday afternoon to go in there and kick some ass. 

Let me interject here, that I'm usually pretty good at being well prepared.

I learned this lesson several times over in college.  I once signed up for a class called "Biogeography of the Global Gardens," and instead of reading the masses of information available on what the course was about, bypassed that step and therefore showed up on the first day fully prepared to spend 3 hours every Tuesday morning gardening.  

It turned out to be one of the most difficult classes I took, and to this day I can only recall one thing, and that one thing is a word - Taiga.  I believe it's one of the earth's biome's - and, ironically, not even one I could garden in.

I also arrived in the city of Chicago driving a beat-up 4-Runner that came complete with Wisconsin plates.  When I finally caved and bought a new car, this one with Illinois plates, I remained blissfully unaware (though I'd rather think I remained irritatingly uninformed) that this car would need a City Sticker.  $350 dollars in tickets later, it's got two of them. 

I've been caught in thunderstorms with no umbrella, overnights with no toothbrush, 3-hour meetings with no snack, (actually who am I kidding - make that 10-minute meetings with no snack), and scuffles with the homeless, with no weapon.  Thanks to such lessons, as a general rule I now make it my priority to show up over-prepared, if anything.

Which is why I arrived at the workshop on Tuesday night legitimately surprised that everyone else there had submitted a piece of non-fiction to be critiqued.  You might think the word "workshop" would have given this away - but I'd like to point out that the newspaper clipping that led me to sign up said nothing about submitting any work up front.  I figured we'd all sit down and write an original piece while we were there.

Wrong.  And so I sat for three hours watching everyone around me read their work out loud, pretending to read along in the packet of essays that I didn't have with me.

Not that this was a bad thing - one of my favorite authors, Robert Kurson, was leading the workshop and so it was wonderful to hear him speak about his experience - and also to hear some really great writing samples from other participants.  One even sang a fun song that she'd written for kids, which has been playing on repeat in my head ever since. 

Singing in the shower is one thing, but singing a song about the life-cycle of apple trees (complete with gestures), to my cabbie on the way home that night was a completely different matter.  While he appreciated my enthusiasm - and I'm pretty sure I'll wind up on an episode of Taxi-Cab Confessions, if that's still running - I think he was pretty excited to drop me off and move on.

Anyways, my point is that I would have loved to been able to contribute, and so as a direct result of that experience, I've started carrying around at least 5 copies of an original piece of work, everywhere I go.  

This may create a problem when I'm at the beach or exercising, but I'm committed to somehow working them into my ponytail if need be - I don't want to miss an opportunity. 

I'm also thinking of re-enrolling in Biogeography of the Global Gardens.  Talk about a squandered opportunity - there are at least two other biomes I could have memorized, and who knows where I'd be today with that kind of knowledge?  

I love being able to make my own schedule.  Considering the fact that the weekdays here seem to be beautiful while the weekends come complete with typhoons and 60 mile an hour winds, I can spend a weekday enjoying the beautiful weather, and make up the work on the weekends or at night.

It also allows me the freedom to work from where I want.  This comes in handy in a variety of situations:  Those days when I don't feel like getting out of bed, those days when I get out of bed, take one look in the mirror, and conclude it's best I don't be seen that day, and and those days when there are important calls to make.

When I was at Zocalo and had to make an important call from my desk, I was always surrounded by 5-10 coworkers while my bosses doors sat open and the office was inconveniently silent - a situation within the same sphere of comfort as Marie Antoinette giving birth in a bedroom packed with courtiers there to witness the big event.  Slightly more appropriate, but just as painful and just as disastrous - right down to the fainting spells.

Thus, the people on the other end of the line almost always had to ask why I was whispering.  

Now I can go home in the middle of the day if I have some outreach to do. 

And after writing from a noisy Starbucks all morning, the thought of walking into a quiet, sun-filled apartment is incredibly appealing, when it comes time to jump on those nerve-wracking phone calls where I try and convince someone else that my book is worth mentioning in their publication.  This is just the kind of idyllic environment I was picturing a few days ago as I made my way home, and breathed a sigh of relief when I closed the door behind me and was met with nothing but silence.

I put my bag down in the front hall and rounded the corner into my 11th floor living room, where I immediately came face-to-crotch with the lower halves of two men, right outside my window.  There were two options here - they were window washers, in which case I could blissfully ignore them, or they were levitating, in which case I was suddenly incredibly interested in meeting them.

The cables and ridiculously un-sturdy looking plank they stood on alluded to the fact that they may not be the magicians I was hoping they were, and I had no sooner decided to ignore their presence than they greeted me with what I imagine having a cavity drilled sounds like, if you're the tooth.  

Within seconds there was dust billowing into my apartment, despite the fact that my windows were closed, and the whole wall, if not the whole apartment, was shaking.

Once I regained my balance and found the nearest doorframe to brace myself in, I started thinking about the situation in a logical manner.  On the plus side, they were finally doing the external brick work needed to fix my internal water damage.  On the downside, they were doing it now.  

This provided a better option for most residents, I'm sure, than 6:00 in the evening, but for me it was less than ideal.  

So I army crawled from doorframe to doorframe until I'd gotten as far away from the noise and the man-made earthquake as I could, and sat down on my bed.  

I was mid-phone-conversation with my Mom, when the drillers decided to take their smoke break.  Still on their plank of death, they sat down on some overturned buckets and decided to smoke facing not the street, but my apartment.

So there they sat, smoking and talking and looking in my windows. 

I did a quick mental calculation of anything incriminating I may have left out.  My Golden Girls DVD'S had been missing since November, so those wouldn't land me in any embarrassment.  (I think they were taken by an ex-boyfriend who has a not-so-secret crush on Betty White.)  I had started a puzzle on the coffee table, a cutesy catalog pillow that reads "Quiet, Novel in Progress" sat on my windowsill, my cat was dozing on my desk, and the room was filled with more pictures, pillows, and empty bottles of Ensure than I knew what to do with.

All in all, I figured they'd probably think they were looking in on a sweet elderly woman.

This is probably exactly what they thought, because they started peering in my windows as if they were concerned about the well-being of the resident inside and wanted to check on this real-life Golden Girl.

I watched as one slowly dusted off the window, cupped his hands around his eyes, and pressed his face as close as he could to the glass.

He was met not with a nice grandma type, but instead with me - wearing a dinosaur t-shirt I'd gotten at Goodwill years ago, cradling the phone to one ear while I simultaneously swabbed the other with a Q-tip and attempted to eat with one hand the largest turkey sandwich I'd ever put together.  I later discovered that there was mustard smeared not only around my mouth, but down half my face, most of my right arm, and a good portion of the nearest bedpost.

Maybe not elderly, but in need of just as much round-the-clock care. 

I did the only thing I could think to do - smiled, waved, and pointed at the velociraptor on my shirt.  He smiled and waved back, before leaning over and whispering to his fellow worker.  I would assume his comment had something to do with how nice it was that this building was now offering independent housing to people with such severe disabilities.  

After I finished my sandwich and conversation, I changed back into something a little more professional.  I'd read somewhere that you should be dressed up even if your interviews were taking place over the phone, because it would make you act more professional.  I'd already witnessed how my Dino T had made me act, and I wasn't about to repeat that while trying to pitch my book.

But just as I picked up the phone to make my first business call, the drilling started up again.

I am now faced with the opposite of my former problem - instead of feeling the need to whisper on the phone, I feel the need to yell into the receiver.  I also feel the need to come up with an acceptable explanation to not only why it is in each publication's best interest to mention my book, but also to why I am trying to convince them of this from what must sound like either the heart of Ogilve Transportation Center, or the fuselage of a jumbo jet.

Anyone have a quiet apartment they want to let me use?