In my more mature Thinking Guidance System moments, I have admitted…even, gasp, … pointed out that our most frequent response to anxiety is criticism. 

Thus, if I were able to learn from such an obvious statement…you’d never hear about the naked lunch.  Because I’d be too cool to have been part of it…or at least I’d be cool enough to fake that I was too cool to have slid down the slope of maturity, totally in the grip of my Emotional Guidance System…but I’m not that good.

Oh forget it.  I’m not even cool enough to stick with a pre-emptive apology for my anxiety-run-amok naked lunch….If you feel saddened and ache for a psychogist who’s perfect…(not a psychologist, really)…Dr. L’s out there, more than ready to tell you how much better she would handle absolutely everything…perfectly…and, for sure, better than I did.

I sat down for the luncheon.  Just when I thought I could relax, unbutton that metal snap digging me a second naval…and enjoy sharing lunch with new buddies…the whole plan went dark.  Just when I thought I could relax, unbutton that metal snap digging me a second naval…and enjoy sharing lunch with new buddies…the whole plan went dark.

When I slipped into this fiction writing gig, I imagined one of the pluses would be that I’d have the opportunity to hang with other writers…that we’d wile away the hours sharing our foibles over endless margaritas…confessing the dark transgressions inspiring our stories.

I pictured something rich like Hemingway leaning against the bar in a Madrid alley tavern, one arm around Scott Fitzgerald while F. Scott cried and admitted his wife’s Zelda’s insanity, one arm around a whiskey bottle.  I thought it was a rule:  To be a writer, you must be riddled with flaws.

Apparently, my expectation was no more than wishful thinking…and, perhaps, my rationalizing that my many spectacular screw-ups bring something useful into my life.  Lunch went thusly.  I sat down with other writers at the sponsored conference lunch….I looked around…right away I knew the black cowboy hat was a mistake….but, heck, I know my sneaky, anxiety-fueled Emotional Guidance System usually convinces me that I have nothing in common with new people I meet…people I love once I’ve calmed down.  I settled in.

I ordered coffee.  The man across from me began a lecture on why he’d given up all caffeine.  The woman next to him suggested several herbal teas she enjoyed now that she had advanced from being a vegetarian to the more green-friendly lifestyle of a vegan.  The man next to me took out his bottle of water to replace his iced water goblet…

Cue up the background music now…the soundtrack from Jaws…growing louder and louder. Cue up the killer shark, circling.  I am but foolish tiny fish, so insignificant, I’m about to be sucked through the shark’s grinding digestive system without notice, spit out along with the plankton and algae.

I’ve had many people ask, “Don’t you think the best writers are depressed?”

Well, I’m not depressed that often, but I am the proud owner of many vices and disturbing failures acquired on this journey.  I guess my mistake was thinking that among other mystery and thriller writers there were others whose characters and stories began with scarred knees and best forgotten nights on the border, and not just the Texas-Mexico border…the borders of love, law, sanity, and overindulgence.  But, as usual, I gravely misread what I was up against.

Okay, back to the banquet luncheon.  (Jaws soundtrack…picture yours truly as Tweety Bird in a black cowboy hat.)  The subject of drugs and the border came up and, since border mayhem was a subject I knew something about, a readily jumped in.  I mentioned the hardship of my friends in Mexico losing businesses built over generations because of the hideous actions of the drug cartels. I described how the police at the Mexico City Benito Juarez Airport wear masks because if a man is identified as working for the authorities, he will return home to find his family…wife, grandma, the babies…everyone dead.

I expected a cool reception since most strangers to the border have strong feelings about Texans and Mexicans.  But, I was in no way prepared for what happened next…manana, promise.