So the New Year is approaching... I hate knowing that I should be writing my resolutions because I haven't yet, and I feel I've fallen behind by avoiding that whole mess. I know I am going to finish the book I'm currently writing and a new book. My plan is to submit to contests and agents like crazy. Agents only if I don't get a thumbs up from the one who has my ms. That whole topic brings me to the drama tugging at my psyche.
What if the agent sends the ms back and says it absolutely sucks? The possibility is oh-so-real. He could easily say my book was a disappointment, or didn't keep his interest, or had way too much foul language. As all writing/reading is a personal experience, any of those responses would be valid. I don't think the book is a disappointment. The ending is happy, and I get chills when I think of how my heroine's life works out. Maybe the language is strong. I don't usually swear. Cross my heart. You wouldn't know that from reading this blog, I know, but in the majority of my conversations, I really don't use any naughty language. Once the sun goes down and my kids are in bed, sometimes my language goes the way of the sailor. A sprinkling of the f-word. A damn here and again, but nothing major. But if my use of the no-no words turns him (the agent) off or seems gratuitous, he has the right to say no. I won't be angry, but I have to admit that I will be disappointed.
My DH says I'm pessimistic about my talents--that I don't see myself for who I really am. So maybe part of my resolution should be to try to see myself as others see me. I am a wife, a mother, a writer, a teacher and I will be successful. Whatever I put my mind to, I accomplish, so as far as publication goes, I know it's a matter of time. See, I'm not a pessimist. I also must lose the twenty pounds I found during 2006. The extra weight is making me crazy. Like the rest, it will happen. 2007 will be a year of good things. I feel it.
So what are your goals this year?
31 December 2006
28 December 2006
You know you're crazy when...
You know you're crazy when you think a holiday's passed because it happened in your manuscript ages ago. I was wracking my brain tonight, trying to remember when I'd spent New Year with neighbors. The memory is so strongly entrenched in my mind that I heard the conversations and even watched the ball drop on Dick Clark's New Year TV show. I saw the toasted old ladies and remembered sharing jokes and avoiding the toxic eggnog. Would that I could say I was asleep and dreaming, but alas, I haven't yet gone to bed.
What are your New Year plans? I will spend the day with my little people and the DH, eating black-eyed peas, cornbread and greens. Traditions die hard with me. It's so much easier to cling to habit than to re-invent holiday celebrations. I don't mind shaking up everyday life, but when it comes to the holidays, I like knowing I can count on the routine.
The new beginning rapidly approaches, and I have so much that needs to be settled. I don't like carrying old problems into a new year, so I will do my best to achieve resolution. Other than mundane trivialities, this has been an excellent year. I've done things I never thought I'd do, gone places and been allowed to grow in unexpected ways. My family is healthy. We eat everyday, have warm clothes to wear, a place to live, snow to shovel, and we have each other. My plan for the coming year is to enjoy more of the same--only better.
What are your New Year plans? I will spend the day with my little people and the DH, eating black-eyed peas, cornbread and greens. Traditions die hard with me. It's so much easier to cling to habit than to re-invent holiday celebrations. I don't mind shaking up everyday life, but when it comes to the holidays, I like knowing I can count on the routine.
The new beginning rapidly approaches, and I have so much that needs to be settled. I don't like carrying old problems into a new year, so I will do my best to achieve resolution. Other than mundane trivialities, this has been an excellent year. I've done things I never thought I'd do, gone places and been allowed to grow in unexpected ways. My family is healthy. We eat everyday, have warm clothes to wear, a place to live, snow to shovel, and we have each other. My plan for the coming year is to enjoy more of the same--only better.
24 December 2006
Champagne Tastes on a Beer Bottle Budget...
What do you give the person who has everything? You know, BO, butter-colored teeth and athlete's foot from hell. Apparently, the gift of the year in my neck of the woods is deodorant. DH went to the store where one can buy anything that strokes the imagination (within reason). Of course, since his tube of deodorant chose today of all days to run out, it was all the added incentive he needed to brave the mania. That and the fact he needed to correct his puff pastry error (a story for another day). He drove out to the store, fought for parking in the pre-Christmas swell and wrestled his way inside. He's sensitive to smells--particularly bad ones--so when he told me the entire experience stank, I knew he wasn't just talking about the last-minute rush. After hobbling through on his cane, he reached the personal hygiene aisle.
All the deodorant was gone.
So if you're one of those hard-to-buy-for folks and you haven't been able to guess what's lurking in those cleverly wrapped pressies under the tree; if you live where I do, deodorant dreams and showering wishes may just be coming your way.
As to the title--I've just always wanted to say that!
All the deodorant was gone.
So if you're one of those hard-to-buy-for folks and you haven't been able to guess what's lurking in those cleverly wrapped pressies under the tree; if you live where I do, deodorant dreams and showering wishes may just be coming your way.
As to the title--I've just always wanted to say that!
22 December 2006
Going batty...
Yesterday was my kids' last day of school until the new year. I was excited about them coming home and just spending time with them. After the flurry of baking, I was all too ready to settle down into abject laziness. That worked for a minute. I had tried to convince my dh to go to the grocery store for hours. He pretended not to hear me, then said if I'd let him off the hook for the rest of the night, that he would do all the necessary shopping tomorrow. I decided to do the shopping myself. I hate to go to the store, but I'm a fussy, demanding cook, so it seemed the wise course of action. Before I left, I asked him if he wanted me to throw the ham in the oven. He said he didn't want ham--he wanted to go out to eat. He offered the right bait--B&E's--normally, I wouldn't have resisted, but in light of the holidays, I stood firm. Yea me! But then I forgot about the ham.
Fast forward to the store. It was dead! I couldn't believe my luck--all the apples were on sale, along with most of my veggie favorites. I wanted parsnips, but they looked like they'd been hit by the truck rather than delivered by it, so they got a pass. I strolled the aisles with my cart, bopping to my mp-3's as opposed to the canned Christmas music that's piped through the stores during this season. There's just something comforting in dancing to Eminem while navigating grocery lane. At any rate, having gotten everything for the coming meal, I wandered to the freezer case for the puff pastry--a must have for Beef Wellingtons. They had none! Bliss turned to devastation! I scanned the end caps and looked in all the places it shouldn't have been to make sure the grocery gods weren't playing a trick on me. But alas, 'twas no joke. I took a brief moment to indulge in panic, then let it go and headed to the registers.
I called DH from my cell and got the death beep from my phone. When he picked up using his "silly voice" I told him my phone was dying and I needed info--quick! After watching Alton Brown's treatise on fruitcake, all my fond memories of the delectable delight from days in England sprang to mind. I NEEDED fruitcake. Good thing the cart was loaded with a selection of all my favorite dried fruits. But I digress. I asked him how much brandy we had in the house. He told me there was about an inch left in the bottle. Immediately, I started dreading a trip to yet another store. Did I mention I hate shopping? Anyway, I figured since it was inevitable, he could put the ham in and I could come home to it being half done. I got as far as, "put the ham in," before the connection cut. My phone had given up the ghost. Instead of going after the booze, I drove home to see what if anything they'd done in my absence.
My children spent the entire hour I was gone sorting the recycling bin and cleaning the garage. They were still at it when I pulled into the drive, so I unloaded all the groceries. DH was planted in his favorite chair playing video games while I made trip after trip to my car. Are you beginning to see how this story's about to turn? "What are you doing?" I asked on my third trip out.
"Playing my game," he replied. He looked up for a brief moment as I continued out the door. "Wow, looks like you bought a lot of groceries."
I said nothing and let my blood work itself into a frothy boil. One key detail I left out was that I was HUNGRY at this point. I hadn't eaten since morning, so my stomach was turning itself inside out. Add hunger to my already "interesting" personality and you get a volatile mix. I washed my hands and took out my butcher knife. I decided making a veggie tray would make me feel better, so I did. Along with dip and dressing. Then I noticed the air was devoid of the sweet/spicy aroma of ham. The oven wasn't on. And it was empty. Something told me that DH hadn't bothered to do a damn thing since our phone conversation.
I stomped back to the living room and told him he would have to come help in the kitchen. He looked over the edge of his laptop and told me he couldn't because he was in the middle of the game. I kept my mouth shut and returned to the kitchen and my ham. I got it in the oven, laid out my newly created veggie tray and sat the cream puffs out for pre-dinner enjoyment. Meanwhile, my kids searched the game closet for Uno. I declared family game night to celebrate us being together. They used their time to destroy the work I'd done a month ago. The last thread of my patience frayed and snapped. The house fell under martial law, and even DH plucked himself from the recliner to avoid my wrath.
After my explosion and a meal, we regaled the children with stories from their infancy. We laughed and then played the PlayStation version of The Weakest Link. It was a great night and I look forward to many more while the little people are at home.
Fast forward to the store. It was dead! I couldn't believe my luck--all the apples were on sale, along with most of my veggie favorites. I wanted parsnips, but they looked like they'd been hit by the truck rather than delivered by it, so they got a pass. I strolled the aisles with my cart, bopping to my mp-3's as opposed to the canned Christmas music that's piped through the stores during this season. There's just something comforting in dancing to Eminem while navigating grocery lane. At any rate, having gotten everything for the coming meal, I wandered to the freezer case for the puff pastry--a must have for Beef Wellingtons. They had none! Bliss turned to devastation! I scanned the end caps and looked in all the places it shouldn't have been to make sure the grocery gods weren't playing a trick on me. But alas, 'twas no joke. I took a brief moment to indulge in panic, then let it go and headed to the registers.
I called DH from my cell and got the death beep from my phone. When he picked up using his "silly voice" I told him my phone was dying and I needed info--quick! After watching Alton Brown's treatise on fruitcake, all my fond memories of the delectable delight from days in England sprang to mind. I NEEDED fruitcake. Good thing the cart was loaded with a selection of all my favorite dried fruits. But I digress. I asked him how much brandy we had in the house. He told me there was about an inch left in the bottle. Immediately, I started dreading a trip to yet another store. Did I mention I hate shopping? Anyway, I figured since it was inevitable, he could put the ham in and I could come home to it being half done. I got as far as, "put the ham in," before the connection cut. My phone had given up the ghost. Instead of going after the booze, I drove home to see what if anything they'd done in my absence.
My children spent the entire hour I was gone sorting the recycling bin and cleaning the garage. They were still at it when I pulled into the drive, so I unloaded all the groceries. DH was planted in his favorite chair playing video games while I made trip after trip to my car. Are you beginning to see how this story's about to turn? "What are you doing?" I asked on my third trip out.
"Playing my game," he replied. He looked up for a brief moment as I continued out the door. "Wow, looks like you bought a lot of groceries."
I said nothing and let my blood work itself into a frothy boil. One key detail I left out was that I was HUNGRY at this point. I hadn't eaten since morning, so my stomach was turning itself inside out. Add hunger to my already "interesting" personality and you get a volatile mix. I washed my hands and took out my butcher knife. I decided making a veggie tray would make me feel better, so I did. Along with dip and dressing. Then I noticed the air was devoid of the sweet/spicy aroma of ham. The oven wasn't on. And it was empty. Something told me that DH hadn't bothered to do a damn thing since our phone conversation.
I stomped back to the living room and told him he would have to come help in the kitchen. He looked over the edge of his laptop and told me he couldn't because he was in the middle of the game. I kept my mouth shut and returned to the kitchen and my ham. I got it in the oven, laid out my newly created veggie tray and sat the cream puffs out for pre-dinner enjoyment. Meanwhile, my kids searched the game closet for Uno. I declared family game night to celebrate us being together. They used their time to destroy the work I'd done a month ago. The last thread of my patience frayed and snapped. The house fell under martial law, and even DH plucked himself from the recliner to avoid my wrath.
After my explosion and a meal, we regaled the children with stories from their infancy. We laughed and then played the PlayStation version of The Weakest Link. It was a great night and I look forward to many more while the little people are at home.
20 December 2006
I'm Tired...
Exhausted, more like. Today, I made all my candies and turkey soup. Obviously, the turkey strike didn't last too long. It's a good, honest fatigue. I was in the kitchen most of the day, only taking a break to read through my notes on the writing contest I'm helping to judge. I only have four entries to read, but I wanted to do a preliminary read to gather first impressions. So far, I've made it through two of them. Other than small issues--commas, small plot holes and sentence structures--the writing is pretty good. I've wanted to turn the page and learn more about the characters. That being said, I am the type of reader who hates to leave a story unfinished. For a Gemini, I have a weird need for closure. Most people who share my star sign tend to flit from one project to another and have difficulty finishing things. That is not my burden. Part of me thinks I would want to know the rest of these stories just because I'm wired the way I am.
Judging is a unique experience because theoretically, the judge is supposed to be impartial. In this case, that means that whether or not the story is their kind of story, the judge is supposed to evaluate the writing based on how well the writer tells the story. I guess both the writer and I should count ourselves lucky that there isn't a type of book that I won't read. My hope is that when someone reads my work, they will be as impartial as humanly possible and evaluate my writing based on the story. When I submitted my entry fee, I thought the contest date would never come. Then I sent in my entry, and again, it felt like I'd entered some sort of cruel time warp. As of next Friday, the judging officially begins. Now, I have to cross my fingers, toes and eyes and pray that whoever reads my work will see some merit. Like every other contest entrant, I want to win. Which brings me back to the Golden Rule--do unto others as you would have them do unto you. So will I read with a critical eye? Absolutely, but in the back of my mind, the hopes and dreams of the writers who were brave enough to submit will rattle in the few empty spaces left in my brain.
So while I'm not creating confections, doing karate and cleaning, I'm reading. I'll be starting a new book tonight based on a friend's recommendation. It's a set of three short stories by three different authors. My friend enjoyed the work of the first two authors, but hasn't been able to get through the third. Being a nosy writer, I had to ask why. I expected a trite answer--not because she isn't a "real" reader (whatever that means)--but because a lot of people will tell you they don't like something and are unable to qualify their response. This was certainly not the case. My friend was deeply offended by the perspective painted by the author about people from the Deep South. Seeing as she's from the great state of Texas, I could see where she could have been offended. The fact that the author is from the South didn't matter to her. The initial description of the heroine's interpretation of Southerners turned her off.
But there was more. She would have been willing to forgive the jaded view if only she'd liked the heroine. To prove her point, she read the beginning of the story to me over the phone. As open-minded as I try to be about new-to-me authors or books, I have to admit the opening left me with a lot of doubts. The writing was intelligent and well done from a technical standpoint, but the heroine had a larger than life background for her age. Until I read the book for myself, I'll have to suspend formulating too strong an opinion. Of course, that means I'll have to read it tonight.
Off I go to do what must be done. Four days until Christmas from where I sit. It's all becoming very real! Am I the only person left who hasn't done all their shopping? Here's to candy cane wishes and eggnog dreams...
Judging is a unique experience because theoretically, the judge is supposed to be impartial. In this case, that means that whether or not the story is their kind of story, the judge is supposed to evaluate the writing based on how well the writer tells the story. I guess both the writer and I should count ourselves lucky that there isn't a type of book that I won't read. My hope is that when someone reads my work, they will be as impartial as humanly possible and evaluate my writing based on the story. When I submitted my entry fee, I thought the contest date would never come. Then I sent in my entry, and again, it felt like I'd entered some sort of cruel time warp. As of next Friday, the judging officially begins. Now, I have to cross my fingers, toes and eyes and pray that whoever reads my work will see some merit. Like every other contest entrant, I want to win. Which brings me back to the Golden Rule--do unto others as you would have them do unto you. So will I read with a critical eye? Absolutely, but in the back of my mind, the hopes and dreams of the writers who were brave enough to submit will rattle in the few empty spaces left in my brain.
So while I'm not creating confections, doing karate and cleaning, I'm reading. I'll be starting a new book tonight based on a friend's recommendation. It's a set of three short stories by three different authors. My friend enjoyed the work of the first two authors, but hasn't been able to get through the third. Being a nosy writer, I had to ask why. I expected a trite answer--not because she isn't a "real" reader (whatever that means)--but because a lot of people will tell you they don't like something and are unable to qualify their response. This was certainly not the case. My friend was deeply offended by the perspective painted by the author about people from the Deep South. Seeing as she's from the great state of Texas, I could see where she could have been offended. The fact that the author is from the South didn't matter to her. The initial description of the heroine's interpretation of Southerners turned her off.
But there was more. She would have been willing to forgive the jaded view if only she'd liked the heroine. To prove her point, she read the beginning of the story to me over the phone. As open-minded as I try to be about new-to-me authors or books, I have to admit the opening left me with a lot of doubts. The writing was intelligent and well done from a technical standpoint, but the heroine had a larger than life background for her age. Until I read the book for myself, I'll have to suspend formulating too strong an opinion. Of course, that means I'll have to read it tonight.
Off I go to do what must be done. Four days until Christmas from where I sit. It's all becoming very real! Am I the only person left who hasn't done all their shopping? Here's to candy cane wishes and eggnog dreams...
19 December 2006
Of Maps and Men...
The dinner out on Sunday turned out nicer than I thought it would. Other than getting lost, of course. Neither my husband nor I had been to this place, so both of us looked at maps on our individual laptops. Each of us had a different map returned on our query, though we used the same software. Neither of us bothered to print the map--secure that we'd find the place. Ri-i-ght.
We began the evening a bit behind because son one of three had an afternoon birthday party. By the time I returned with all of the little people, it was 3:30 pm and none of us had eaten lunch. So I rushed in the door, made sandwiches and got everyone settled. I sat in my rocking chair, blissfully ignoring the clock until reality smacked me upside the head. The party was at 5, it was now 4:30, and while I wasn't looking rough, I wasn't nearly ready either. My husband insisted that I didn't need to dress up because it was just a podunk restaurant in a podunk town. Never trust a man when he's giving fashion advice--unless of course, he knows what he's talking about. My husband's idea of dressing for the evening consisted of slapping a shirt over the dragon t-shirt he'd worn all day. Since his jeans didn't have too many dirt smudges, they were cleared for the party (again him, not me). I asked him if he was serious--especially since I made the kids don their church clothes--to which he replied, staring at a closet rail FULL of clothes, I have nothing to wear.
I didn't have energy to argue with him and hem my skirt and iron my clothes. I know I should have had my things prepared ahead of time. I usually do, and I abhor being late to anything. But at the same time, I was under the impression that this was like every other casual get-together his office has. Boy was I wrong! We got there and the boss' wife looked downright frazzled. I asked her if she was okay, and she explained what transpired at the restaurant while we were making our way. To sum it all up, the restaurant staff wouldn't seat our group until more people showed up. We weren't the only late ones, but until the staff determined a majority of our party had arrived, they made them wait in the lobby. At this point, I'd be remiss if I failed to mention that the boss' wife is VERY pregnant and has 2 little ones to chase after. Having lived that side of life, I felt horrible for being late.
We ate, and the time came for an ornament exchange. I'd bought a simple angel. It was beautiful to me. Other people went all out in their quest for the perfect ornament. Mine was so simple that it looked almost grim in comparison to the others. So on top of feeling horrible for a tardy appearance, I felt stupid for not giving the "right" ornament. Could it get any worse? Oh yeah. People started pulling out gifts for everybody. Do you think I had anything to give? No. So today, on top of writing and karate, I'll be making candies for the darling husband to distribute amongst his colleagues. Good thing I opted out of making 4 cheesecakes...
We began the evening a bit behind because son one of three had an afternoon birthday party. By the time I returned with all of the little people, it was 3:30 pm and none of us had eaten lunch. So I rushed in the door, made sandwiches and got everyone settled. I sat in my rocking chair, blissfully ignoring the clock until reality smacked me upside the head. The party was at 5, it was now 4:30, and while I wasn't looking rough, I wasn't nearly ready either. My husband insisted that I didn't need to dress up because it was just a podunk restaurant in a podunk town. Never trust a man when he's giving fashion advice--unless of course, he knows what he's talking about. My husband's idea of dressing for the evening consisted of slapping a shirt over the dragon t-shirt he'd worn all day. Since his jeans didn't have too many dirt smudges, they were cleared for the party (again him, not me). I asked him if he was serious--especially since I made the kids don their church clothes--to which he replied, staring at a closet rail FULL of clothes, I have nothing to wear.
I didn't have energy to argue with him and hem my skirt and iron my clothes. I know I should have had my things prepared ahead of time. I usually do, and I abhor being late to anything. But at the same time, I was under the impression that this was like every other casual get-together his office has. Boy was I wrong! We got there and the boss' wife looked downright frazzled. I asked her if she was okay, and she explained what transpired at the restaurant while we were making our way. To sum it all up, the restaurant staff wouldn't seat our group until more people showed up. We weren't the only late ones, but until the staff determined a majority of our party had arrived, they made them wait in the lobby. At this point, I'd be remiss if I failed to mention that the boss' wife is VERY pregnant and has 2 little ones to chase after. Having lived that side of life, I felt horrible for being late.
We ate, and the time came for an ornament exchange. I'd bought a simple angel. It was beautiful to me. Other people went all out in their quest for the perfect ornament. Mine was so simple that it looked almost grim in comparison to the others. So on top of feeling horrible for a tardy appearance, I felt stupid for not giving the "right" ornament. Could it get any worse? Oh yeah. People started pulling out gifts for everybody. Do you think I had anything to give? No. So today, on top of writing and karate, I'll be making candies for the darling husband to distribute amongst his colleagues. Good thing I opted out of making 4 cheesecakes...
16 December 2006
Holiday musicals...
Today, one and two of three had school performances. The school issued notes to encourage (coerce) parents to attend. I try not to miss anything my kids do, so of course I was there. Early, so I could get parking. The school was built in a time when I guess maybe they didn't expect much by way of parental participation, but after last year's experience I made sure I wasn't going to have to park in the North Forty and schlep my way through rocks, snow and whatever else. Mind you, there was nothing I could do about the 50 knot winds that ripped across the flooded parking lot. I still don't know what that was about, but I digress.
The kiddies improved this year. The band and orchestra played songs I recognized and the fourth graders rocked their little hearts out. Yep, I was one of those dopey moms wearing a grin from ear to ear while the little people did their thing. What got me though, was that these kids actually sang/played Christmas songs. I grew up in a time when Christmas songs began to morph into holiday songs in order to acknowledge the large segment of our society comprised of different faiths and traditions. Maybe it has a bit to do with where I grew up as well. My current home is in the center of traditionalist 1950's values--where beef really is what's for dinner, and God help you if you expect to have anything other than a potato alongside.
Why I'm realizing all this now, I don't know. But what a wake up call, and all because I went to my kids' performance. Monday is kiddie show, part deux, which I'm sure will be equally interesting as it will be done by the ultra little people. But first, I'll have to survive the weekend. My darling husband's office Christmas party is Sunday--at a steakhouse. After some of the downright revolting steaks I've had here, I'm beyond nervous. We're doing an ornament exchange as well. The wicked part of me wanted to bring an obscene ornament. I'm mean it's all anonymous after all. DH vetoed that one pretty quick, so I'll have to buy something respectable. Shucks...
The kiddies improved this year. The band and orchestra played songs I recognized and the fourth graders rocked their little hearts out. Yep, I was one of those dopey moms wearing a grin from ear to ear while the little people did their thing. What got me though, was that these kids actually sang/played Christmas songs. I grew up in a time when Christmas songs began to morph into holiday songs in order to acknowledge the large segment of our society comprised of different faiths and traditions. Maybe it has a bit to do with where I grew up as well. My current home is in the center of traditionalist 1950's values--where beef really is what's for dinner, and God help you if you expect to have anything other than a potato alongside.
Why I'm realizing all this now, I don't know. But what a wake up call, and all because I went to my kids' performance. Monday is kiddie show, part deux, which I'm sure will be equally interesting as it will be done by the ultra little people. But first, I'll have to survive the weekend. My darling husband's office Christmas party is Sunday--at a steakhouse. After some of the downright revolting steaks I've had here, I'm beyond nervous. We're doing an ornament exchange as well. The wicked part of me wanted to bring an obscene ornament. I'm mean it's all anonymous after all. DH vetoed that one pretty quick, so I'll have to buy something respectable. Shucks...
13 December 2006
Just another normal day
For most of us, the holidays are a time of celebration and joy. There are presents and fun time with family, good food and the holiday specials we wait a whole year to watch. Charlie Brown Christmas, Rugrats Hanukkah, and of course, for us rabblerousers, Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer. Those of us who get to enjoy this sort of Norman Rockwell scene often spend time bitching about the lead up of the get-together. Who's doing what? What am I going to buy? Will Mom make her famous sweet potato pie? Do I have to spend time with so and so again? The list of gripes goes from not-so-bad to downright ugly as the holidays draw nearer. But when we get together, something magical happens--even if we do have to endure Aunt Bertha's diatribe on her irritable bowel. We drop the shit and enjoy each other. Because even though we possess the capacity to pule incessantly about our loved ones and will on occasion, malign them, a small part of us recognizes that tomorrow isn't guaranteed. We may not get to bitch about the feeble jello salad that Grandma always makes because she may not be with us next year. No matter how hard we try to be stupid, part of us never fails to admit to human frailty, whether we'll admit it aloud or not.
Today, I was fortunate to work. I say fortunate because I know there are still people out there desperate for a fulfilling job. I spent my day with a bunch of elementary students who've suffered more hurt than I ever did at their age, and probably ever will in my lifetime. These were the underprivileged kids. The ones who will get nothing for Christmas, who never had or will have a birthday party. These are the kids who go to school because it is the safest place in the world for them to be. They weep when school is out because in one fell swoop, they lose contact with their friends and people who genuinely care about them. They go from having a warm place to spend a couple hours to not knowing if they will eat from one day to the next.
It's not like my old school--where there were one or two lower income families. It is the ENTIRE school. For the majority of the year, these kids don't know the difference between their status and anyone else's because they are all on a level playing field. But when gift-centric holidays roll around, their world collides with ours. Blame this on the commercialization of the holidays, if you like. Ad campaigns step up with the sole purpose of making us think we need things we don't even want. All of a sudden, credit limits are raised, encouraging us to spend, spend, spend. Meanwhile, the stores scream buy, buy, buy. It's a fucking nightmare.
Today, the world looks normal for most of us. Depending on where we are, we may be facing a mound of snow to shovel or a healing dip in the ocean, or maybe just a nice steady rain. For some of the kids I met today, I have to wonder when the world will ever look normal again. How do you recover when a parent decides life is so not worth it that they attempt a terrible suicide? When you watch that person function because life support wills it so? When life support is cut off? How do you recover when you see one parent kill the other? When your hallway is stained with Mommy's or Daddy's blood? How the hell is life supposed to look normal to you? How do these kids survive? I'm barely able to move, and all I had to do was hear about it. My life will continue--karate, writing, talking with friends. Normal. Makes you think, doesn't it? As sure as I am typing away at this blog, I know that some of these children will survive and become amazing people because they've learned what real adversity is. Sadly, some will not. They will repeat the mistakes of their parents. Heartache will spill into heartache, and twenty years from now, another substitute teacher will lament their loss.
Today, I was fortunate to work. I say fortunate because I know there are still people out there desperate for a fulfilling job. I spent my day with a bunch of elementary students who've suffered more hurt than I ever did at their age, and probably ever will in my lifetime. These were the underprivileged kids. The ones who will get nothing for Christmas, who never had or will have a birthday party. These are the kids who go to school because it is the safest place in the world for them to be. They weep when school is out because in one fell swoop, they lose contact with their friends and people who genuinely care about them. They go from having a warm place to spend a couple hours to not knowing if they will eat from one day to the next.
It's not like my old school--where there were one or two lower income families. It is the ENTIRE school. For the majority of the year, these kids don't know the difference between their status and anyone else's because they are all on a level playing field. But when gift-centric holidays roll around, their world collides with ours. Blame this on the commercialization of the holidays, if you like. Ad campaigns step up with the sole purpose of making us think we need things we don't even want. All of a sudden, credit limits are raised, encouraging us to spend, spend, spend. Meanwhile, the stores scream buy, buy, buy. It's a fucking nightmare.
Today, the world looks normal for most of us. Depending on where we are, we may be facing a mound of snow to shovel or a healing dip in the ocean, or maybe just a nice steady rain. For some of the kids I met today, I have to wonder when the world will ever look normal again. How do you recover when a parent decides life is so not worth it that they attempt a terrible suicide? When you watch that person function because life support wills it so? When life support is cut off? How do you recover when you see one parent kill the other? When your hallway is stained with Mommy's or Daddy's blood? How the hell is life supposed to look normal to you? How do these kids survive? I'm barely able to move, and all I had to do was hear about it. My life will continue--karate, writing, talking with friends. Normal. Makes you think, doesn't it? As sure as I am typing away at this blog, I know that some of these children will survive and become amazing people because they've learned what real adversity is. Sadly, some will not. They will repeat the mistakes of their parents. Heartache will spill into heartache, and twenty years from now, another substitute teacher will lament their loss.
12 December 2006
Rainbows and butterflies...
Today was a pretty good day. I'm tired, though not sure why, but it was a dog-gone good day. What made it so good? Let's start with first things first. I woke up! I had clothes to wear and food to eat and a warm home to ramble through at my leisure. I made a lot of progress on my writing commitments, half my Christmas cards are written and addressed and I scrubbed my stove! I feel alive today. I got another rejection letter, but such is the writer's life.
One of my neighbors came over this afternoon. I have to admit, I was looking house appendage chic--gray t-shirt and matching shorts, uncombed hair and a giant smile. He brought his son over to see if my youngest could come play. Because I live in close proximity to my neighbors, I tend to worry when someone comes to my door. Were the kids too loud? Did they throw a ball in someone else's yard? So to hear him rave about my son--especially this one, who is most like me--cantankerous, mischievous--really brightened my day.
Unfortunately for my little boy, I had to decline the invite because I don't allow play dates in the middle of the school week, but I promised that the weekends are fair game. Maybe I'm stupid for reveling in such a minor exchange, but for some unexplainable reason, my spirits lifted. I took a shower, did my hair and makeup and braved the grocery store. I am not the typical female from what I hear--can't stand shopping. If you want to see me have a breakdown, just take me to a mall and force me to meander from one store to another. God, I can feel the palpitations coming on! Even the store didn't daunt me today. My youngest and I did our customary laps through the aisles and then came back home. I ran into people I know from karate and was the engaging person I used to be. Granted, I didn't get totally perky and wear pink or anything--dressed in black from head to toe--but I smiled a bright, red lipsticked smile and looked like the type of person that people want to be around.
Yesterday was karate, which is always a ball of entertainment--at least when the adult class gets together. Somehow, the conversation always ends up in the realm of sex. I'd be lying if I said I didn't know how these things start--it's me, but we'll just pretend I didn't say that. Anyway, it all boiled down to jello wrestling, the rabbit and girls gone wild. What in all that's holy does this have to do with karate? Not a damn thing, but it was entertaining. Karate is about strengthening mind and body, but for me, it also encompasses the relationships developed between the wonderful folks I train with. I really can't imagine not spending time with these people on a weekly basis. Invariably, I will laugh, learn and be dead tired from all the drama afterward. Jeez, I don't know what I'm going to do when the night extends into include my classes! One day at a time...
By the way, if you were wondering why rainbows and butterflies, there's no reason. They just remind me of happy thoughts. Keep on truckin'
One of my neighbors came over this afternoon. I have to admit, I was looking house appendage chic--gray t-shirt and matching shorts, uncombed hair and a giant smile. He brought his son over to see if my youngest could come play. Because I live in close proximity to my neighbors, I tend to worry when someone comes to my door. Were the kids too loud? Did they throw a ball in someone else's yard? So to hear him rave about my son--especially this one, who is most like me--cantankerous, mischievous--really brightened my day.
Unfortunately for my little boy, I had to decline the invite because I don't allow play dates in the middle of the school week, but I promised that the weekends are fair game. Maybe I'm stupid for reveling in such a minor exchange, but for some unexplainable reason, my spirits lifted. I took a shower, did my hair and makeup and braved the grocery store. I am not the typical female from what I hear--can't stand shopping. If you want to see me have a breakdown, just take me to a mall and force me to meander from one store to another. God, I can feel the palpitations coming on! Even the store didn't daunt me today. My youngest and I did our customary laps through the aisles and then came back home. I ran into people I know from karate and was the engaging person I used to be. Granted, I didn't get totally perky and wear pink or anything--dressed in black from head to toe--but I smiled a bright, red lipsticked smile and looked like the type of person that people want to be around.
Yesterday was karate, which is always a ball of entertainment--at least when the adult class gets together. Somehow, the conversation always ends up in the realm of sex. I'd be lying if I said I didn't know how these things start--it's me, but we'll just pretend I didn't say that. Anyway, it all boiled down to jello wrestling, the rabbit and girls gone wild. What in all that's holy does this have to do with karate? Not a damn thing, but it was entertaining. Karate is about strengthening mind and body, but for me, it also encompasses the relationships developed between the wonderful folks I train with. I really can't imagine not spending time with these people on a weekly basis. Invariably, I will laugh, learn and be dead tired from all the drama afterward. Jeez, I don't know what I'm going to do when the night extends into include my classes! One day at a time...
By the way, if you were wondering why rainbows and butterflies, there's no reason. They just remind me of happy thoughts. Keep on truckin'
10 December 2006
Long time, no hear...
Okay, so it's been a while since I've blogged. I've started a bunch of them and deleted them in the midst of the writing. Today, my goal is to start and finish a blog. People keep asking how the writing's going and it has been great--when it actually happens, that is. I've written a few pages here and there, but I've gotten caught up in Charmed and Love Actually and BBC shows. My focus has temporarily shifted. I've also been doing lots of reading. All of this is good and I feel renewed, but at the same time, I have this prickling guilt at the back of my mind. Christmas cards sit unwritten, I'm about a chapter behind on the writing. I need to work this week, which means once again, the writing will take a backseat.
Maybe part of the problem is that I've finally reached the detached scene I wrote a while ago. When I wrote that, I didn't believe I'd actually get there. Now, I'm here and I don't know where to go and how to maintain the momentum. The crazy bit is that I am still excited about the story. I expected to lose the fervor when I can't hear the story anymore. Remember when I was bitching about the characters whispering? They're still at it, but they are doing it so loud that all their stories are getting jumbled. Truth is, I'm afraid of where they're taking me. They are fiction! And they're confusing my life!
It's not just the writing that's skewed right now. My home life feels as though it's been turned upside down. I cooked another great dinner. We rearranged the house and the kids decorated for the holidays. Doubts about all my pursuits are swirling through my mind, which is making me CRAZY! More rejection letters poured in over the weekend and I don't know if I've processed that whole deal yet. I'm a control freak, and it just feels like everything I touch spins wildly OUT of control. But not in a bad way--just in an every day's-an-adventure sort of way. Could be so much worse.
Wish I had something at least half interesting to offer up, but I am Elayne, the everlasting dullard today. Back to the books, movies, etc. Here's to a happy fruitful week for all of you!
Maybe part of the problem is that I've finally reached the detached scene I wrote a while ago. When I wrote that, I didn't believe I'd actually get there. Now, I'm here and I don't know where to go and how to maintain the momentum. The crazy bit is that I am still excited about the story. I expected to lose the fervor when I can't hear the story anymore. Remember when I was bitching about the characters whispering? They're still at it, but they are doing it so loud that all their stories are getting jumbled. Truth is, I'm afraid of where they're taking me. They are fiction! And they're confusing my life!
It's not just the writing that's skewed right now. My home life feels as though it's been turned upside down. I cooked another great dinner. We rearranged the house and the kids decorated for the holidays. Doubts about all my pursuits are swirling through my mind, which is making me CRAZY! More rejection letters poured in over the weekend and I don't know if I've processed that whole deal yet. I'm a control freak, and it just feels like everything I touch spins wildly OUT of control. But not in a bad way--just in an every day's-an-adventure sort of way. Could be so much worse.
Wish I had something at least half interesting to offer up, but I am Elayne, the everlasting dullard today. Back to the books, movies, etc. Here's to a happy fruitful week for all of you!
27 November 2006
What not to do...
I sent off my manuscript Friday, and realized today after reviewing it that there were a couple of typos. How many times have I read the story and not seen them? Argh! And the stupidity of it all is that the nasty sinking feeling I got in the pit of my stomach upon discovery could have been completely avoided had I done the one thing every savvy college student knows not to do. I shouldn't have read it after sending it off. How in the world does this relate to college? No fear, I'll tell you.
Let's say you're handing in a 10 page case study. The teacher is a hard-nose, so nothing short of perfection will garner an A. You've proofed it, read it aloud, even got your cat's approval. So what do you do? Print it, of course! There it is on pristine 22lb paper--GORGEOUS. You slip it into a report cover and go to bed for the three hours you have left before class. We won't talk about why you only have 3 hours before class--you're in college for God's sake! You dash out the door, showered and heavily made up so no one can discern the heavy, black fatigue rings under your eyes for all the eyeliner. Scrambling onto the bus, planting your butt in the last remaining seat, you breathe a sigh of relief.
Finding yourself with nothing to do--besides wondering when your seatmate last bathed--you pull out your shining report. The heavens sing as you free it from your bag and flip past the title page. From 1 to 5, everything looks great. And then it happens. You spot the HUGE mistake on the top of 6. Instead of staff, you've got stiff, and the context just ain't right for a business paper, if you know what I mean. Up 'til that second, you were secure in the knowledge that the coveted A was all yours. And now all you've got to offer is the stiff in your slick sheath. In the space of a breath, you catapulted from the pearly gates to the seventh circle of hell. So what do we learn from this boys and girls? Two things: when you think it's perfect, proof it again, and more importantly--DON'T LOOK!
The good news for me is that I found and corrected my error. Too late for this agent, maybe, but not too late for the next. I've finally gotten too old or too crazy to make myself completely sick over things out of my control (at least for today). And what the hell, I got a good story out of it. Plus, who wouldn't want to reminisce over the good old days?
Let's say you're handing in a 10 page case study. The teacher is a hard-nose, so nothing short of perfection will garner an A. You've proofed it, read it aloud, even got your cat's approval. So what do you do? Print it, of course! There it is on pristine 22lb paper--GORGEOUS. You slip it into a report cover and go to bed for the three hours you have left before class. We won't talk about why you only have 3 hours before class--you're in college for God's sake! You dash out the door, showered and heavily made up so no one can discern the heavy, black fatigue rings under your eyes for all the eyeliner. Scrambling onto the bus, planting your butt in the last remaining seat, you breathe a sigh of relief.
Finding yourself with nothing to do--besides wondering when your seatmate last bathed--you pull out your shining report. The heavens sing as you free it from your bag and flip past the title page. From 1 to 5, everything looks great. And then it happens. You spot the HUGE mistake on the top of 6. Instead of staff, you've got stiff, and the context just ain't right for a business paper, if you know what I mean. Up 'til that second, you were secure in the knowledge that the coveted A was all yours. And now all you've got to offer is the stiff in your slick sheath. In the space of a breath, you catapulted from the pearly gates to the seventh circle of hell. So what do we learn from this boys and girls? Two things: when you think it's perfect, proof it again, and more importantly--DON'T LOOK!
The good news for me is that I found and corrected my error. Too late for this agent, maybe, but not too late for the next. I've finally gotten too old or too crazy to make myself completely sick over things out of my control (at least for today). And what the hell, I got a good story out of it. Plus, who wouldn't want to reminisce over the good old days?
25 November 2006
Naughty, naughty...
I haven't been here in a while. Not that I haven't wanted to be, but I couldn't muster the strength to blog, cook and write. Since I was reading another Lynsay Sands book on top of my regular stuff, something had to give. Ideally, I'd have something pithy and imaginative to say--especially after a four day hiatus, but alas, I have nothing. Like a number of Americans, I'll spend the coming days eating turkey leftovers. Admittedly, my preference leans to the pies. They are a naughty indulgence I enjoy only a few times a year. Regardless of how I try to moderate the pie eating, the buttery crust seems bent on attaching itself to my thighs. What kind of craziness is that? Maybe I'll eat it standing up next time so the calories won't count.
The good news is the writing has been going well. I set a little goal for myself--really wanting to reach it, but at the same time, not trusting myself to do so. Not only did I meet my goal, but I surpassed it. That reminds me of a conversation I had with a student this week. I gave the class my list of expectations--in my mind, something small and attainable--respect for the classmates and that each person would do their best. One of the kids piped up and said I was going to be disappointed because my ambition was too high. I told him I would not be disappointed because I knew each of them had the power to rise to the challenge. I wasn't disappointed.
When I accepted the job, the clerk advised me that I'd be working with special needs students. My approach may be a bit Pollyanna, but I figured they were kids like all the others I'd encounter. At the school, when other faculty learned whose class I was subbing for, their eyes grew wide and they didn't bother to hide the pity that shrouded their faces. I was too dazed to think anything of their responses 'til I'd gotten more sleep. Of all the students I've subbed with recently, those were the best behaved and possessed the best attitudes. You go into a classroom to teach, but if your heart and head are in the right place, YOU will be the one to learn. That adage--people will rise or fall to meet your expectations is so true, and I can't think of a more poignant way to have experienced it.
To all who find themselves passing through the random mumblings sponsored by the scattered fragments of my mind, happy holidays. May you find joy peace and happiness as you embrace the coming new year.
The good news is the writing has been going well. I set a little goal for myself--really wanting to reach it, but at the same time, not trusting myself to do so. Not only did I meet my goal, but I surpassed it. That reminds me of a conversation I had with a student this week. I gave the class my list of expectations--in my mind, something small and attainable--respect for the classmates and that each person would do their best. One of the kids piped up and said I was going to be disappointed because my ambition was too high. I told him I would not be disappointed because I knew each of them had the power to rise to the challenge. I wasn't disappointed.
When I accepted the job, the clerk advised me that I'd be working with special needs students. My approach may be a bit Pollyanna, but I figured they were kids like all the others I'd encounter. At the school, when other faculty learned whose class I was subbing for, their eyes grew wide and they didn't bother to hide the pity that shrouded their faces. I was too dazed to think anything of their responses 'til I'd gotten more sleep. Of all the students I've subbed with recently, those were the best behaved and possessed the best attitudes. You go into a classroom to teach, but if your heart and head are in the right place, YOU will be the one to learn. That adage--people will rise or fall to meet your expectations is so true, and I can't think of a more poignant way to have experienced it.
To all who find themselves passing through the random mumblings sponsored by the scattered fragments of my mind, happy holidays. May you find joy peace and happiness as you embrace the coming new year.
20 November 2006
Happiness is...
Today was as normal as any. Short of a thirty minute nap, I didn't sleep. Just as I was going to bed at 8:30 this morning, I got a call from the school district. They needed a sub, and since I was awake it made perfect sense for me to say yes. The day couldn't have been better. Children are wonderful because they are honest about their feelings. They are much more real than we are as adults. And I think it's a crying shame that as we grow older, we learn to hide the best parts of ourselves.
After going through an exhausting, but fabulous day, I didn't think things could get much better. As I rifled through my mail, though, I found that more pleasant surprises awaited. A letter from the agent arrived with a request for my entire manuscript. I am still reeling from the news. My next objective will be to print it, complete with revisions, and send it off to him in hopes he will like it. Now, because I have had all of 30 minutes sleep in about 34 hours, I am going to bed. Sweet dreams and pleasant rest until tomorrow.
After going through an exhausting, but fabulous day, I didn't think things could get much better. As I rifled through my mail, though, I found that more pleasant surprises awaited. A letter from the agent arrived with a request for my entire manuscript. I am still reeling from the news. My next objective will be to print it, complete with revisions, and send it off to him in hopes he will like it. Now, because I have had all of 30 minutes sleep in about 34 hours, I am going to bed. Sweet dreams and pleasant rest until tomorrow.
18 November 2006
Behind the mask....
So here I am again, not feeling so funky but still only part of myself. The good thing is that I'm back in my space. In my happy world and I feel safe and happy. I'm also a bit more rested and have eaten, so I'm more sane. At least more so than yesterday. The highpoint of my day was lighting a fire in my little fire pit. I will admit that it took a while to get the fire started, and I was frustrated. Fires don't start easily--you have to nurture the flame and coax it to life. They don't tell you that when they ship the box of firewood to your house.
I have a stack of cherry and apple wood in my backyard. When it's lit, the smell is intoxicating. The fact that it took me forever to light the fire is a moot point. I love fire. The way it glows, the way each blue-orange flame licks against wood. It's beautiful. I watched the flames dance for a while, drinking wine and enjoying the bitter cold of a winter night. Night is absolutely still. I couldn't see the moon, don't even know if there was one tonight. The starlight was fascinating, though. All the constellations are shining. Orion, my favorite, was a bit east of my house. I love Orion because it is multi-faceted--the belt, the entire layout is just amazing to me because none of the stars are fighting for a place. Each is content to fulfill their given role.
Today, the book is working a lot better. I removed some of the heartache--for now. I'm one of those evil authors who likes to send the character to hell before letting them get a glimpse of heaven. Life is like that, though. Things are going beautifully and then you get a phone call or a surprise bill that knocks the wind out of your sails. But even when life takes you to a valley moment, you can still see the sunrise. Likewise my heroine gets a splash of pleasure with her pain. She and I are getting along quite well. I will write the rest of this chapter and move into the next. I'm trying not to edit right now--something totally against my nature--because the story just needs to get on paper.
Overall, the week wasn't terrible. I mingled with reality, wrote my syllabus, cleaned closets and put the turkey in the fridge to thaw. What more could a girl ask for?
I have a stack of cherry and apple wood in my backyard. When it's lit, the smell is intoxicating. The fact that it took me forever to light the fire is a moot point. I love fire. The way it glows, the way each blue-orange flame licks against wood. It's beautiful. I watched the flames dance for a while, drinking wine and enjoying the bitter cold of a winter night. Night is absolutely still. I couldn't see the moon, don't even know if there was one tonight. The starlight was fascinating, though. All the constellations are shining. Orion, my favorite, was a bit east of my house. I love Orion because it is multi-faceted--the belt, the entire layout is just amazing to me because none of the stars are fighting for a place. Each is content to fulfill their given role.
Today, the book is working a lot better. I removed some of the heartache--for now. I'm one of those evil authors who likes to send the character to hell before letting them get a glimpse of heaven. Life is like that, though. Things are going beautifully and then you get a phone call or a surprise bill that knocks the wind out of your sails. But even when life takes you to a valley moment, you can still see the sunrise. Likewise my heroine gets a splash of pleasure with her pain. She and I are getting along quite well. I will write the rest of this chapter and move into the next. I'm trying not to edit right now--something totally against my nature--because the story just needs to get on paper.
Overall, the week wasn't terrible. I mingled with reality, wrote my syllabus, cleaned closets and put the turkey in the fridge to thaw. What more could a girl ask for?
Here I Go Again...
Yep, it's been confirmed. I am a killjoy. Tonight I hung out with a group of folks whose company I enjoy. There were new people in the group, but that was okay. The only problem was me. Not that I was an ass (I hope), but I was withdrawn. I purposely shut down to a degree because sometimes I think I'm too easy to read. I didn't realize how completely I'd shut down until it literally hit me in the face. I tried to open a bit but I couldn't do it completely. Now I feel terrible because for a moment, my darkness leaked. I don't let people see that side of me. That is something I keep inside or share here on this blog.
God, I wish I could just be myself and be absolutely safe in doing so. Truth be told, I am depressed and disappointed. When I imagined this day, I didn't plan for it to go this way. I don't know what entirely I expected, but it wasn't to become an island to myself while surrounded with people. How do you get out of a dark place? No amount of food fills it, chocolate didn't help. I want to read, but I don't even have the compulsion to turn a page. That is not me! It just dawned on me that the last time I ate was breakfast. I haven't really slept either, so I'm all out of whack. So maybe after I finish this episode of Charmed and have a bit of extremely late dinner, I'll go to bed and the world will look like a much better place.
God, I wish I could just be myself and be absolutely safe in doing so. Truth be told, I am depressed and disappointed. When I imagined this day, I didn't plan for it to go this way. I don't know what entirely I expected, but it wasn't to become an island to myself while surrounded with people. How do you get out of a dark place? No amount of food fills it, chocolate didn't help. I want to read, but I don't even have the compulsion to turn a page. That is not me! It just dawned on me that the last time I ate was breakfast. I haven't really slept either, so I'm all out of whack. So maybe after I finish this episode of Charmed and have a bit of extremely late dinner, I'll go to bed and the world will look like a much better place.
17 November 2006
Who Am I?
Another busy day...but not bad. I did all my running around and feel as though I accomplished something. My adventure at the post office went well. Of course I drove to town during rush hour, so I had plenty of time to think about life as I sat in senseless traffic. All of us have people in our lives who think of themselves as our friends but are more like cling-ons. You know, those folks who just won't let go. Remember when I said that I'm not a nice person? Well here's the deal. I am not the type of person who's good at shaking off barnacles. If someone feels the need to "cling on," I'll let them--to a degree. I know who my friends are and they know me. Period.
No one who's ever been a cling-on has moved into friend status with me. I am happy to be superficial with those people, and the funny thing is that those people are happy knowing me by my mask. Only the true friends want to see me for who I am. The sad thing is that no matter how much I love my friends, I can't shed the mask. Does that mean the mask is not a real facet of myself? Absolutely not. I am real at all times--just to varying degrees. If I've learned nothing else in life, it's that a lot of people are simply unable to handle the truth. Because I am fortunate enough to have people in my life who deal honestly with themselves and with me, I have the freedom to be who I am more often than not. I can't imagine having to live sequestered from even my own scant version of reality on a permanent basis.
So if I'm wearing a mask, who am I? That's the question of the decade. My first thought was to define myself by what I do--I'm a mother, friend, wife, the list goes on. But as to WHO I am...hmmm...I think of myself as being a rather morose person. Don't get me wrong, if I want to have fun, I'm the life of the party. People generally enjoy the color I bring to a conversation. Guaranteed, anyone who converses with me will share a laugh and probably learn some useless information they could have lived without knowing. That's me. I find useless trivia interesting. There I go defining myself by what I do again. What a terrible trap!
There was a time when the chasm between men and women was well-defined. Men identified themselves by their occupation while women tended toward identifying with their roles in life. Now, the divide--which used to be the size of the Grand Canyon--is more like a bridge over a trickling stream. To a large degree, I think it's good that men and women are learning to share the better attributes stereotypically associated with each gender. In my own life, though, I've noticed some of the downside to only being able to define myself by whatever my occupation is at a given time. When I don't work outside the home, my self-esteem is lower. When I'm safely ensconced in my happy little walls, I don't notice it so much. But when I have to deal with people on the outside, and I have to answer that question--so what do you do?--it trips me up a little.
When you choose to stay home with your children and you say this with pride to those inquiring minds, some understand and others give you those pitying looks as though anyone who would want to stay home had well and truly lost the plot. When you work outside the home, the risk of coming under judgement is no less. If your job is not interesting enough or doesn't pay a six-figure salary, you get the same damn pitying looks. What is up with that? Is there something wrong with working and enjoying the job--even if it is running an efficient home? Only someone who has no concern whatsoever for politically correct conventions would answer that question with a yes. But guess what, when I think of myself, regardless of how well I can conceptualize the value of any of my past or current jobs, I look for ways to rationalize what has become, in my mind, a source of personal failure--the lack of an upward moving career.
That is MY hang-up, but I wonder how many people find themselves in a similar position. I know in my heart that I've only held positions I deemed honorable in one way or another. My head is what needs convincing. In the grand scheme of things, my life span has been a minute compared to the time I have left (or at least the amount of time I'm planning to have). So hopefully, sooner than later my head and heart will have a meeting of the minds. Every time I stop to question the qualifiers I use when answering the dreaded question, I'm bringing that meeting forward on my life's agenda. Right now, that's what I can do.
So in the meantime, I write and read and talk to people who are hell-bent on challenging conventions. That keeps my mind sharp and exposes me to the viewpoint of others. How many of us truly get to see ourselves through someone else's eyes? What a rare gift. I see the way people respond to me and am constantly awed because when I look at me I see a person who is desperately trying to figure everything out. People treat me as though I'm some kind of rock or a guru of sorts. If I were a rock, I'd be made of jelly and for the record, I'm a guru of nothing. All I do is live and observe--something all of us have the opportunity to do. It's a simple matter of choice.
I can choose to be anything--sanguine, happy, content, successful. I can choose to see myself as deserving of respect for the simple fact that I am a human being. I can choose to be a hero for my children, my friends, myself. Today, I choose all of the above. My attitude determines my altitude.
No one who's ever been a cling-on has moved into friend status with me. I am happy to be superficial with those people, and the funny thing is that those people are happy knowing me by my mask. Only the true friends want to see me for who I am. The sad thing is that no matter how much I love my friends, I can't shed the mask. Does that mean the mask is not a real facet of myself? Absolutely not. I am real at all times--just to varying degrees. If I've learned nothing else in life, it's that a lot of people are simply unable to handle the truth. Because I am fortunate enough to have people in my life who deal honestly with themselves and with me, I have the freedom to be who I am more often than not. I can't imagine having to live sequestered from even my own scant version of reality on a permanent basis.
So if I'm wearing a mask, who am I? That's the question of the decade. My first thought was to define myself by what I do--I'm a mother, friend, wife, the list goes on. But as to WHO I am...hmmm...I think of myself as being a rather morose person. Don't get me wrong, if I want to have fun, I'm the life of the party. People generally enjoy the color I bring to a conversation. Guaranteed, anyone who converses with me will share a laugh and probably learn some useless information they could have lived without knowing. That's me. I find useless trivia interesting. There I go defining myself by what I do again. What a terrible trap!
There was a time when the chasm between men and women was well-defined. Men identified themselves by their occupation while women tended toward identifying with their roles in life. Now, the divide--which used to be the size of the Grand Canyon--is more like a bridge over a trickling stream. To a large degree, I think it's good that men and women are learning to share the better attributes stereotypically associated with each gender. In my own life, though, I've noticed some of the downside to only being able to define myself by whatever my occupation is at a given time. When I don't work outside the home, my self-esteem is lower. When I'm safely ensconced in my happy little walls, I don't notice it so much. But when I have to deal with people on the outside, and I have to answer that question--so what do you do?--it trips me up a little.
When you choose to stay home with your children and you say this with pride to those inquiring minds, some understand and others give you those pitying looks as though anyone who would want to stay home had well and truly lost the plot. When you work outside the home, the risk of coming under judgement is no less. If your job is not interesting enough or doesn't pay a six-figure salary, you get the same damn pitying looks. What is up with that? Is there something wrong with working and enjoying the job--even if it is running an efficient home? Only someone who has no concern whatsoever for politically correct conventions would answer that question with a yes. But guess what, when I think of myself, regardless of how well I can conceptualize the value of any of my past or current jobs, I look for ways to rationalize what has become, in my mind, a source of personal failure--the lack of an upward moving career.
That is MY hang-up, but I wonder how many people find themselves in a similar position. I know in my heart that I've only held positions I deemed honorable in one way or another. My head is what needs convincing. In the grand scheme of things, my life span has been a minute compared to the time I have left (or at least the amount of time I'm planning to have). So hopefully, sooner than later my head and heart will have a meeting of the minds. Every time I stop to question the qualifiers I use when answering the dreaded question, I'm bringing that meeting forward on my life's agenda. Right now, that's what I can do.
So in the meantime, I write and read and talk to people who are hell-bent on challenging conventions. That keeps my mind sharp and exposes me to the viewpoint of others. How many of us truly get to see ourselves through someone else's eyes? What a rare gift. I see the way people respond to me and am constantly awed because when I look at me I see a person who is desperately trying to figure everything out. People treat me as though I'm some kind of rock or a guru of sorts. If I were a rock, I'd be made of jelly and for the record, I'm a guru of nothing. All I do is live and observe--something all of us have the opportunity to do. It's a simple matter of choice.
I can choose to be anything--sanguine, happy, content, successful. I can choose to see myself as deserving of respect for the simple fact that I am a human being. I can choose to be a hero for my children, my friends, myself. Today, I choose all of the above. My attitude determines my altitude.
16 November 2006
Yea, Me!
Guess what I did today??? Okay, not much, but I still feel as though I was productive. I rearranged my dining room, organized my kitchen and cleared my writing space. I took care of a friend who just needed a break from life and I went to karate. Did I mention I cooked a FABULOUS dinner? All this equates to a packed day for me. You'll notice that I'm saying "today" when in fact it's only a little after 5am. Until I go to bed, it's today.
After I got my children settled, I turned on The L Word and reviewed my last project. I had to prepare it for a contest, which means checking each word, each page for anything that could be considered in any way flawed. I made a few changes and printed it out. All I have to do is get all of it to the post office. While I fine tuned that ms, I wrote another query, printed it and got it packaged for mailing. Though I didn't do any writing on the current project, I spent the day being writerly. That counts, doesn't it?
About dinner...My dear husband has done the cooking duties for the good part of a month. I have to say I'm not a really good person. I try, but sometimes I can't keep my mouth shut. He did his best, and my kids had no problem eating their dad's cooking. I tried to eat some of the early meals, but after each, I was hit with terrible waves of nausea. As I can't stand the thought of puking, I stopped eating. It was easier to be hungry than to have a heaving stomach. As the month progressed, the meals got more and more "interesting." Antelope chili, moose stew, anything that could be made from red meat and in GIANT quantities. The smell was enough to put me off food for a good minute. The last straw was his spaghetti.
I've had some bad pasta sauce, but this topped all. It wouldn't have been bad if he hadn't asked for my opinion. I told him the truth. He knows me well enough to understand that if one queries my opinion, one will receive truth as I see it. I went with a diplomatic answer--it seemed to be lacking something. We then worked together to figure out what went wrong with the sauce. He accepted my help and moved on. No feelings hurt, but I still feel like the bad guy for having to tell the truth. When my surprise meals flop, I'm the first to admit that they suck and I wouldn't hold it against any of my subjects, I mean victims, test dummies, family--that's the ticket--for speaking their minds.
His cooking exploits are why I had to resume my duties. Amazingly, I had no stomach upset from eating dinner. Funny that. Once again, I've been hornswaggled into cooking a crazed Thanksgiving dinner. My husband wants to learn how to de-bone a turkey. I've done it for so many years that it's almost as easy as writing my name. I just realized that I will spend the better part of the coming days in my kitchen. My kitchen is my domain--no one is allowed entrance when I'm in the zone--at least not without a pass from me. I love to cook, and I know I'll be excited once I'm in the throes of prepping the dinner. It's just the anticipation that makes me crazy. Friends would argue that I'm crazy without the anticipation bit, but I choose to ignore them.
So what's on the agenda for tomorrow? More of the same, but a bit heavier on the new work in progress. I'll spend some time at the post office, waiting in line while making polite conversation with my queue mates. Then, I'll run random errands that wouldn't fit in today's schedule. I'm sure dinner will happen at some point. All I have to do is do it. The break has been just what I needed.
One final thought before I sign off...
I had an interesting dream last night. Before I went to bed, I thought about my current project and the direction I need in order for my imagination to become real--or at least as real as ink on a page can be. I was somewhere in California for some sort of party. That part wasn't all that clear. The organizer was someone I respect deeply. She gave me money and told me that the event depended on me getting supplies. Apparently, I did everything right, because when I returned, she congratulated me and gave me a car. It was a coppery-orange color--one of the brand new Mustangs. I remember feeling the drive as I shifted gears--powerful, in control. It was phenomenal and then the alarm went off.
The kids will be up in a few minutes, so it's time to sign off. Have a great night or day or whatever you're headed to. See you tomorrow, folks. Same bat time, same bat channel.
After I got my children settled, I turned on The L Word and reviewed my last project. I had to prepare it for a contest, which means checking each word, each page for anything that could be considered in any way flawed. I made a few changes and printed it out. All I have to do is get all of it to the post office. While I fine tuned that ms, I wrote another query, printed it and got it packaged for mailing. Though I didn't do any writing on the current project, I spent the day being writerly. That counts, doesn't it?
About dinner...My dear husband has done the cooking duties for the good part of a month. I have to say I'm not a really good person. I try, but sometimes I can't keep my mouth shut. He did his best, and my kids had no problem eating their dad's cooking. I tried to eat some of the early meals, but after each, I was hit with terrible waves of nausea. As I can't stand the thought of puking, I stopped eating. It was easier to be hungry than to have a heaving stomach. As the month progressed, the meals got more and more "interesting." Antelope chili, moose stew, anything that could be made from red meat and in GIANT quantities. The smell was enough to put me off food for a good minute. The last straw was his spaghetti.
I've had some bad pasta sauce, but this topped all. It wouldn't have been bad if he hadn't asked for my opinion. I told him the truth. He knows me well enough to understand that if one queries my opinion, one will receive truth as I see it. I went with a diplomatic answer--it seemed to be lacking something. We then worked together to figure out what went wrong with the sauce. He accepted my help and moved on. No feelings hurt, but I still feel like the bad guy for having to tell the truth. When my surprise meals flop, I'm the first to admit that they suck and I wouldn't hold it against any of my subjects, I mean victims, test dummies, family--that's the ticket--for speaking their minds.
His cooking exploits are why I had to resume my duties. Amazingly, I had no stomach upset from eating dinner. Funny that. Once again, I've been hornswaggled into cooking a crazed Thanksgiving dinner. My husband wants to learn how to de-bone a turkey. I've done it for so many years that it's almost as easy as writing my name. I just realized that I will spend the better part of the coming days in my kitchen. My kitchen is my domain--no one is allowed entrance when I'm in the zone--at least not without a pass from me. I love to cook, and I know I'll be excited once I'm in the throes of prepping the dinner. It's just the anticipation that makes me crazy. Friends would argue that I'm crazy without the anticipation bit, but I choose to ignore them.
So what's on the agenda for tomorrow? More of the same, but a bit heavier on the new work in progress. I'll spend some time at the post office, waiting in line while making polite conversation with my queue mates. Then, I'll run random errands that wouldn't fit in today's schedule. I'm sure dinner will happen at some point. All I have to do is do it. The break has been just what I needed.
One final thought before I sign off...
I had an interesting dream last night. Before I went to bed, I thought about my current project and the direction I need in order for my imagination to become real--or at least as real as ink on a page can be. I was somewhere in California for some sort of party. That part wasn't all that clear. The organizer was someone I respect deeply. She gave me money and told me that the event depended on me getting supplies. Apparently, I did everything right, because when I returned, she congratulated me and gave me a car. It was a coppery-orange color--one of the brand new Mustangs. I remember feeling the drive as I shifted gears--powerful, in control. It was phenomenal and then the alarm went off.
The kids will be up in a few minutes, so it's time to sign off. Have a great night or day or whatever you're headed to. See you tomorrow, folks. Same bat time, same bat channel.
14 November 2006
There and Back Again...
OK, after yesterday I was feeling pretty funky about my writing and life in general. I spent the day in bed, caught up on reading and watched back episodes of The L Word on demand. I set a serious deadline for my current work in progress, but the actual work part has been much slower than I planned. I'm okay with that. The words flow in dribbles--like the way an old man with prostate trouble pees. But if that's what it takes to make the characters come to life in my head, I'm willing to take my time.
Tonight was karate--again. It was good. I worked up a sweat, ran through the forms and drills, and for once didn't feel like the odd man out. My kids have studied karate for over a year and are much more advanced than me. I plug away like the steam engine that could. Sometimes I just don't get it and I ask for help and I work 'til I attain perfection. There's nothing like going to class and finally being able to do it right. If only that worked for everything!
Now, I'm spending time with Dexter, enjoying the unfolding drama. If you don't watch the show and you have cable, give it a try--even if it is just once. The premise and writing are compelling. That's what I hope to attain, not a TV show, but the kind of writing that draws an audience repeatedly. I don't want to be the kind of writer that offers a one-time bit of entertainment. I want to be the writer who draws the reader back time after time. The same way I feel the need to revisit Poe, Dumas and Tolkien. The same way I slip into the Burg to visit with Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum characters. Isn't it amazing how some writers just make you feel the moment, the story, the adventure?
I am an escapist by nature. From the time I was able to read (age 2), I climbed into books to get away from being the outsider. For the couple hours I spent with the author's characters I transcended my own reality and was catapulted into a new world. I can't begin to express how wonderful it felt to be the hero who set wrongs to right or the adventurer who took on a quest and found himself. I still have the hardest time thinking about Frodo's journey without crying--not because it was tragic, but because it has to come to an end. I always sink into a bit of depression when I finish a book--like I've lost my best friends, because for however much time I spent with these fictional people, they were my friends.
I don't believe there is anything such as a new story. People have inhabited the planet too long for that. I do believe, however, that we have new ways of telling a tale. No matter how many times I read one of Julie Garwood's historicals, entering with the full knowledge that I will meet a strong woman who stumbles into a relationship with Mister, Viscount, Marquess Right, I know that their story will be unique. An experience that I couldn't have with any other character. Their view of the world is what will spark laughter when I can't find funny in my mundane life and will inspire tears when their weariness threatens to tear them apart. That is writing!
Who do you read when you need to escape?
Tonight was karate--again. It was good. I worked up a sweat, ran through the forms and drills, and for once didn't feel like the odd man out. My kids have studied karate for over a year and are much more advanced than me. I plug away like the steam engine that could. Sometimes I just don't get it and I ask for help and I work 'til I attain perfection. There's nothing like going to class and finally being able to do it right. If only that worked for everything!
Now, I'm spending time with Dexter, enjoying the unfolding drama. If you don't watch the show and you have cable, give it a try--even if it is just once. The premise and writing are compelling. That's what I hope to attain, not a TV show, but the kind of writing that draws an audience repeatedly. I don't want to be the kind of writer that offers a one-time bit of entertainment. I want to be the writer who draws the reader back time after time. The same way I feel the need to revisit Poe, Dumas and Tolkien. The same way I slip into the Burg to visit with Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum characters. Isn't it amazing how some writers just make you feel the moment, the story, the adventure?
I am an escapist by nature. From the time I was able to read (age 2), I climbed into books to get away from being the outsider. For the couple hours I spent with the author's characters I transcended my own reality and was catapulted into a new world. I can't begin to express how wonderful it felt to be the hero who set wrongs to right or the adventurer who took on a quest and found himself. I still have the hardest time thinking about Frodo's journey without crying--not because it was tragic, but because it has to come to an end. I always sink into a bit of depression when I finish a book--like I've lost my best friends, because for however much time I spent with these fictional people, they were my friends.
I don't believe there is anything such as a new story. People have inhabited the planet too long for that. I do believe, however, that we have new ways of telling a tale. No matter how many times I read one of Julie Garwood's historicals, entering with the full knowledge that I will meet a strong woman who stumbles into a relationship with Mister, Viscount, Marquess Right, I know that their story will be unique. An experience that I couldn't have with any other character. Their view of the world is what will spark laughter when I can't find funny in my mundane life and will inspire tears when their weariness threatens to tear them apart. That is writing!
Who do you read when you need to escape?
Another sucky day...
I've spent the last couple days refining my last novel. It was like visiting a friend I hadn't seen in years. The characters were so happy to come out and play. After doing that, I tried to return to my current project only to find that it's stale. I'm so frustrated that I could scream--or just delete the whole damn file. I know the story premise is solid, and the characters have real potential, but they don't want to play with me. I've cleaned, done laundry and got physical--tonight was a karate night. Usually, I can distract myself enough with random business that ideas spark off in my head. I don't know why it's not working! I've got one last thing to try...
OK, I feel better about the writing now. I scrapped a few pages and it all looks better. Right now, I'm too tired to do any more. I want to read and escape everything for a moment, so that's what I'm going to do. I've been thinking about why I write lately. From the time I could string a thought together, I've enjoyed making up stories. It never mattered which class I wrote for in school, I always approached the assignments with fervor. When my children came along, I told them stories--and they were always my heroes. Now that I'm older, I have more to draw from and while sharing my stories with others in random conversations is fun, there's nothing like actually penning a yarn. A hundred years from now, people may not know my stories or even care about who I was, but in some small way I will have left a legacy of words.
I am off to bed now. My stuffed lion, a good book and my mp-3 player will be my companions. Hopefully, I'll dream of my characters and wake with something of value to offer them. And maybe, just maybe they'll decide to scream. All this damn whispering in making me crazy.
OK, I feel better about the writing now. I scrapped a few pages and it all looks better. Right now, I'm too tired to do any more. I want to read and escape everything for a moment, so that's what I'm going to do. I've been thinking about why I write lately. From the time I could string a thought together, I've enjoyed making up stories. It never mattered which class I wrote for in school, I always approached the assignments with fervor. When my children came along, I told them stories--and they were always my heroes. Now that I'm older, I have more to draw from and while sharing my stories with others in random conversations is fun, there's nothing like actually penning a yarn. A hundred years from now, people may not know my stories or even care about who I was, but in some small way I will have left a legacy of words.
I am off to bed now. My stuffed lion, a good book and my mp-3 player will be my companions. Hopefully, I'll dream of my characters and wake with something of value to offer them. And maybe, just maybe they'll decide to scream. All this damn whispering in making me crazy.
13 November 2006
A Hiding Place...
Sometimes I have to wonder about myself. What kind of person has a more intense relationship with her laptop than the people around her? Apart from my family and a select few I care to call friend, I can't muster a positive feeling for my fellow man. That sounds wrong, and maybe if I was in a better frame of mind, I'd be willing to change my attitude. For today, I will revel in abject anti-socialness. Does that mean that if I saw someone broken down on the side of the road, or learned about yet another tragedy befalling innocents that I wouldn't care? Of course not, because try as I might, I'm a sucker. I can't stand to see anyone cry, especially if there's nothing I can do to fix it. So rather than engage with people outside of my happy box, I remain in my house safe from people who are trying to figure out how they're going to feed their children or buy gifts as the holidays rapidly approach. I'm not strong enough to wander outside of the box today. And yes, I know that makes me the chief of chicken shits, but I can't do it. In my happy world, people eat everyday, they have friends and a place to call home. More importantly, they know what it is to love and be understood without strings attached or bounds applied.
When's the last time you felt as though you could be exactly who you are without having to hide? I know I spend more time behind closed doors--and not of the brick and mortar variety--than being open with those around me because I'm afraid if they see the real person that inhabits the corporeal version of me that folks will be down right disappointed. If anyone else told me that they refused to function outside of the superficial, I'd tell them to embrace reality and to wish a fuck you to anyone who refused to accept them otherwise. So easy to say, but not to do. Why? Because it costs each of us something to be real. It's expensive, and in a world where we celebrate cheap and easy, being who we are is just too damn expensive. So we'll stay locked in our closets, smiling and pretending to engage with others all the while crying inside because yet again, we've failed the one person whose opinion actually matters.
Tonight, I was driving home from the video store after returning Brokeback Mountain and heard a song that played at one of my best friend's son's funeral. I hadn't heard it in a while. In fact, when I tried to find it on Napster, I couldn't even remember what the name of the song was. So I left it in the back of my mind where all my heartbreaking memories reside because I don't know that I could function otherwise. Anyway, the song played and I tried to just hear it without letting it sink to my heart. I almost did it. But as it continued, I couldn't help but remember standing in the procession with my friend and her family as we celebrated a life that came and went too quickly.
As much as I LOVE my friend, I will never understand her grief. I tell her I love her, and I flew across the world to be with her on that day, but I came home to all of my children safe, healthy and alive. And I have to wonder if she thought I was just applying a set of trite words--a used bandage--to cover her pain. I felt like such a sham that day because I didn't know her pain. Truth be told, I don't want to because I'm not made of strong enough stuff to survive and not be bitter. I am sure the days I cry for her loss aren't even a small fraction of the tears she's shed over the past couple years, but they are no less real. I promise. I'm tired of people that I love being in pain. I'm tired of them dying.
Maybe now that I've spewed my pain over the board, my heart will awaken and I'll be able to write. Better than that, I'll be able to hear my characters, because right now I'm too numb to care about them. Trust me, that's not a good place to be. When I started writing tonight, I'd planned to explore why exactly I write. Man, has this taken a different turn. Maybe I'll save that for tomorrow.
When's the last time you felt as though you could be exactly who you are without having to hide? I know I spend more time behind closed doors--and not of the brick and mortar variety--than being open with those around me because I'm afraid if they see the real person that inhabits the corporeal version of me that folks will be down right disappointed. If anyone else told me that they refused to function outside of the superficial, I'd tell them to embrace reality and to wish a fuck you to anyone who refused to accept them otherwise. So easy to say, but not to do. Why? Because it costs each of us something to be real. It's expensive, and in a world where we celebrate cheap and easy, being who we are is just too damn expensive. So we'll stay locked in our closets, smiling and pretending to engage with others all the while crying inside because yet again, we've failed the one person whose opinion actually matters.
Tonight, I was driving home from the video store after returning Brokeback Mountain and heard a song that played at one of my best friend's son's funeral. I hadn't heard it in a while. In fact, when I tried to find it on Napster, I couldn't even remember what the name of the song was. So I left it in the back of my mind where all my heartbreaking memories reside because I don't know that I could function otherwise. Anyway, the song played and I tried to just hear it without letting it sink to my heart. I almost did it. But as it continued, I couldn't help but remember standing in the procession with my friend and her family as we celebrated a life that came and went too quickly.
As much as I LOVE my friend, I will never understand her grief. I tell her I love her, and I flew across the world to be with her on that day, but I came home to all of my children safe, healthy and alive. And I have to wonder if she thought I was just applying a set of trite words--a used bandage--to cover her pain. I felt like such a sham that day because I didn't know her pain. Truth be told, I don't want to because I'm not made of strong enough stuff to survive and not be bitter. I am sure the days I cry for her loss aren't even a small fraction of the tears she's shed over the past couple years, but they are no less real. I promise. I'm tired of people that I love being in pain. I'm tired of them dying.
Maybe now that I've spewed my pain over the board, my heart will awaken and I'll be able to write. Better than that, I'll be able to hear my characters, because right now I'm too numb to care about them. Trust me, that's not a good place to be. When I started writing tonight, I'd planned to explore why exactly I write. Man, has this taken a different turn. Maybe I'll save that for tomorrow.
11 November 2006
Sunny Side Up
Today has been a more productive writing day. Usually, it doesn't take more than two chapters for me to relate to my characters. This book has been more of a challenge for me. I am still interested in their stories. I want to know them, but unlike my usual playmates who prefer to scream to be heard, the newbies are content to whisper. Call me a freak, but I like the screamers. The bottom line is that the whisperers are teaching me a lesson. I've had to learn to shut up and play nice if I want them to join me on the swings. So it took me six chapters to recognize this--at least I learned. Don't I get a cookie or something?
Other than writing, I've done gobs of reading. Real writers read--period. So what's on the list today? The last of the Lynsay Sands Argeneau series--at least what's out right now. She's as funny as all get out. I've laughed until my stomach seized and tears rolled down my face. The love stories are sweet and I want to be them. But alas, I sit at laptop central, typing away. After I finish LS's book, there's a Harlequin Intrigue waiting in the wings. And Steven King and JD Robb sprinkled with a touch of Janet Evanovich for a bit of a giggle, and I can't forget the classics. Lately, I've been feeling the call of Dumas, Shakespeare and Poe. Would that I had more eyes and an extra brain to process it all. My TBR pile is out of control, but I can't stop buying books. At least I'm saving a few dollars by hitting the used bookstore. My grand total for the week is just shy of $100. Perhaps my time would be better spent at book readers anonymous.
Every now and again, it hits me that I'll be teaching my first class soon. Orientation is next month and I have to RSVP next week. My syllabus is due next month too. Guess it would be a good idea to get the text book. I am so excited to have the opportunity to give back a small part of what's been given me. Hopefully, my students feel that time spent with me was worthwhile. I am already nervous about the first night and it's not 'til the new year. I'm sure I'll be blogging more about this as the time draws nearer, but it's playing on my mind right now. Just another reason to finish my manuscript.
What are you just dying to read? Is your TBR pile overflowing too? Please tell me I'm not the only rabid reader out there.
Other than writing, I've done gobs of reading. Real writers read--period. So what's on the list today? The last of the Lynsay Sands Argeneau series--at least what's out right now. She's as funny as all get out. I've laughed until my stomach seized and tears rolled down my face. The love stories are sweet and I want to be them. But alas, I sit at laptop central, typing away. After I finish LS's book, there's a Harlequin Intrigue waiting in the wings. And Steven King and JD Robb sprinkled with a touch of Janet Evanovich for a bit of a giggle, and I can't forget the classics. Lately, I've been feeling the call of Dumas, Shakespeare and Poe. Would that I had more eyes and an extra brain to process it all. My TBR pile is out of control, but I can't stop buying books. At least I'm saving a few dollars by hitting the used bookstore. My grand total for the week is just shy of $100. Perhaps my time would be better spent at book readers anonymous.
Every now and again, it hits me that I'll be teaching my first class soon. Orientation is next month and I have to RSVP next week. My syllabus is due next month too. Guess it would be a good idea to get the text book. I am so excited to have the opportunity to give back a small part of what's been given me. Hopefully, my students feel that time spent with me was worthwhile. I am already nervous about the first night and it's not 'til the new year. I'm sure I'll be blogging more about this as the time draws nearer, but it's playing on my mind right now. Just another reason to finish my manuscript.
What are you just dying to read? Is your TBR pile overflowing too? Please tell me I'm not the only rabid reader out there.
08 November 2006
Scaring myself...
New to blogging, and already I've been neglectful. I haven't done much writing at all the last two days actually. Or anything writerly for that matter. For some reason, I've been swamped with fatigue--a condition totally unlike me. Now that my life has a bit more direction than its usual willy-nilly, I am feeling more inspired. So here I sit, in front of laptop central ready to pour out my soul, and can't come up with a damn thing to say. Guess I'll hit my new wip with a vengeance--make up for forgotten pages and finally do what needs doing.
I couldn't sleep last night because I've been working on scaring myself. Sounds strange and maybe a little stupid on first glance, but it makes perfect sense to me. You see, unless I push myself beyond the limits, I'll stay where I am. Not that where I am is a bad place to be, but if tomorrow is the same as yesterday then there is no reason for me to occupy space on this planet. I need to grow and change--even when it hurts, and one thing life has taught me is that change and growth almost always hurt. But it's a good pain, the kind that you look back on and stand amazed at. Amazed because you learn that you're made of stronger stuff than you think.
So what was it that pushed my bounds yesterday? Sending off a query and contest submission. I've sent queries on my last novel via email with no success. I've begun my collection of rejections, and that's okay because I can't be rejected if I don't stick my neck out there. The e-query rejections didn't hurt. I accepted them as par for the course, but for some reason, I am nervous--and almost sick to my stomach, if I'm honest--about the snail mail query I sent yesterday. I followed directions, used the agent's name and double-checked my spelling. The letter was good, but that doesn't mean I won't get a "no" back in response. And this time, it would feel more real because I sent my work on paper. His yea or nay will return on paper. I will touch it and read it more than once. It will be real.
My friend thinks writers are brave because of the way they repeatedly expose themselves to rejection. I don't feel brave at the moment. I feel stupid and pretentious for thinking that I have something to offer that someone else will want to read. This isn't a game. And I so want people to read my work and feel my words the same way I felt them when I applied them to the page. Or at the very least, I want my readers to hear the voices the way I heard them when they shouted in my ear that they wanted their story told. If you didn't think I was crazy before, I've certainly cemented it for you now.
Yes, I hear voices. And yes, they demand their story to be told. They yelled when I altered their truth and didn't let me sleep (literally) when I didn't hold to their demands. Some of those characters are still screaming at me, and I thought that if I stepped back for a moment that they would leave me in peace. No such luck. They want to talk, but I have someone else's story in line at the moment, so they'll have to wait their turn. The good news is that so far they're content to let me explore a different world while I listen to their whispers in the background.
If you came here for something other than random babbling, I feel for you. I tried to be up front...explained that this blog would be full of random musings. So far, I've delivered on that promise. All this crap has been running through my head, not necessarily preventing me from doing real writing, but definitely keeping me from sleep. So I'll leave you with all my baggage and drama. It's time to write and enjoy Brokeback Mountain as I do so. Talk about a stretch for me. I am SO not a movie/TV person, but I actually got my lazy bum off the couch to put this movie on, and I'm going to watch it. So far, I see a movie about people in love. My opinion may change after I've seen it in its entirety, but for now, I'm enjoying the scenery and admiring the courage of the actors for assuming such roles. Especially when so many of us are satisfied to hide in our own walls.
A couple questions because I'm just nosy like that...Did you watch BrokebackMountain? Why or why not? (I wasn't going to watch it because of all the Hollywood hype initially) And, what have you done to scare yourself today? Do you even know what scares you? (I didn't 'til I sent those queries off)...
I couldn't sleep last night because I've been working on scaring myself. Sounds strange and maybe a little stupid on first glance, but it makes perfect sense to me. You see, unless I push myself beyond the limits, I'll stay where I am. Not that where I am is a bad place to be, but if tomorrow is the same as yesterday then there is no reason for me to occupy space on this planet. I need to grow and change--even when it hurts, and one thing life has taught me is that change and growth almost always hurt. But it's a good pain, the kind that you look back on and stand amazed at. Amazed because you learn that you're made of stronger stuff than you think.
So what was it that pushed my bounds yesterday? Sending off a query and contest submission. I've sent queries on my last novel via email with no success. I've begun my collection of rejections, and that's okay because I can't be rejected if I don't stick my neck out there. The e-query rejections didn't hurt. I accepted them as par for the course, but for some reason, I am nervous--and almost sick to my stomach, if I'm honest--about the snail mail query I sent yesterday. I followed directions, used the agent's name and double-checked my spelling. The letter was good, but that doesn't mean I won't get a "no" back in response. And this time, it would feel more real because I sent my work on paper. His yea or nay will return on paper. I will touch it and read it more than once. It will be real.
My friend thinks writers are brave because of the way they repeatedly expose themselves to rejection. I don't feel brave at the moment. I feel stupid and pretentious for thinking that I have something to offer that someone else will want to read. This isn't a game. And I so want people to read my work and feel my words the same way I felt them when I applied them to the page. Or at the very least, I want my readers to hear the voices the way I heard them when they shouted in my ear that they wanted their story told. If you didn't think I was crazy before, I've certainly cemented it for you now.
Yes, I hear voices. And yes, they demand their story to be told. They yelled when I altered their truth and didn't let me sleep (literally) when I didn't hold to their demands. Some of those characters are still screaming at me, and I thought that if I stepped back for a moment that they would leave me in peace. No such luck. They want to talk, but I have someone else's story in line at the moment, so they'll have to wait their turn. The good news is that so far
If you came here for something other than random babbling, I feel for you. I tried to be up front...explained that this blog would be full of random musings. So far, I've delivered on that promise. All this crap has been running through my head, not necessarily preventing me from doing real writing, but definitely keeping me from sleep. So I'll leave you with all my baggage and drama. It's time to write and enjoy Brokeback Mountain as I do so. Talk about a stretch for me. I am SO not a movie/TV person, but I actually got my lazy bum off the couch to put this movie on, and I'm going to watch it. So far, I see a movie about people in love. My opinion may change after I've seen it in its entirety, but for now, I'm enjoying the scenery and admiring the courage of the actors for assuming such roles. Especially when so many of us are satisfied to hide in our own walls.
A couple questions because I'm just nosy like that...Did you watch BrokebackMountain? Why or why not? (I wasn't going to watch it because of all the Hollywood hype initially) And, what have you done to scare yourself today? Do you even know what scares you? (I didn't 'til I sent those queries off)...
06 November 2006
Guess what I did...
Last night the newest episode of Dexter aired. I have to admit though I knew his identity/issue would remain a secret, the writers had me on pins and needles as the drama unfolded. Why is all the good TV on cable? I remember when TV was a family recreation--maybe some of that's due to where I grew up--in the middle of nowhere. I used to swear that all the channels were PBS back then. I cut my teeth on Sesame Street, Mister Rogers' Neighborhood and The Bloodhound Gang.
Sesame Street is still a show I'll turn to when I need a slice of comfort or nostalgia; and to this day, I absolutely believe Mr. Rogers spoke to me when he stepped through his door with his sunny greeting and zippered cardigan. Everybody understands a guilty pleasure--chocolate, junk food, karaoke on a Friday night--but how do you explain holding onto a show you watched as an infant when your 20's are such a distant memory that they're fuzzy? Two options: don't broach the subject, or construct a treatise on the merits of quality public television. Sadly, most of the time, I opt for the former rather than the latter.
Really, watching those shows reminds me of a time when my Dad was my hero and right there when I needed him instead of existing merely in photos and my ever-depleting memory. They remind me of my fleeting moments of innocence--and trust me, in comparison to the journey through adulthood, childhood occurs in the space of a breath. Sometimes I yearn for the time when I was oblivious to the various ways we create to hurt each other, when my sole life objective was to have fun--and that was okay. Does that mean I want to go back and relive it? Hell no! Once was plenty, but that won't stop me from singing loud and strong for someone to come and play today. Seems like the best memories are bittersweet.
Life goes on. The alarm clock just buzzed, so it's time to wrest the kids from bed for school... Today feels like a Sesame Street day....
Sesame Street is still a show I'll turn to when I need a slice of comfort or nostalgia; and to this day, I absolutely believe Mr. Rogers spoke to me when he stepped through his door with his sunny greeting and zippered cardigan. Everybody understands a guilty pleasure--chocolate, junk food, karaoke on a Friday night--but how do you explain holding onto a show you watched as an infant when your 20's are such a distant memory that they're fuzzy? Two options: don't broach the subject, or construct a treatise on the merits of quality public television. Sadly, most of the time, I opt for the former rather than the latter.
Really, watching those shows reminds me of a time when my Dad was my hero and right there when I needed him instead of existing merely in photos and my ever-depleting memory. They remind me of my fleeting moments of innocence--and trust me, in comparison to the journey through adulthood, childhood occurs in the space of a breath. Sometimes I yearn for the time when I was oblivious to the various ways we create to hurt each other, when my sole life objective was to have fun--and that was okay. Does that mean I want to go back and relive it? Hell no! Once was plenty, but that won't stop me from singing loud and strong for someone to come and play today. Seems like the best memories are bittersweet.
Life goes on. The alarm clock just buzzed, so it's time to wrest the kids from bed for school... Today feels like a Sesame Street day....
04 November 2006
Doing what I'm supposed to...
So, I was supposed to be writing. I've managed to do everything but. Me and my little crew went to our karate get-together. While the kids were off playing pool, we adults gathered to discuss things completely inappropriate for little ears. We never plan to start these discussions about sex, but apparently, if a bunch of us hang out the conversation topic spins from karate and parenting to where the best spot for green beer on St. Paddy's is. More surprising than having these wild sex talks, is who starts them.
I don't know what people see when they look at me, but for some reason, I'm the last person who's expected to know anything remotely interesting about sex. I have 3 children, so is it any wonder that I have a reasonable amount of experience? Can I help that I am curious by nature? Things that would make the average person blush, pique my interest for no reason other than pure science. That does not mean that I am enjoying all these alternative activities myself, but I have an understanding of them. And at the end of all this scientific research, I come away with great conversation fodder.
So now I'm home. I was going to take a nap and refresh for an evening of writing. Instead, I called my cable company to see if I could negotiate a deal for an upgrade. For those of you who are disinclined to believe that you affect your own destiny by managing your attitude, get this. I knew what I wanted from the cable company before I called--what I was willing to pay, etc. My experience with this company has been nothing but positive, so I expected nothing less tonight. The agent was helpful and went above and beyond to provide stellar customer service. Long story short (TOO LATE), I got an upgrade that includes Showtime, TMC, Starz and Encore free for a year.
Here I sit, watching back episodes of Dexter (thanks to my friend who got me hooked on this damned show). I haven't written a lick except for what you see here. The crazy thing is that I'm not a big TV watcher. I write, read anything I can get my hands on and critique the work of fellow aspiring authors. After all this rambling, I've decided to give myself time to refresh--even if that does mean spending a couple more hours with Dexter.
I don't know what people see when they look at me, but for some reason, I'm the last person who's expected to know anything remotely interesting about sex. I have 3 children, so is it any wonder that I have a reasonable amount of experience? Can I help that I am curious by nature? Things that would make the average person blush, pique my interest for no reason other than pure science. That does not mean that I am enjoying all these alternative activities myself, but I have an understanding of them. And at the end of all this scientific research, I come away with great conversation fodder.
So now I'm home. I was going to take a nap and refresh for an evening of writing. Instead, I called my cable company to see if I could negotiate a deal for an upgrade. For those of you who are disinclined to believe that you affect your own destiny by managing your attitude, get this. I knew what I wanted from the cable company before I called--what I was willing to pay, etc. My experience with this company has been nothing but positive, so I expected nothing less tonight. The agent was helpful and went above and beyond to provide stellar customer service. Long story short (TOO LATE), I got an upgrade that includes Showtime, TMC, Starz and Encore free for a year.
Here I sit, watching back episodes of Dexter (thanks to my friend who got me hooked on this damned show). I haven't written a lick except for what you see here. The crazy thing is that I'm not a big TV watcher. I write, read anything I can get my hands on and critique the work of fellow aspiring authors. After all this rambling, I've decided to give myself time to refresh--even if that does mean spending a couple more hours with Dexter.
Welcome to the 21st Century...
I guess, technically, that the welcome is for me. While I am a committed voyeur of a few blogs, until now, I've avoided the pull to be self published in such a way. But today, I'm throwing my hat in the ring, baring my soul, and perhaps giving a piece of my mind that I can't afford to lose. My hope is that in doing "random musings" I will clear the clutter from my head, or better still, come up with something prolific (or at the very least interesting) to say. It's 1:30 am, and I'm fresh out of pithiness but I'm tickled to be here. So for all you avid bloggers, why do you do it?
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