Merry Christmas!

I spent the day with my little people who are becoming increasingly large, and it was awesome for lack of a better term. We chilled and just enjoyed each other's company. As the time drew near for them to return to their dad's, the tension was palpable. I saw them looking at the clock; the baby repeatedly asked for updates on the time. It's kinda like knowing you're going in for a root canal -- time takes on this steady canter, and nothing you can do slows it's progress.

Rather than sit around feeling the emptiness of the house, I ventured out for a movie. If you're thinking about seeing It's Complicated, stop thinking and DO! That's one I would like to see again, and I've only just left the theater! Women age gracefully, and men -- well, I'm becoming attached to the opinion that men are probably grateful that a lot of women cling to pleasant memories when bellies lop over the belt, man-boobs become apparent and the chins increase. That must be love -- seeing through the imperfections to embrace the real person beneath the shell.

In many ways I'm the atypical woman -- can't stand shopping, I have shoes in two colors (brown and black) and I don't always have to fill airspace with meaningless fluff. In other ways, I'm very typical -- love make-up, love the telephone and am desperately afraid that someone will see my faults, be they physical, psychological, real or imaginary, and determine that I am lacking. If fiction writing is somewhat autobiographical, my audience will have a glimpse at not only my imperfections, but they will have access to a part of me that I work diligently to keep under wraps.

Once again, as a writer, I find myself standing before the world with my pants unzipped, hoping against all hope that the keen observer won't point and laugh but will help a sista out! My hope is that in writing I will see myself as I'm meant to be seen and that my readers will do the same. Not that our observers will deny the existence of these so-called imperfections but that they will see them and recognize that every stretch mark, every crow's foot is an indelible part of what makes each of us unique and beautiful.

Merry Christmas!

Driving the Short Bus

While I haven't written much more than comments on my students' papers, I have been quite busy. Yesterday, my entourage and I did one of our favorite things -- went to the museum of nature and science. There's always so much to discover, and I've been dying to see the Ghengis Khan exhibit. So what in the world does that have to do with driving the short bus? That was how we got there! For the colleagues I like, there's nothing I won't do, so when I was asked to drive for a field trip, I was happy to say yes. I should have known the trip wouldn't be uneventful.

The trip up was easy. Coming home proved more of a journey than I'd expected. The students wanted to eat at a restaurant I'd never heard of, but I agreed to drive there -- following their directions. Any thinking person would already be formulating ideas as to how this little scenario went wrong. Stupid is as stupid does. Students who don't drive in the city and who don't really pay attention to their surroundings shouldn't be trusted to give directions, but I think the Boo-boo the Fool Award goes to moi for following said student's directions! We were rapidly approaching Wyoming when I pulled the plug on our adventure. I laughed, and frankly am still laughing because I create these situations often.

All of this made me think about the writer's journey. How often do writers take advice from the well-meaning clueless? Writing doesn't just happen, it's not a hobby; it is work that demands a high level of commitment, and comments from the peanut gallery are unwelcome in this writer's world.

I've decided it's time to re-acquaint myself with my characters. They recently finished Thanksgiving dinner and I left them hanging. C'mon, folks! Richard Simmons would be so proud of me! I'm pushing away from the table and am ready to write, write, write!

Cheer up, Charlie!

How can I begin to sum up the activities and happenings of a year in one blog post? It's not gonna happen. You don't want to read it, and I don't want the hand cramp from writing it.

If the truth be told, a lot of what I've done this past year is hide from my work. Hide from the writing because it costs too much to labor for hours to find myself in a maze that seemingly has no exit. I wrote my characters into a corner, laughing all the way as I did. They've been stuck in the corner for months, and when I think about going all Johnny on them, "No one puts Baby in the corner," I find something else to occupy my time -- like cleaning piles of vomit. This happens and continues to occur because I'm afraid that if I pull up my big girl Underoos, I will have a major re-write ahead.

Just because I've hidden from my book doesn't mean the characters have hidden from me. Oh, no! Those ladies and gents scream at me as soon as they sense I'm surrounded by quiet. Just let the kids be sleeping in my non-ghettoland home, let the TV be off and the phone on silent. The characters call me out. Some of them are down right rude! I haven't been called heifer for real ever! To my knowledge. They asked for an off-scene character to have her spot in the sun. Maybe this is what we all need. To get out of my dreams and onto the page ... beep, beep. Yeah!

Enough silliness, I guess. Must get back to corralling kittens, otherwise known as mucking through piles of puke! And just in case it doesn't appear so, I am grateful for the opportunity of cleaning vomit. That just means there was plenty to eat. Now that's what I call a shift in perspective!