I've fought the idea of getting a Kindle for a long time now. Even when my sister got one and raved about it; even when I had to eighty-six a pair of comfortable shoes to make room for my reading material as we set out for the Pacific Northwest, (the hell with blisterless feet . . . who cares about how heavy my carry-on is . . .); even when Ben, my oldest, came home with his Kindle and showed me the ways it made reading easier and more fun for him.
You see, I'm not unlike many others of my generation who have declined to go there . . . to the technical side, with its seductions of brighter, faster, lighter, easier, cooler. Books have their seductions, too, I argued: Their feel, their heft, so substantial, so familiar; the way we tend to hold them, referentially and close to the heart; the fact that I can buy them for a quarter at rummage sales or take them out for free from the library.
A Kindle, I maintained, would place certain demands on me--like learning how to use it; like learning not to lose it; like having to use PayPal or my debit card to make it work. The last one, that paying business, seems to be something technology is really good at. There's the cable TV, the cell phones, the Internet--all things that show no respect for my frugal ways, which cuts me deeply!
So, imagine my surprise when I opened up a Kindle on Christmas Day. No, I take that back: Imagine my surprise at my delight when I opened up a Kindle on Christmas Day.
It was a thing of beauty . . .
Okay, so I've only downloaded a copy of Anne of Green Gables, which was free (of course). . . and, the first time I sat down to read I couldn't figure out how to turn the page . . . and, I've been afraid to take it out of the house. . .
Still, I love the possibilities. No more adding my name to long waiting lists at the library. No more sighs of anticipation for a new book some reviewer has dangled in front of me. No more fears of being without a book when I travel. And the feature I love best: No more stopping to look up an unfamiliar word in the dictionary. (You see, I love words and the Kindle will give you a definition instantly! No more delayed gratification for this gal, no sirree!)
All I gotta do now is figure out what button to push or arrow to press to make that happen. As soon as I find my way to page two of Anne of Green Gables, I'll do just that. Just watch me!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Medical Records
"The breasts are symmetrical in size, shape and architecture."
Well, who knew? I shared this little tidbit with Katz this morning over breakfast, quoting information my doctor had noted in my medical records during an annual breast exam 10 years back.
The notes from a routine physical were also interesting: "The patient denies skin rashes or itching. Denies slurred speech, double vision, imbalance or headache. Denies feeling blue, depressive symptoms, sleep loss or psychiatric hospitalization." There are also denials about my GI tract, joints, eyes, mouth and heart. After reading this summation, I felt more like I'd been through a criminal investigation than through a check up. Oh, I know questions were asked and answered, it all just felt more conversational and less like a cross examination than the records indicate.
I also found records of a pelvic ultrasound I never had revealing cysts I never had. My records indicate the procedure was conducted on the same day I had a mammogram. My name is on the results of both procedures, but the date of birth is wrong for the ultrasound.
All in all, between interesting word choices and the inclusion of someone else's information, it was an interesting read. It was made all the more interesting because my medical records were almost lost forever.
With the advent of electronic records, more and more paper records are being destroyed daily. A trip to a new ENT who wanted more information on my thyroid cancer from 10 years ago revealed that my old records were missing. With no pathology report or surgeon's notes and recommendations to support my assertion that surgery removed the cancer and resulted in a complete cure, this new doctor suggested I have a MRI.
I balked. I've decided recently it's important in these times of rampant medical tests and out of control costs to challenge physicians on why a test is being ordered, how necessary it is, and what are the physical and financial ramifications of having the test done. Turns out, she told me, if she had my records, she wouldn't need the MRI.
So, four weeks and multiple phone calls later and after some interference from Katz (who happens to work for my health care provider), my records were found. After insisting that pertinent information regarding my cancer history be entered into my electronic record, Katz and I both got our own copies of our records.
So, moral of the story: Don't let flattery distract you (Symmetrical shape and architecture? You sweet talker, you!). Call your doctor and find out how far back your medical history goes and if it doesn't go back far enough, make some noise.
Well, who knew? I shared this little tidbit with Katz this morning over breakfast, quoting information my doctor had noted in my medical records during an annual breast exam 10 years back.
The notes from a routine physical were also interesting: "The patient denies skin rashes or itching. Denies slurred speech, double vision, imbalance or headache. Denies feeling blue, depressive symptoms, sleep loss or psychiatric hospitalization." There are also denials about my GI tract, joints, eyes, mouth and heart. After reading this summation, I felt more like I'd been through a criminal investigation than through a check up. Oh, I know questions were asked and answered, it all just felt more conversational and less like a cross examination than the records indicate.
I also found records of a pelvic ultrasound I never had revealing cysts I never had. My records indicate the procedure was conducted on the same day I had a mammogram. My name is on the results of both procedures, but the date of birth is wrong for the ultrasound.
All in all, between interesting word choices and the inclusion of someone else's information, it was an interesting read. It was made all the more interesting because my medical records were almost lost forever.
With the advent of electronic records, more and more paper records are being destroyed daily. A trip to a new ENT who wanted more information on my thyroid cancer from 10 years ago revealed that my old records were missing. With no pathology report or surgeon's notes and recommendations to support my assertion that surgery removed the cancer and resulted in a complete cure, this new doctor suggested I have a MRI.
I balked. I've decided recently it's important in these times of rampant medical tests and out of control costs to challenge physicians on why a test is being ordered, how necessary it is, and what are the physical and financial ramifications of having the test done. Turns out, she told me, if she had my records, she wouldn't need the MRI.
So, four weeks and multiple phone calls later and after some interference from Katz (who happens to work for my health care provider), my records were found. After insisting that pertinent information regarding my cancer history be entered into my electronic record, Katz and I both got our own copies of our records.
So, moral of the story: Don't let flattery distract you (Symmetrical shape and architecture? You sweet talker, you!). Call your doctor and find out how far back your medical history goes and if it doesn't go back far enough, make some noise.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Green or Gross?
I like to think I have a pretty decent environmental bent. When my now grown kids were little, long before communities picked up recycling, I organized neighborhood teams to collect recyclables and deliver them to the local recycling center. Every 6 weeks, it was our turn to go around to half-a-dozen houses and pick up their weekly recycling. BJ and Josh helped, which made me think I was raising little environmental ambassadors for the future. Today, they're pretty good . . . but not as good as their mother.
These days, some people might say I take things a little far, so I'll let you decide. Besides recycling everything I possibly can--including digging in our trash to retrieve items my less environmentally pure husband tosses out--here are some of my green practices. Weigh in and tell me 1) Way to go! or, 2) Way too far!
1) Composting in a blender - I bought an extra blender at a rummage sale years ago, and my vegetable scraps, fruit rinds and such go in there to be blended with water and added to the compost heap. This compost soup doesn't take long to turn into rich, black dirt once it hits my compost bin, and when it is eventually incorporated into my garden, my plants bow their little flower heads in appreciation. The container goes back under the sink, rinsed occasionally but rarely washed, ready to blend more green debris another day.
2) Paper towels (1) - I use rags or dishcloths a lot where others would use paper towels--that's a no-brainer in my opinion--but I can't swear off paper towels altogether. Still, throwing them away after one use when they haven't been used on a dirty floor or a puddle of grease seems extravagant to me. So, the towels I use to soak up the water from my washed fruit get draped on the clean dishes in the drainer, to be used to pat dry that next washed raspberry or green bean. I'm guessing my reuse factor for draining clean fruit is 1 x 6. Even when I've decided to move on to a new square of toweling, the old one will get one final use to spot clean a drip on the floor before finding it's way into the trash.
3) Paper towels (2) - Despite being chairperson of the environmental impact team at work for two years, we still have bathrooms with paper towels instead of the environmentally preferable air dryers. I need two pieces of toweling to dry my hands sufficiently after a thorough scrubbing, and I have been known to take those towels (dampened only with water from my clean hands, mind you!) back to my desk. They do end up in the trash soon thereafter, but only after they've helped remove a layer of dust from my computer and desk.
4) Paper towels (3) - I've pulled a hunk of toweling from the roll in the produce department of my local grocer, patted dry a cabbage head or too-wet bunch of green onions, then found another use for it. Usually, it travels home with me, gets tossed under the kitchen sink to be used for a future cleaning assignment.
5) Sanitizing wipes - The whole flu thing last year kicked the use of sanitizers way up, and I always grab one of the wipes from the dispenser at the Y when I arrive for my daily workout. I use it to wipe the screen and handles of my favorite treadmill, then I store it behind my water bottle so that it doesn't dry out while I go through my 40 minute routine. When I'm done, I wipe down the machine again with my still moist towelette. Some days I even take the now twice used wipe with me to the car, where I use it to dust my dash.
Quirky? Yes, of course. Frugal? No doubt. Environmentally sound thinking? That's an affirmative. But for the germ-phobic out there, the pristine, the highly sanitized, there might just be a "yuck" factor to consider. So, what do you think? "Way to go" or "Way too far"? Go ahead an "way" in!
These days, some people might say I take things a little far, so I'll let you decide. Besides recycling everything I possibly can--including digging in our trash to retrieve items my less environmentally pure husband tosses out--here are some of my green practices. Weigh in and tell me 1) Way to go! or, 2) Way too far!
1) Composting in a blender - I bought an extra blender at a rummage sale years ago, and my vegetable scraps, fruit rinds and such go in there to be blended with water and added to the compost heap. This compost soup doesn't take long to turn into rich, black dirt once it hits my compost bin, and when it is eventually incorporated into my garden, my plants bow their little flower heads in appreciation. The container goes back under the sink, rinsed occasionally but rarely washed, ready to blend more green debris another day.
2) Paper towels (1) - I use rags or dishcloths a lot where others would use paper towels--that's a no-brainer in my opinion--but I can't swear off paper towels altogether. Still, throwing them away after one use when they haven't been used on a dirty floor or a puddle of grease seems extravagant to me. So, the towels I use to soak up the water from my washed fruit get draped on the clean dishes in the drainer, to be used to pat dry that next washed raspberry or green bean. I'm guessing my reuse factor for draining clean fruit is 1 x 6. Even when I've decided to move on to a new square of toweling, the old one will get one final use to spot clean a drip on the floor before finding it's way into the trash.
3) Paper towels (2) - Despite being chairperson of the environmental impact team at work for two years, we still have bathrooms with paper towels instead of the environmentally preferable air dryers. I need two pieces of toweling to dry my hands sufficiently after a thorough scrubbing, and I have been known to take those towels (dampened only with water from my clean hands, mind you!) back to my desk. They do end up in the trash soon thereafter, but only after they've helped remove a layer of dust from my computer and desk.
4) Paper towels (3) - I've pulled a hunk of toweling from the roll in the produce department of my local grocer, patted dry a cabbage head or too-wet bunch of green onions, then found another use for it. Usually, it travels home with me, gets tossed under the kitchen sink to be used for a future cleaning assignment.
5) Sanitizing wipes - The whole flu thing last year kicked the use of sanitizers way up, and I always grab one of the wipes from the dispenser at the Y when I arrive for my daily workout. I use it to wipe the screen and handles of my favorite treadmill, then I store it behind my water bottle so that it doesn't dry out while I go through my 40 minute routine. When I'm done, I wipe down the machine again with my still moist towelette. Some days I even take the now twice used wipe with me to the car, where I use it to dust my dash.
Quirky? Yes, of course. Frugal? No doubt. Environmentally sound thinking? That's an affirmative. But for the germ-phobic out there, the pristine, the highly sanitized, there might just be a "yuck" factor to consider. So, what do you think? "Way to go" or "Way too far"? Go ahead an "way" in!
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Getting Back on the Horse
Obviously, I am still battling a too full schedule . . . at least it's obvious if you are a regular follower of this blog and can do basic math (November 23 - November 2 = 3 damn weeks). So, quickly, I have several subject ideas percolating in my head, and here are the reasons you should understand why I haven't been blogging and feel sorry for me because my life is so full:
1) A writing deadline (not my book, not my blog) was hanging over my head. As of 2 days ago, I am in pretty good shape with a rewrite of my play "Winging It", which will start rehearsals in January.
2) The basement (see earlier postings). I am two weeks away from my last Tilex application to kill any lingering mold spores, then the painter comes, and then I can put the place back together before a) the neighborhood holiday party, and b) 30+ people arrive for Christmas dinner.
3) The garden. Yee-gods, will this garden never let go of me? It's 20 degrees outside, for heavens sake! Have I finally put away the last garden gnome and added the requisite two inches of compost over the asparagus bed? I hope so.
4) Tomatoes. Tons of green tomatoes were picked before the first frost and have been ripening in the basement. I don't know how to can and don't have the time to learn, so I've been making tomato soup and pasta sauce and delivering ripe tomatoes to friends in need.
5) Sick friends. Dear, funny, good Aggie gets to go home today after suffering a brain bleed due to a fall and spending weeks in ICU and rehab. Generous, no-nonsense, frightened Lynne started chemo yesterday for breast cancer. Sick friends are scary, which proves very distracting.
6) Friends on my mind. These are the ones I haven't been caring for like I should. My friend Jane, on the long road to recovery after losing dear Joe so suddenly early last summer. And there's the old high school friend feeling a little lost after retiring who I promised to get back to and get together with, but haven't. Sharon who is going through a divorce has been on my mental radar but, except for an occasional e-mail, I haven't done my part to be there for her.
7) Work. I work less than 25 hours a week, so I shouldn't complain, but I've taken on a role that means I work two to eight hours 6 days a week, and many of those days the work arrives without much warning and needs immediate attention. It's hard to get a writing rhythm going when you can be and are interrupted frequently.
So, all that being said, I know I shouldn't be complaining. So many people have it worse (see Jane, Lynne and Aggie, above). At least I don't have young children to care for or an unemployed husband. At least I have a sister who lets me bitch to her and a date every Saturday night with the man of my dreams (Yes, Katz, that's you!) At least I have fresh tomatoes to eat and friends who understand when I don't call, a basement of my own to fix and children who seem happy. And, believe it or not, I have people who tell me they like my blog and are waiting for my next posting; people who encourage me to write. What a gift!
Truth be told, Thanksgiving couldn't have come at a better time. Life may be a bit out of control, but it is good nonetheless, and I have tons . . . tons . . . to be thankful for. So, Happy Thanksgiving to you all. And thanks for being there for me on this journey.
1) A writing deadline (not my book, not my blog) was hanging over my head. As of 2 days ago, I am in pretty good shape with a rewrite of my play "Winging It", which will start rehearsals in January.
2) The basement (see earlier postings). I am two weeks away from my last Tilex application to kill any lingering mold spores, then the painter comes, and then I can put the place back together before a) the neighborhood holiday party, and b) 30+ people arrive for Christmas dinner.
3) The garden. Yee-gods, will this garden never let go of me? It's 20 degrees outside, for heavens sake! Have I finally put away the last garden gnome and added the requisite two inches of compost over the asparagus bed? I hope so.
4) Tomatoes. Tons of green tomatoes were picked before the first frost and have been ripening in the basement. I don't know how to can and don't have the time to learn, so I've been making tomato soup and pasta sauce and delivering ripe tomatoes to friends in need.
5) Sick friends. Dear, funny, good Aggie gets to go home today after suffering a brain bleed due to a fall and spending weeks in ICU and rehab. Generous, no-nonsense, frightened Lynne started chemo yesterday for breast cancer. Sick friends are scary, which proves very distracting.
6) Friends on my mind. These are the ones I haven't been caring for like I should. My friend Jane, on the long road to recovery after losing dear Joe so suddenly early last summer. And there's the old high school friend feeling a little lost after retiring who I promised to get back to and get together with, but haven't. Sharon who is going through a divorce has been on my mental radar but, except for an occasional e-mail, I haven't done my part to be there for her.
7) Work. I work less than 25 hours a week, so I shouldn't complain, but I've taken on a role that means I work two to eight hours 6 days a week, and many of those days the work arrives without much warning and needs immediate attention. It's hard to get a writing rhythm going when you can be and are interrupted frequently.
So, all that being said, I know I shouldn't be complaining. So many people have it worse (see Jane, Lynne and Aggie, above). At least I don't have young children to care for or an unemployed husband. At least I have a sister who lets me bitch to her and a date every Saturday night with the man of my dreams (Yes, Katz, that's you!) At least I have fresh tomatoes to eat and friends who understand when I don't call, a basement of my own to fix and children who seem happy. And, believe it or not, I have people who tell me they like my blog and are waiting for my next posting; people who encourage me to write. What a gift!
Truth be told, Thanksgiving couldn't have come at a better time. Life may be a bit out of control, but it is good nonetheless, and I have tons . . . tons . . . to be thankful for. So, Happy Thanksgiving to you all. And thanks for being there for me on this journey.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Election Day
Thank God! No more phone calls, no more TV ads.
That being said, please vote before joining me in putting this election and the bad taste it's left in our mouths behind us.
My hope is that, come November 3, whoever is elected will show a willingness to talk to each other, that they will show a serious interest in seeing a return to civility. We need to see some sanity surface in the politics of this country, an interest in finding common ground and being reasonable, recognizing those issues that unite us instead of only the issues that pit us against each other.
As we go forward, it's good to think about what that wise, old sage Jon Stewart said:
“We live now in hard times, not end times.”
Amen.
That being said, please vote before joining me in putting this election and the bad taste it's left in our mouths behind us.
My hope is that, come November 3, whoever is elected will show a willingness to talk to each other, that they will show a serious interest in seeing a return to civility. We need to see some sanity surface in the politics of this country, an interest in finding common ground and being reasonable, recognizing those issues that unite us instead of only the issues that pit us against each other.
As we go forward, it's good to think about what that wise, old sage Jon Stewart said:
“We live now in hard times, not end times.”
Amen.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Joy of Cleaning
My house is filthy--no really; it's filthy!
That's because we've been under construction for two days--inside and out--having the house waterproofed. Now that the workers have packed up and left, along with a significant amount of our savings, there is dust and grit ev-er-y-wheeeeere. I'm cleaning rooms from top to bottom, extracting remnants of our basement from nooks and crannies that haven't seen a dust rag in awhile, and I've only polished off a couple of rooms all told.
It's Sunday, and I figure I'll be back at it again for the whole day.
So how come I enjoyed myself so much yesterday? How come I'm looking forward to grabbing that bucket of water and my Dyson and digging in again today? Part of it is that cleaning up this mess means my house is getting that thorough, the Pope-is-coming-to-visit cleaning that should get done at least twice a year but only seems to get done once a decade. Part of it is I'm not willing to chew food sprinkled with pulverized stone, nor do I like the feeling of living 24-7 on a beach. But while on my hands and knees wringing out the black (yes black) water from my sponge as I wiped down the hallway that had seen hundreds of buckets of busted concrete and fresh cement travel through, it occur ed to me that I was happy because of what I couldn't do instead.
I couldn't write.
In a world where we are always prioritizing, writing should be right up there for me. I've told everyone--family, friends, neighbors, business associates, the attendant at the Y, small town law enforcement officers--that I am writing a book and I want to finish it in a year. I've started my own accountability blog so others can hold my feet to the fire. I've done everything but set my computer up on the sidewalk to draw attention to my quest in hopes that such attention will spur me on to completion and shame me when I falter.
Unfortunately, none of that accountability hoo-haa has worked like I thought it would. I'm dealing with time issues and I've got a healthy dose of writer's block, true, but I'm also a somewhat self-indulgent person who doesn't want to give up a paycheck, gardening, reading, cooking, dates with Katz, dinner out with the girls, and a prime time TV addiction, so writing often gets short shrift.
What the accountability hoo-haa has done is given me a load of guilt to carry around. It has taken all those things I love to do from being a natural, normal part of my day and turned them into conscious choices I must make. When I choose to do something I love to do, I am often left with that you-are-not-a-very-good-person taste in my mouth because I don't choose to write. But, cleaning my house--well, it's not a choice right now, it's a must do or Katz will move out and the health department will slap a Dirty Dining sticker on my front door.
I just can't write today. I just can't.
What a relief.
That's because we've been under construction for two days--inside and out--having the house waterproofed. Now that the workers have packed up and left, along with a significant amount of our savings, there is dust and grit ev-er-y-wheeeeere. I'm cleaning rooms from top to bottom, extracting remnants of our basement from nooks and crannies that haven't seen a dust rag in awhile, and I've only polished off a couple of rooms all told.
It's Sunday, and I figure I'll be back at it again for the whole day.
So how come I enjoyed myself so much yesterday? How come I'm looking forward to grabbing that bucket of water and my Dyson and digging in again today? Part of it is that cleaning up this mess means my house is getting that thorough, the Pope-is-coming-to-visit cleaning that should get done at least twice a year but only seems to get done once a decade. Part of it is I'm not willing to chew food sprinkled with pulverized stone, nor do I like the feeling of living 24-7 on a beach. But while on my hands and knees wringing out the black (yes black) water from my sponge as I wiped down the hallway that had seen hundreds of buckets of busted concrete and fresh cement travel through, it occur ed to me that I was happy because of what I couldn't do instead.
I couldn't write.
In a world where we are always prioritizing, writing should be right up there for me. I've told everyone--family, friends, neighbors, business associates, the attendant at the Y, small town law enforcement officers--that I am writing a book and I want to finish it in a year. I've started my own accountability blog so others can hold my feet to the fire. I've done everything but set my computer up on the sidewalk to draw attention to my quest in hopes that such attention will spur me on to completion and shame me when I falter.
Unfortunately, none of that accountability hoo-haa has worked like I thought it would. I'm dealing with time issues and I've got a healthy dose of writer's block, true, but I'm also a somewhat self-indulgent person who doesn't want to give up a paycheck, gardening, reading, cooking, dates with Katz, dinner out with the girls, and a prime time TV addiction, so writing often gets short shrift.
What the accountability hoo-haa has done is given me a load of guilt to carry around. It has taken all those things I love to do from being a natural, normal part of my day and turned them into conscious choices I must make. When I choose to do something I love to do, I am often left with that you-are-not-a-very-good-person taste in my mouth because I don't choose to write. But, cleaning my house--well, it's not a choice right now, it's a must do or Katz will move out and the health department will slap a Dirty Dining sticker on my front door.
I just can't write today. I just can't.
What a relief.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Kindness of Strangers
I'm one of those huggy sort of people. I probably drive some folks a little crazy, but that's the way it is. I'm a bonder. I connect with folks quickly over big things, little things--it doesn't much matter. For people who don't like to be touched or hugged, I should probably come with a warning. Got something in common with me? Better not mention it or you might get hugged. Find yourself too close to me in an emotional situation, say in Central Park mulling over John Lennon's absence from this earth at Strawberry Fields and, whoa baby, better not come too close. Do something nice for me? Watch out. And don't even think about being sad or vulnerable, 'cause I'll be on you like white on rice.
So it shouldn't surprise anyone that yesterday found me leaning through a car window in the middle of the Pick 'N Save parking lot hugging a woman who, two minutes earlier, had been a complete stranger.
I was returning to my car after delivering my cart to the store when I spotted a woman jockeying her car into a parking space next to mine. As I hopped into the driver's seat, she caught my eye. She rolled down her window and motioned to me, and I remember thinking (not so nicely), "What now?" I'd just finished shopping for the week and, as Katz will tell you, I'm a chop-chop sort of person--shop, get home (driving slightly over the speed limit), put those groceries away, and move on to the other dozen things on my to-do list for the day. Did I want to take time to talk to some unknown, middle-aged black woman in a parking lot? No, but of course, just like anybody else would, I did.
"You're missing the cap to your tire valve."
"Really?"
"Your air could leak out and you could have a flat tire."
"I had no idea. Thank you for saying something."
"Do you want one?"
"What?"
"Do you want a cap?"
"You have a spare cap? Really?"
"My tire had the same problem last week, so I bought a pack."
In the end, I got a cap for my tire, she got hugged by a crazy lady from the suburbs, and we both, I think, went on to have a better day.
So it shouldn't surprise anyone that yesterday found me leaning through a car window in the middle of the Pick 'N Save parking lot hugging a woman who, two minutes earlier, had been a complete stranger.
I was returning to my car after delivering my cart to the store when I spotted a woman jockeying her car into a parking space next to mine. As I hopped into the driver's seat, she caught my eye. She rolled down her window and motioned to me, and I remember thinking (not so nicely), "What now?" I'd just finished shopping for the week and, as Katz will tell you, I'm a chop-chop sort of person--shop, get home (driving slightly over the speed limit), put those groceries away, and move on to the other dozen things on my to-do list for the day. Did I want to take time to talk to some unknown, middle-aged black woman in a parking lot? No, but of course, just like anybody else would, I did.
"You're missing the cap to your tire valve."
"Really?"
"Your air could leak out and you could have a flat tire."
"I had no idea. Thank you for saying something."
"Do you want one?"
"What?"
"Do you want a cap?"
"You have a spare cap? Really?"
"My tire had the same problem last week, so I bought a pack."
In the end, I got a cap for my tire, she got hugged by a crazy lady from the suburbs, and we both, I think, went on to have a better day.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
And They Danced . . .
It was a great wedding on many levels--a very personal service with a sense of heart, humor and an impromptu nod to Broadway; a reception hall dripping with history, with beauty to spare; old friends to reconnect with; music, music, music. There was a lot to enjoy, but the dancing, ahh, the dancing was what made the evening.
The bride and groom both love to dance, and they’re darn good. It was a blast to watch the groom dance. Ian's got talent and style, and he danced with attitude. Still, as I reflect on that evening in September, it’s the memory of the bride that makes me smile.
Maggie danced in heels a mile high, and she danced in bare feet. She shimmied, she moved her hips, she danced high, she danced low. She hit the dance floor with her new husband, her dad, her friends, the African Dance Troupe she performs with—-she even sought out the DJ and danced with him. She oozed happiness and the guests could hardly take their eyes off of her.
As I watched her, what touched my heart was her freedom and her joy; she was unabashed and danced with abandon. She was just plain fun to watch.
I love the idea of “abandon,” that ability to yield without restraint and moderation. The way I see it, in life these days there’s an awful lot holding us down, weighing on us. People are angrier and more uptight than ever before, there’s no patience and too little faith. I'm pretty sure a sense of abandon would seriously interfere with all the shouting and despair. It would definitely cut in to all the time people spend texting instead of connecting, and it would probably put a damper on certain people’s concern with appearances.
So, let’s all take up where Maggie left off. Let’s all dance more, laugh harder, seek out the joy in a fall Wisconsin day, carve a crazy pumpkin, jump in a pile of leaves, hug a friend, sing out loud, share a joke, and in general just experience life with abandon. What could be bad about that?
The bride and groom both love to dance, and they’re darn good. It was a blast to watch the groom dance. Ian's got talent and style, and he danced with attitude. Still, as I reflect on that evening in September, it’s the memory of the bride that makes me smile.
Maggie danced in heels a mile high, and she danced in bare feet. She shimmied, she moved her hips, she danced high, she danced low. She hit the dance floor with her new husband, her dad, her friends, the African Dance Troupe she performs with—-she even sought out the DJ and danced with him. She oozed happiness and the guests could hardly take their eyes off of her.
As I watched her, what touched my heart was her freedom and her joy; she was unabashed and danced with abandon. She was just plain fun to watch.
I love the idea of “abandon,” that ability to yield without restraint and moderation. The way I see it, in life these days there’s an awful lot holding us down, weighing on us. People are angrier and more uptight than ever before, there’s no patience and too little faith. I'm pretty sure a sense of abandon would seriously interfere with all the shouting and despair. It would definitely cut in to all the time people spend texting instead of connecting, and it would probably put a damper on certain people’s concern with appearances.
So, let’s all take up where Maggie left off. Let’s all dance more, laugh harder, seek out the joy in a fall Wisconsin day, carve a crazy pumpkin, jump in a pile of leaves, hug a friend, sing out loud, share a joke, and in general just experience life with abandon. What could be bad about that?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
The Days Slip Away
By 10:30 this morning I'd:
- Thrown in a load of wash
- Worked out at the Y
- Picked up a few things at the grocery store
- Had breakfast
- Got my hair colored
- Made a deposit at the bank and set up online banking for myself
- Set up an appointment with the allergist
- Gotten a flu vaccine, and
- Fielded a call from work
The rest of the day was no less busy, which was par for a week that included 24 hours lost to food poisoning, too many hours in the office, an evening out with Katz to celebrate our anniversary, time put in on a play-writing project with a deadline, and a major house cleaning effort as we prepare for house guests (son BJ and a (girl) friend) and a work party.
This is my life and my excuse for not blogging and for not working on my book. I've got to stop the madness somehow or chapters seven-and-up will never get done.
I'm starting to think it's not going to happen.
- Thrown in a load of wash
- Worked out at the Y
- Picked up a few things at the grocery store
- Had breakfast
- Got my hair colored
- Made a deposit at the bank and set up online banking for myself
- Set up an appointment with the allergist
- Gotten a flu vaccine, and
- Fielded a call from work
The rest of the day was no less busy, which was par for a week that included 24 hours lost to food poisoning, too many hours in the office, an evening out with Katz to celebrate our anniversary, time put in on a play-writing project with a deadline, and a major house cleaning effort as we prepare for house guests (son BJ and a (girl) friend) and a work party.
This is my life and my excuse for not blogging and for not working on my book. I've got to stop the madness somehow or chapters seven-and-up will never get done.
I'm starting to think it's not going to happen.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Wooed by Shakespeare
Went to see Shakespeare yesterday with my sister, Mary. We saw the incredible American Players Theatre troupe perform As You Like It in the round, outside, on a seasonal, overcast fall day in the beauty of rural Wisconsin. It was awe inspiring!
Theatre in and of itself is a wonderful thing. I've written my share of plays, so I'm kind of partial to the medium, and of course, Shakespeare was genius. The more you see his work, the better it gets; more nuances are revealed with each reading or viewing, and the poetry, juxtaposition and depth of his words only intensify.
Besides the play, the acting caliber, and the setting, two things stand out from the day. The first is how much I enjoy spending time with Mary. We have a lifetime in common and we love the same people--a great foundation for conversation.
The other thing I loved about the experience was the audience. It was a rare late morning performance, timed to promote school participation and the audience was three-fourths students. You always take a chance mixing teenagers with Shakespeare. Will they understand his humor? Can they follow the story? Will the challenge of Shakespeare's language put up a wall?
It was probably a combination of the stellar acting and the intelligence of the students present, but these kids got it. The laughed, they sighed (out loud, no less), they clapped. But they saved their most impressive reaction for the curtain call. On a day when the clouds kept a tight hold on the rain, when the mosquitoes were in hiding, and when the play had perfect pitch, the youngest members of an appreciative audience were the first on their feet, pulling the rest of us with them.
In a day and age when standing-o's are too cheaply given, yesterday's was well deserved. The students didn't look right or left to see who else was standing, they didn't hesitate to leap to their feet, there was even a hearty whistle or two.
All in all, it was a fitting response to great theatre. Kudos to the American Players Theatre for casting their spell, to the National Endowment of the Arts for subsidizing Shakespearean theatre for youth across the country, to English and Theatre teachers who see fit to challenge their students, and to the students themselves for taking on the master and learning to love him.
Theatre in and of itself is a wonderful thing. I've written my share of plays, so I'm kind of partial to the medium, and of course, Shakespeare was genius. The more you see his work, the better it gets; more nuances are revealed with each reading or viewing, and the poetry, juxtaposition and depth of his words only intensify.
Besides the play, the acting caliber, and the setting, two things stand out from the day. The first is how much I enjoy spending time with Mary. We have a lifetime in common and we love the same people--a great foundation for conversation.
The other thing I loved about the experience was the audience. It was a rare late morning performance, timed to promote school participation and the audience was three-fourths students. You always take a chance mixing teenagers with Shakespeare. Will they understand his humor? Can they follow the story? Will the challenge of Shakespeare's language put up a wall?
It was probably a combination of the stellar acting and the intelligence of the students present, but these kids got it. The laughed, they sighed (out loud, no less), they clapped. But they saved their most impressive reaction for the curtain call. On a day when the clouds kept a tight hold on the rain, when the mosquitoes were in hiding, and when the play had perfect pitch, the youngest members of an appreciative audience were the first on their feet, pulling the rest of us with them.
In a day and age when standing-o's are too cheaply given, yesterday's was well deserved. The students didn't look right or left to see who else was standing, they didn't hesitate to leap to their feet, there was even a hearty whistle or two.
All in all, it was a fitting response to great theatre. Kudos to the American Players Theatre for casting their spell, to the National Endowment of the Arts for subsidizing Shakespearean theatre for youth across the country, to English and Theatre teachers who see fit to challenge their students, and to the students themselves for taking on the master and learning to love him.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Discoveries Away from Home
We love discovering new places, and our trip to Mt. Rainer, Vancouver, Victoria, and Seattle was a blast. Here are some highlights:
- Archer fish: They catch their breakfast by spitting water at bugs in the air
-Thousand year old trees and a tree root big enough to shelter a half-dozen people
-A suspension bridge in the midst of an old forest
-Elk standing below moss encased trees
-A sub-alpine meadow chock full of wild flowers, deer and a purple grouse
-A surprising garden of incredible beauty built in a quarry almost 100 years ago
-A perfect rose
-A poem that moved us:
"Whether our lives and our deaths were for peace
And a new hope, or for nothing, we cannot say . . .
We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
We were young. We have died. Remember us."
Archibald McLish
-A thought-provoking sign in the woods with a sentiment Katz hopes to impart to the folks at work: Change: Rule Without Exception
-Pike Place Market's flying fish
-Ladder climbing salmon
-Cindy Lauper singing the blues in a leather suit and Raggedy Ann wig
-Using GPS for the first time and loving it. We named it Mary.
-A chicken purse--We passed on buying it, but it made us laugh
-The best new reading glasses in the whole, wide world
-Time to talk, read, love, laugh, relax, reflect, refresh
-Coming home
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Blog I Should Have Posted Three Weeks Ago
Vacations would be so worth it if we could skip the packing part. I dread pulling out the old suitcase, and when I finally do get around to it, it takes hours to figure out what's going to accompany me on my journey.
The clothes I wear comfortably, happily every day turned to dreck as I start packing for our trip to the Pacific Northwest.
Nothing from my closet looks spiffy enough, nothing fits quite right. I always pack too much, and yet invariably I have regrets about leaving some thing necessary behind.
Packing is an imprecise science and a real stresser, and that's only the beginning of the joys of traveling these days. Follow that experience with long lines and security checks, worries about flying, concerns that something important has been forgotten and who wouldn't need a vacation?
Wish us luck. The weather forecast is seasonal and sunny and we'll be visiting new places. I'll be back to blogging in September but first I'm going to see some mountains, some whales, a world class garden or two, and a lot of Katz. If I didn't have to pack, it would all be perfect!
P.S. It's September 13th and we've been back for over a week now. My apologies for the long break. I hope to have a story or two about the trip for you shortly as I finally get my rhythm going again. Thanks for being patient.
The clothes I wear comfortably, happily every day turned to dreck as I start packing for our trip to the Pacific Northwest.
Nothing from my closet looks spiffy enough, nothing fits quite right. I always pack too much, and yet invariably I have regrets about leaving some thing necessary behind.
Packing is an imprecise science and a real stresser, and that's only the beginning of the joys of traveling these days. Follow that experience with long lines and security checks, worries about flying, concerns that something important has been forgotten and who wouldn't need a vacation?
Wish us luck. The weather forecast is seasonal and sunny and we'll be visiting new places. I'll be back to blogging in September but first I'm going to see some mountains, some whales, a world class garden or two, and a lot of Katz. If I didn't have to pack, it would all be perfect!
P.S. It's September 13th and we've been back for over a week now. My apologies for the long break. I hope to have a story or two about the trip for you shortly as I finally get my rhythm going again. Thanks for being patient.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Saying No
Katz said no to me yesterday and I was mad all day.
Here's how it went:
I wanted him to do something I felt was important but I knew he wouldn't be entirely comfortable doing. It was a parenting thing and he's very much a let's-not-do-anything-unless-it's-a-crisis sort of parent, where I'm more of a we-can-make-our-adult-children's-lives-much-better-by-sharing-our-wisdom sort of parent, so this is not the first time I've asked, he's said "no," and I've been mad.
Still, I've learned to pick and choose what I ask for, so even before I opened my mouth, I thought the conversation through carefully and tried to choose an opportune time. Besides my best efforts, he still said no.
Now, I'm not a prima donna; I don't need to always hear yes. And I went into this conversation knowing it was an iffy proposition, so I even saw it coming. I expected no and I would have accepted no. The problem is that "No" isn't a literal translation of our conversation.
Katz listened to the question, muttered something not very nice that included the words "nose out of it" and then got quiet.
"I know, I know," I said. "You don't want to, right?" I asked.
"I'll think about it."
And that's when I got mad.
Now, to be fair, Katz is a near-perfect husband. We don't agree on everything but we rarely fight. However, when we do, it's most often due to "a failure to communicate," so this is a historical problem for us. Katz is funny, good hearted, a great husband and father, and he COMMUNICATES for a living, so my question is, how come he just can't say no? Better yet, how come he can't figure out a way to say no and still make me feel okay about being turned down.
In my imagination, I can deal with the perfect rejection. All I need is a kind voice, the understanding that I'm not a lunatic for making my request, and a non-defensive, soft spoken explanation that he's just not comfortable in the role I want him to play. I get that! I understand that!
What I don't understand is why--when he knows that "I'll think about it" means "no" and he's darn sure he's done all the thinking about it he needs to and will never change his mind and will never revisit the conversation again if it's up to him--he can't just say no and put me out of my misery.
Of course, the fact that I'm finishing this posting on Wednesday and I've been quietly mad at him since Sunday morning reveals that I have my own communication issues. Katz knows I'm unhappy and, to his credit, I know that makes him unhappy, too, but instead of dealing with it, he's walking around on eggshells.
Writing and the passage of a few days have dampened my anger, and at least on my end, we're getting close to detente. But oh how easy, oh how sweet it would have been, if he only would have said "no" instead of "I'll think about it."
Here's how it went:
I wanted him to do something I felt was important but I knew he wouldn't be entirely comfortable doing. It was a parenting thing and he's very much a let's-not-do-anything-unless-it's-a-crisis sort of parent, where I'm more of a we-can-make-our-adult-children's-lives-much-better-by-sharing-our-wisdom sort of parent, so this is not the first time I've asked, he's said "no," and I've been mad.
Still, I've learned to pick and choose what I ask for, so even before I opened my mouth, I thought the conversation through carefully and tried to choose an opportune time. Besides my best efforts, he still said no.
Now, I'm not a prima donna; I don't need to always hear yes. And I went into this conversation knowing it was an iffy proposition, so I even saw it coming. I expected no and I would have accepted no. The problem is that "No" isn't a literal translation of our conversation.
Katz listened to the question, muttered something not very nice that included the words "nose out of it" and then got quiet.
"I know, I know," I said. "You don't want to, right?" I asked.
"I'll think about it."
And that's when I got mad.
Now, to be fair, Katz is a near-perfect husband. We don't agree on everything but we rarely fight. However, when we do, it's most often due to "a failure to communicate," so this is a historical problem for us. Katz is funny, good hearted, a great husband and father, and he COMMUNICATES for a living, so my question is, how come he just can't say no? Better yet, how come he can't figure out a way to say no and still make me feel okay about being turned down.
In my imagination, I can deal with the perfect rejection. All I need is a kind voice, the understanding that I'm not a lunatic for making my request, and a non-defensive, soft spoken explanation that he's just not comfortable in the role I want him to play. I get that! I understand that!
What I don't understand is why--when he knows that "I'll think about it" means "no" and he's darn sure he's done all the thinking about it he needs to and will never change his mind and will never revisit the conversation again if it's up to him--he can't just say no and put me out of my misery.
Of course, the fact that I'm finishing this posting on Wednesday and I've been quietly mad at him since Sunday morning reveals that I have my own communication issues. Katz knows I'm unhappy and, to his credit, I know that makes him unhappy, too, but instead of dealing with it, he's walking around on eggshells.
Writing and the passage of a few days have dampened my anger, and at least on my end, we're getting close to detente. But oh how easy, oh how sweet it would have been, if he only would have said "no" instead of "I'll think about it."
Saturday, August 14, 2010
First Mystery
I've always loved mysteries! It started with Nancy Drew when I was a kid and went from there. Early favorites were Agatha Christie's English mysteries, Dick Francis's jockey-hero puzzles, Dashiell Hammett's slender, ice cold and crisply written detective tales, and Josephine Tey's brilliant Daughter of Time. More current mystery writers I appreciate include the hilarious Janet Evanovich and Carl Hiaasen, and Alexander McCall Smith's gentle and lovely No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series. There are dozens more writers I could mention, but needless to say, with this kind of reading history, my comfort with the mystery genre is not all that surprising.
So, for your amusement, resurrected from the flood waters of our basement, is the first mystery I ever wrote. If memory serves me, I wrote it when I was maybe 14 and very melodramatic. It has no grade on it, so I obviously wrote it for my own pleasure.
Enjoy!
Untitled
I saw her walking down the street,
I almost died of fright.
My heart was going wild
This really wasn't right.
She walked along so slowly,
A smile upon her face,
A drop of blood laid on her cheek,
A sign of death it traced.
I heard her say "Hello John,
It's been so long a time.
Whatever came between us?
I believe it was some crime.
It was you who did the nasty job,
Of that at least I'm sure.
It was a foggy night like this,
The diamonds were your lure.
You set them on the table
And forward I did come,
And when I was a foot away
You shot me with your gun.
I laid there on the bloody floor
And you stood o'er me laughing;
Now that you committed crime
You found it rather smashing.
You hurt my feelings, John my love,
But seeing that it's done,
It's now my turn to laugh with glee
For I have got the gun.
Bang, you're dead! Why you're trembling dear.
Did you think I pulled the trigger?
Don't slip away, Johnny my darling,
I've only to move my finger.
Should I shoot you through the head or heart?
I must take careful aim.
Did you know that is is rather fun?
It's almost like a game.
When you shot me it was quite a mess
So I must take my time.
It really is a shame, you know,
To be shot down in your prime.
They called you 'John the wonderful,'
They called you 'John the great.'
It's sad but now they'll have to call you
Young John Brown, the late.
I'm dead, you know that very well,
But still my ghost walks on,
And so I swear on this cold gun
that you'll be dead by dawn."
Next day did the headlines read:
"We say with quite a quiver.
John Brown now lies in his grave,
He fell into the river."
Copyright 2010
So, for your amusement, resurrected from the flood waters of our basement, is the first mystery I ever wrote. If memory serves me, I wrote it when I was maybe 14 and very melodramatic. It has no grade on it, so I obviously wrote it for my own pleasure.
Enjoy!
Untitled
I saw her walking down the street,
I almost died of fright.
My heart was going wild
This really wasn't right.
She walked along so slowly,
A smile upon her face,
A drop of blood laid on her cheek,
A sign of death it traced.
I heard her say "Hello John,
It's been so long a time.
Whatever came between us?
I believe it was some crime.
It was you who did the nasty job,
Of that at least I'm sure.
It was a foggy night like this,
The diamonds were your lure.
You set them on the table
And forward I did come,
And when I was a foot away
You shot me with your gun.
I laid there on the bloody floor
And you stood o'er me laughing;
Now that you committed crime
You found it rather smashing.
You hurt my feelings, John my love,
But seeing that it's done,
It's now my turn to laugh with glee
For I have got the gun.
Bang, you're dead! Why you're trembling dear.
Did you think I pulled the trigger?
Don't slip away, Johnny my darling,
I've only to move my finger.
Should I shoot you through the head or heart?
I must take careful aim.
Did you know that is is rather fun?
It's almost like a game.
When you shot me it was quite a mess
So I must take my time.
It really is a shame, you know,
To be shot down in your prime.
They called you 'John the wonderful,'
They called you 'John the great.'
It's sad but now they'll have to call you
Young John Brown, the late.
I'm dead, you know that very well,
But still my ghost walks on,
And so I swear on this cold gun
that you'll be dead by dawn."
Next day did the headlines read:
"We say with quite a quiver.
John Brown now lies in his grave,
He fell into the river."
Copyright 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Moving On
When we were kids, an infrequent but favorite activity was watching family movies together. Dad was both filmmaker and projectionist in the Devitt family. He'd set up the projector in the recreation room and after dark, often on a summer night, we'd all grab a chair or a place on the floor in front of the screen and watch the movies of our lives. We'd laugh at brothers in bow ties and matching plaid jackets and sisters in crinoline dresses, Easter bonnets and gloves. Sometimes an old neighbor or a younger version of my parents' friends or our great aunts and uncles would work their way onto the screen and a chorus of voices would rush to identify the mystery person.
I thought about these days yesterday when I tossed out a box of the photo slides Katz and I used to archive our early life together. There were slides of our wedding faded (and not very clear), of my dog Jody, of Katz with lots of facial hair and me wearing a fall (the 1970s version of extensions), of old friends who are no longer in our lives, and younger versions of my brothers and sisters.
It often takes a crisis to light a fire under most of us when it comes to checking off those projects we put on our mental "I Need to Do This Before It's Too Late" lists. You know, things like writing or updating a will, getting those Medical Power of Attorney documents witnessed and distributed, or signing up for an off-site, online backup for your my-life-as-I-know-it-will-end-if-I-lose-these computer files. I had just such a crisis when the floods came and a single box of slides got wet.
So, after two-plus weeks of schlepping a combination of the utilitarian, junk, memories, documents, and equipment out of the damp down under, then cleaning, drying, tossing, and organizing the basement of our lives,I finally had time to look at the wet box of slides. They were from our Partners in Crime days, a period of seven years that Katz and I consider to be one of the high points of our life. Part business and all pleasure, the mystery weekends we created at local resorts and on two Caribbean cruises came at a time when we were starting our family and stretching our creativity. The business helped me start my writing career, gave Katz a fresh audience nine times a year, made us a little money, and established friendships that have lasted upwards of 20-some years. When I found the slides weren't damaged, I trucked them over to the local Walgreens for a consult. Two days later, they were on a CD, preserved (hopefully) forever.
Over the years, we've shown the slides on a couple of occasions to the PIC group with the same results as family move night. The soundtrack is always voices shouting out, recalling specifics of a night or a group or a resort or a script or a performance, a cacophony of memories. As I tossed out the original slides, I knew I would never have to worry about losing them again, which made me happy. But I suddenly realized that the joy of sitting around a movie screen in a darkened room, sharing memories with people I love to the click click click sound of slides dropping in front of the light, will also never happen again. Like family movie night, those days are gone. And that's a little sad.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Old Manuscript Resurfaces
When I was a kid, my old man, Izzy Bloom, used to tell me my instincts were as off base as a runner from first rounding second just as the shortstop gets around to catching the pop up. When I got a little older, good old Dad kept pace with my libido by saying I had the instincts of a eunuch in a whorehouse.
I have to admit, there were times when I proved him right.
Still, I've always said if a fellow can't believe in himself, who can he believe in, right? And so when I looked at the 8 x 10 glossy in my hand, I accepted my premonition without question. I was so sure, in fact, that if old Izzy himself--God rest his soul--had been standing there betting his last ten bucks that I was crazy to think this dame was going to bring me trouble, I would have taken his bet at a hundred to one odds.
This is the first page of the first book I wrote over 15 years ago. It was right after I'd sold my mystery weekend business, which had been a huge personal (if not financial) success for seven years, and it was an adaptation of one of my mystery weekend scripts.
I signed with a NY agent who found "Drawn to Murder" promising, and she spent two years getting it rejected by all the big publishers. She sent me one rejection from an editor at St. Martin Press saying they'd like to see anything else this "promising" writer had to offer.
I've never been great at handling rejection, and I finally told my agent to throw in the towel. I had written a children's novel that she'd liked, too, but that never found a publishing home either, and in the back of my mind this meant I wasn't as good of a writer as I thought I was. Both books had been hard work, and although to this day I get encouragement/harassment from Katz to write that million dollar book so he can quit his job, I never have sat down and started another one . . . until now.
"Drawn to Murder" surfaced again, soggy but salvageable from the second of two basement floods that hit us in July. The pages are curled and look a little aged, but for the first time in 15-some years, I'm reading the book I wrote so long ago. The tone of the book is humorous, the writing is taut, and I like what I've read so far.
It's nice to know it really was a very good manuscript making the rounds back then, and I'm less embarrassed by the memory of my failure. Even more importantly, I'm anxious to get back to the new book. It has faced the obstacles of multiple power failures, floods, summer distractions, and an all-absorbing garden tour, and has barely progressed this summer. Although the first book had a beginning, a middle and an end before I even started writing it, I remember it took a year of hard work to finish. The book I'm writing now has an idea, a setting, and some characters, and I've given myself the same 12-month deadline, so I'm already feeling the difficulty quotient rise. Still, after seeing what I did once, I am encouraged I can do it again.
I have to admit, there were times when I proved him right.
Still, I've always said if a fellow can't believe in himself, who can he believe in, right? And so when I looked at the 8 x 10 glossy in my hand, I accepted my premonition without question. I was so sure, in fact, that if old Izzy himself--God rest his soul--had been standing there betting his last ten bucks that I was crazy to think this dame was going to bring me trouble, I would have taken his bet at a hundred to one odds.
This is the first page of the first book I wrote over 15 years ago. It was right after I'd sold my mystery weekend business, which had been a huge personal (if not financial) success for seven years, and it was an adaptation of one of my mystery weekend scripts.
I signed with a NY agent who found "Drawn to Murder" promising, and she spent two years getting it rejected by all the big publishers. She sent me one rejection from an editor at St. Martin Press saying they'd like to see anything else this "promising" writer had to offer.
I've never been great at handling rejection, and I finally told my agent to throw in the towel. I had written a children's novel that she'd liked, too, but that never found a publishing home either, and in the back of my mind this meant I wasn't as good of a writer as I thought I was. Both books had been hard work, and although to this day I get encouragement/harassment from Katz to write that million dollar book so he can quit his job, I never have sat down and started another one . . . until now.
"Drawn to Murder" surfaced again, soggy but salvageable from the second of two basement floods that hit us in July. The pages are curled and look a little aged, but for the first time in 15-some years, I'm reading the book I wrote so long ago. The tone of the book is humorous, the writing is taut, and I like what I've read so far.
It's nice to know it really was a very good manuscript making the rounds back then, and I'm less embarrassed by the memory of my failure. Even more importantly, I'm anxious to get back to the new book. It has faced the obstacles of multiple power failures, floods, summer distractions, and an all-absorbing garden tour, and has barely progressed this summer. Although the first book had a beginning, a middle and an end before I even started writing it, I remember it took a year of hard work to finish. The book I'm writing now has an idea, a setting, and some characters, and I've given myself the same 12-month deadline, so I'm already feeling the difficulty quotient rise. Still, after seeing what I did once, I am encouraged I can do it again.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
New Blog Options
As I find myself still starved for feedback, I have added a couple of new features to the blog that I'm hoping will help.
Look for the "reaction" buttons on the bottom of each entry. As you read the new enteries, let me know what you think. Or if there was a particular entry that affected you (one way or the other), go back and punch a button.
Several icons now appear that will allow you to e-mail an entry to a friend or share it on Facebook, or do other things that I'm not familiar with but you might be!
Thanks for being a follower--either officially or not--and take advantage of these new options to keep me motivated or get me redirected. I can't wait to hear from you!
PS: Thanks to Emily for being a frequent commentor. She has become my favorite person in the world (next to Katz and kids) because of her willingness to join the dance!
Look for the "reaction" buttons on the bottom of each entry. As you read the new enteries, let me know what you think. Or if there was a particular entry that affected you (one way or the other), go back and punch a button.
Several icons now appear that will allow you to e-mail an entry to a friend or share it on Facebook, or do other things that I'm not familiar with but you might be!
Thanks for being a follower--either officially or not--and take advantage of these new options to keep me motivated or get me redirected. I can't wait to hear from you!
PS: Thanks to Emily for being a frequent commentor. She has become my favorite person in the world (next to Katz and kids) because of her willingness to join the dance!
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
No Respect
One of the fan favorites at the garden tour was my Rose of Sharon ('Althea'), which surprised me. "Wait, wait, wait," I wanted to say whenever they asked about it, "Have you seen the Foxglove? Or the Cleome? And don't overlook the Weeping Birch, and those stunning Dahlias."
Truth be told, my surprise was that others loved a long-timer in my garden that we've moved three times and that sheds blooms frightfully as the Japanese beetles settle in for a favorite meal. It's a plant that gets little respect from me, as a rule. Still, all that love directed its way made me step back and take a second look. Hmm. Nice shape. Flowers that make a statement. Nicely trimmed, as it was for the tour, it anchors a bed and provides structure, making every other plant more purposeful, giving definition and backbone to the garden.
As you can see from the photos, it's a pretty little thing with buds that plump up and swell, and blooms that extend and stretch, seducing the honeybees and coating them with pollen.
It makes me wonder what else in my life is under appreciated, what things of beauty and substance have suffered from being taken for granted. Friends? Family? Marriage? Books?
Perhaps all of these take a beating as life gets busy and priorities shift. Time to refocus. Time to remember what's important. Time to respect the ordinary things for the support they give to our lives.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Feeling Invisible
I owe my kids an apology.
I got together with a group of good friends this week for dinner and to celebrate a birthday. This is one of three groups of women I get together with a few times a year for dinner and conversation, and this particular group goes back longer than any of the others. We lived in the same neighborhood and raised our children together. Our kids attended the same grade school, had the same teachers. We sat on buses together for field trips, attended school and scouting events together, got to know each others husbands, socialized as families. There are roots here that go deep, and I am very connected and fond of these ladies and their children.
So how come I left after two hours and never told them that Ben is in a relationship, or that he's doing well in a new job, or he's about to take a trip to DC to see Dave Mathews in concert? How come I never mentioned that Josh got a paper accepted for presentation at a conference at Rutgers University, or shared the funny stories he's told about roommate issues? How come I left without even simply saying they were fine?
Yes, there's a lot of territory to cover when we all get together. There are 15 kids to discuss and now some grandchildren. There are three husbands and three jobs to dissect, old stories to rehash, and lots of good, old fashioned gossip to get on the table. Still, when these ladies went home, if they'd been asked, "What's new with everybody? What's the gossip?" my friends would have been hard pressed to say anything about me or mine.
My problem is, unless I'm one-on-one or with my large, extended family, I am conversationally challenged. Way back when I was a high school/college student, I rarely contributed in class. Put me in a department meeting at work and chances are pretty good I won’t say anything.
In my opinion, I lack conversational self-confidence. I'm not verbally gifted, like Katz. I've never been able to tell a joke well and if I retell a story in an uncomfortable setting, it often comes off flat or lifeless. When I'm excited about a book or an article, I love to share that excitement, but oftentimes I don't do it justice in the telling. "I can't quite explain it, but it was really good. You should read it," is a common summation Katz hears from me when I try to convey a good read.
I am capable of telling a good story if all the stars are aligned, i.e. a non-competitive atmosphere, a group of people who are just as interested in hearing my story as telling theirs. I can recount an emotional encounter or something funny that happened at home or work and do a pretty entertaining job of it. I would have loved to talk about the raspberries Jane brought to the garden tour for me "from Joe", and told my friends how Joe and I had talked Square Foot Gardens and garden-grown raspberries two months before his unexpected death. It would have been a story they loved to hear, I think. But, how to go in that direction, how to interject into a flow of words from four other voices that never ever lags? I don't know how to do it well, I don't know how to do it comfortably, I don't know how to do it without that sense I'm taking up time my friends would rather spend talking about other things.
Katz teaches a class called "The Art of Relationships". It speaks to the importance of personal dynamics and how to make sure everyone is heard. It talks about asking open ended questions so that a dialogue ensues. I admit it: Conversationally, I am like an unlit campfire without kindling. I can be lit and I can burn fairly strong, but you're never going to get much from me unless you help me out. I need an invitation to talk, a dialogue-inducing question like, " What was the most interesting comment about your garden?" or, " What kind of research are you doing for your book?" or, "I loved that blog post you wrote about your friend, Joe. Tell us about him?"
As much as I enjoy and love my friends, as committed as I am to maintaining these relationships and being loyal, as much as I want to hear EVERYTHING about their lives, I walked away from Thursday's dinner feeling a little invisible. I know this is my responsibility and I need to work on it, but if you are my friend and you are reading this, you could help me out. It's not that I have nothing to contribute, it's that I need a little kindling to get started.
I got together with a group of good friends this week for dinner and to celebrate a birthday. This is one of three groups of women I get together with a few times a year for dinner and conversation, and this particular group goes back longer than any of the others. We lived in the same neighborhood and raised our children together. Our kids attended the same grade school, had the same teachers. We sat on buses together for field trips, attended school and scouting events together, got to know each others husbands, socialized as families. There are roots here that go deep, and I am very connected and fond of these ladies and their children.
So how come I left after two hours and never told them that Ben is in a relationship, or that he's doing well in a new job, or he's about to take a trip to DC to see Dave Mathews in concert? How come I never mentioned that Josh got a paper accepted for presentation at a conference at Rutgers University, or shared the funny stories he's told about roommate issues? How come I left without even simply saying they were fine?
Yes, there's a lot of territory to cover when we all get together. There are 15 kids to discuss and now some grandchildren. There are three husbands and three jobs to dissect, old stories to rehash, and lots of good, old fashioned gossip to get on the table. Still, when these ladies went home, if they'd been asked, "What's new with everybody? What's the gossip?" my friends would have been hard pressed to say anything about me or mine.
My problem is, unless I'm one-on-one or with my large, extended family, I am conversationally challenged. Way back when I was a high school/college student, I rarely contributed in class. Put me in a department meeting at work and chances are pretty good I won’t say anything.
In my opinion, I lack conversational self-confidence. I'm not verbally gifted, like Katz. I've never been able to tell a joke well and if I retell a story in an uncomfortable setting, it often comes off flat or lifeless. When I'm excited about a book or an article, I love to share that excitement, but oftentimes I don't do it justice in the telling. "I can't quite explain it, but it was really good. You should read it," is a common summation Katz hears from me when I try to convey a good read.
I am capable of telling a good story if all the stars are aligned, i.e. a non-competitive atmosphere, a group of people who are just as interested in hearing my story as telling theirs. I can recount an emotional encounter or something funny that happened at home or work and do a pretty entertaining job of it. I would have loved to talk about the raspberries Jane brought to the garden tour for me "from Joe", and told my friends how Joe and I had talked Square Foot Gardens and garden-grown raspberries two months before his unexpected death. It would have been a story they loved to hear, I think. But, how to go in that direction, how to interject into a flow of words from four other voices that never ever lags? I don't know how to do it well, I don't know how to do it comfortably, I don't know how to do it without that sense I'm taking up time my friends would rather spend talking about other things.
Katz teaches a class called "The Art of Relationships". It speaks to the importance of personal dynamics and how to make sure everyone is heard. It talks about asking open ended questions so that a dialogue ensues. I admit it: Conversationally, I am like an unlit campfire without kindling. I can be lit and I can burn fairly strong, but you're never going to get much from me unless you help me out. I need an invitation to talk, a dialogue-inducing question like, " What was the most interesting comment about your garden?" or, " What kind of research are you doing for your book?" or, "I loved that blog post you wrote about your friend, Joe. Tell us about him?"
As much as I enjoy and love my friends, as committed as I am to maintaining these relationships and being loyal, as much as I want to hear EVERYTHING about their lives, I walked away from Thursday's dinner feeling a little invisible. I know this is my responsibility and I need to work on it, but if you are my friend and you are reading this, you could help me out. It's not that I have nothing to contribute, it's that I need a little kindling to get started.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
The Bucket of Death
It's 5:30 in the morning and Garden Tour Day. By 10, the garden Katz and I have been working on for two months will start to fill with garden lovers who will ooh and aah about my near-perfect garden.
I spoke with my sister Kathy in New York yesterday. She had a garden tour of her own a couple of years ago and I asked her advice. She told me to learn a few Latin names--just a few will do, she said--and then I could impress my garden guests.
"Grab them by the arm and say, 'Oh, come and see my Echinacea,' and then when you get there, they say, 'Oh, a coneflower,' but they're impressed with how knowledgeable you are."
Isn't she funny! Sorry Kathy. I'm guessing Latin is probably a nice touch in up state NY but I'm quite sure they'll laugh at me in plain old Wisconsin if I try it, so I skipped memorizing Latin botanical names last night in favor of collapsing on the couch.
She did give me a great idea about my Japanese beetle problem. I'm on year two of dealing with these nasty little plant attackers, and wouldn't you know it, they've managed to time their yearly arrival to Garden Tour Day. I spent yesterday bending the heads of my small shrub roses over a pail and shaking the quite beautiful insects loose. When I was lucky, they kept their upside down position and flew straight into the soapy water that awaited them. In the end, I had dozens of dead beetles floating in a pail I've come to call "The Bucket of Death."
Kathy said not to worry. She said to share my beetle problem with the tour goers. "They love when you have the same problems they do."
Isn't that brilliant? Isn't that the best way to face a problem--any problem--by being honest, by avoiding the weight of trying to hide it, by appealing to the commonality that being in trouble presents?
Thanks, Kathy. I can't wait to show off my Delphinium, my Prickly Pear Cactus, my Foxglove, my Square Foot Garden, and now my Japanese Beetle. I'm even tempted to show off the "Bucket of Death," too, to prove what lengths we gardeners go to to maintain the beauty of our gardens and protect the plants we nurture and love.
I actually think such a visual would be a hit, but aah, then vanity intrudes. Today is a day for beauty and the bucket full of dirty water and rotting beetle corpses is not quite the "staging" I've been envisioning. But I do plan on doing one thing: I'm looking forward to grabbing my guests by the arm, adapting a mournful pose, and saying, "Come see the Popillia Japonica. The little critters are nothing but trouble!"
How's that for impressing them with my Latin!
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Thinking of Mom
We grew up in a beautiful, big house with lots of room to spread out. Dad was a General Practitioner, which meant he made a decent living, but with nine kids, it didn't always go that far. The house was a splurge and he left the challenge of meeting a tight monthly budget to my Mom.
My siblings and I worked from a young age on; the boys had paper routes, and in 7th grade the girls started working in Dad's office washing test tubes and pipettes. My Mom saved money by buying toilet paper by the carton and making lots of ground beef casseroles, and we each had our table setting, room cleaning, toilet scrubbing, dish washing, yard work, and snow shoveling assignments to do.
Mom was no slouch. She worked hard to keep the house going and nine kids fed and clothed. She cooked all the meals, carted kids around, painted rooms, and hung wallpaper. She was a beautiful woman who often looked crabby and always looked harried, and she wasn't much concerned with looking fashionable. The times when I found her cutting the grass in shorts and ankle socks so ugly they set a teenage girl's teeth on edge were the worst. We had the biggest house on the block, but I don't remember any other mother who cut the grass much less cut the grass looking like that. It was mortifying.
Fast forward to 2010: I have become my mother.
I've spent the past 6 weeks gardening like a crazy woman. I wear torn shorts, sloppy t-shirts, black ankle socks and clogs. I sweat like a yeoman, my hair is flat and lifeless, and all the bending, kneeling, digging I've done has left me with the gait and the posture of an old, crippled lady. I stumble from the back garden to the front of the house trying to whip the flowers and the bushes and the trees in to shape, trying to race the clock as it ticks down toward next week's garden tour. I'm sure I'm entertaining the neighbors with my antics, but I want my garden to look perfect and I'm beyond caring how I look or what other people think. Above all, I'm having a blast. The weather's been great, I've lost a couple of pounds, and my garden . . . well, it's looking darn good.
Mom's been gone for several years now, but that doesn't mean I don't owe her an apology. I can't imagine having her job, and she did the best she could to take care of my Dad, raise us, keep us from harm, and manage a complicated household. She always looked a little crazed because she was a little crazed. Forty-plus years later, I am my mother.
By the way, the garden has done a number on my fingernails: They are a grade A mess. But tomorrow I will take a seat across from my manicurist (see earlier blog entry) and she is going to have to work her little heart out to make them look presentable.
See, there is an up side!
My siblings and I worked from a young age on; the boys had paper routes, and in 7th grade the girls started working in Dad's office washing test tubes and pipettes. My Mom saved money by buying toilet paper by the carton and making lots of ground beef casseroles, and we each had our table setting, room cleaning, toilet scrubbing, dish washing, yard work, and snow shoveling assignments to do.
Mom was no slouch. She worked hard to keep the house going and nine kids fed and clothed. She cooked all the meals, carted kids around, painted rooms, and hung wallpaper. She was a beautiful woman who often looked crabby and always looked harried, and she wasn't much concerned with looking fashionable. The times when I found her cutting the grass in shorts and ankle socks so ugly they set a teenage girl's teeth on edge were the worst. We had the biggest house on the block, but I don't remember any other mother who cut the grass much less cut the grass looking like that. It was mortifying.
Fast forward to 2010: I have become my mother.
I've spent the past 6 weeks gardening like a crazy woman. I wear torn shorts, sloppy t-shirts, black ankle socks and clogs. I sweat like a yeoman, my hair is flat and lifeless, and all the bending, kneeling, digging I've done has left me with the gait and the posture of an old, crippled lady. I stumble from the back garden to the front of the house trying to whip the flowers and the bushes and the trees in to shape, trying to race the clock as it ticks down toward next week's garden tour. I'm sure I'm entertaining the neighbors with my antics, but I want my garden to look perfect and I'm beyond caring how I look or what other people think. Above all, I'm having a blast. The weather's been great, I've lost a couple of pounds, and my garden . . . well, it's looking darn good.
Mom's been gone for several years now, but that doesn't mean I don't owe her an apology. I can't imagine having her job, and she did the best she could to take care of my Dad, raise us, keep us from harm, and manage a complicated household. She always looked a little crazed because she was a little crazed. Forty-plus years later, I am my mother.
By the way, the garden has done a number on my fingernails: They are a grade A mess. But tomorrow I will take a seat across from my manicurist (see earlier blog entry) and she is going to have to work her little heart out to make them look presentable.
See, there is an up side!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
God Grant Me the Serenity . . .
Joe died last week. He was an old friend and a good guy and it was a shock to lose him. It was sudden and unexpected, and he left behind a grieving family and many, many friends.
I loved that the eulogy last night spoke to Joe's commitment to Jane. For Joe, it wasn't just that he loved his wife. Joe and Jane were partners, they were on the same wavelength and the playing field was level; they had a comfortableness with each other that didn't settle into complacency. It wasn't that we saw them together and thought simply, "Joe loves Jane." It was that we saw them together and felt Joe liked Jane . . a lot. Remembering them together, I realized how much they enjoyed being together. You could see that Joe was proud of Jane's zest, her sense of self and humor, her ability to hold her own when up against his unflinching honesty, strong intelligence, and dry wit.
The truth of the matter had never been so clear to me as it was last night at Joe's memorial. He was all in. Lucky couple, them . . .
We lost power during the night and it didn't come back for 8 hours. This threw my whole day off, put me behind, inconvenienced me. When the electricity kicked in and the AC jumped in to high gear--trying to battle the heat and humidity that the 87 degree, moist day forced through the four walls of our home--the AC hose sprung a leak that spit water all over clothes, furniture, food. By the time Katz walked in the back door at 5, I was cranky, cranky, cranky.
Tonight the house is cool, the AC connection has been tended to by Katz, and I had a nice phone conversation with Benjamin, our oldest child. I complained and shared my feelings about the day, about Joe, about the loss of Joe to his family, and as he sympathized, he talked to me about his love of and reliance on the Serenity Prayer. It was very Zen, helped me focus, and made me realize once again what a great young man he is. The conversation also made me realize that not being in control pushes my buttons.
No power, leaks in the basement, and a blown schedule means I lost control, yet tomorrow my day-to-day routine will be back in balance. Jane's balance won't return for a long time.
Integrating the Serenity Prayer into my thought process would make me a better person, and I'm going to work on that. But tonight, I miss Joe and I worry about Jane. Serenity may have to wait another day.
I loved that the eulogy last night spoke to Joe's commitment to Jane. For Joe, it wasn't just that he loved his wife. Joe and Jane were partners, they were on the same wavelength and the playing field was level; they had a comfortableness with each other that didn't settle into complacency. It wasn't that we saw them together and thought simply, "Joe loves Jane." It was that we saw them together and felt Joe liked Jane . . a lot. Remembering them together, I realized how much they enjoyed being together. You could see that Joe was proud of Jane's zest, her sense of self and humor, her ability to hold her own when up against his unflinching honesty, strong intelligence, and dry wit.
The truth of the matter had never been so clear to me as it was last night at Joe's memorial. He was all in. Lucky couple, them . . .
We lost power during the night and it didn't come back for 8 hours. This threw my whole day off, put me behind, inconvenienced me. When the electricity kicked in and the AC jumped in to high gear--trying to battle the heat and humidity that the 87 degree, moist day forced through the four walls of our home--the AC hose sprung a leak that spit water all over clothes, furniture, food. By the time Katz walked in the back door at 5, I was cranky, cranky, cranky.
Tonight the house is cool, the AC connection has been tended to by Katz, and I had a nice phone conversation with Benjamin, our oldest child. I complained and shared my feelings about the day, about Joe, about the loss of Joe to his family, and as he sympathized, he talked to me about his love of and reliance on the Serenity Prayer. It was very Zen, helped me focus, and made me realize once again what a great young man he is. The conversation also made me realize that not being in control pushes my buttons.
No power, leaks in the basement, and a blown schedule means I lost control, yet tomorrow my day-to-day routine will be back in balance. Jane's balance won't return for a long time.
Integrating the Serenity Prayer into my thought process would make me a better person, and I'm going to work on that. But tonight, I miss Joe and I worry about Jane. Serenity may have to wait another day.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
The Mystery of the Manicurist
Ever since I went back to work 14 years ago, I've indulged in a professional manicure once or twice a month. My manicurist knows me well. I've been a faithful customer, never canceling my appointments; I'm a respectable tipper and I sooth her conscious on the rare occasion when she draws blood. I don't talk politics, I ask lots of questions about her garden, and I make concerned inquiries about her health, which hasn't always been the best. I even gave her one of my coveted Elephant Ear tubers to plant by her backyard pond.
So I find it odd that she doesn't like me.
Of course, she's never told me so in so many words. She's cheerful enough in my presence, isn't rude, doesn't scorn the condition of my nails, tease or make fun of me. But she never asks me personal questions, shows no interest in my family, doesn't seem to want to know what's growing well in my back 40, couldn't care less about my work or my writing. For some reason, she doesn't choose to know me. My sense is she just doesn't like me and it bugs me.
So why don't I find a new manicurist? Good question.
I stay because she does a good job and is conveniently located and reasonably priced. Although those are weak but acceptable reasons to keep going back, I've come to the conclusion that the main reason I'm a faithful customer is a strange feeling of commitment, of loyalty.
Does anyone else out there have a dysfunctional relationship that they won't give up on? Can anyone explain why I keep going back month after month only to come away feeling disconnected and a little diminished. Are my nicely shaped and polished nails worth the price I'm paying?
So I find it odd that she doesn't like me.
Of course, she's never told me so in so many words. She's cheerful enough in my presence, isn't rude, doesn't scorn the condition of my nails, tease or make fun of me. But she never asks me personal questions, shows no interest in my family, doesn't seem to want to know what's growing well in my back 40, couldn't care less about my work or my writing. For some reason, she doesn't choose to know me. My sense is she just doesn't like me and it bugs me.
So why don't I find a new manicurist? Good question.
I stay because she does a good job and is conveniently located and reasonably priced. Although those are weak but acceptable reasons to keep going back, I've come to the conclusion that the main reason I'm a faithful customer is a strange feeling of commitment, of loyalty.
Does anyone else out there have a dysfunctional relationship that they won't give up on? Can anyone explain why I keep going back month after month only to come away feeling disconnected and a little diminished. Are my nicely shaped and polished nails worth the price I'm paying?
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Saving Time
I'm skimming this week's Time Magazine, picking and choosing what I read, trying to make short work of something that usually takes the better part of a week to get through. Two days since the magazine arrived, and I'm almost through with it. So far so good.
I stopped a very nice neighbor a minute into a story she was telling because she'd told me the same story the day before. I'm in the habit of being a people pleaser, so I've listened to a lot of stories more than once, but no more Mr. Nice Guy.
I didn't make a salad for dinner the other night. There was a touch of fresh spinach in the chicken wraps I made, and corn on the cob on the side. A nice green salad would have been perfect, but that would have taken another 15 minutes of my time.
Writing a book, getting a garden ready for the local garden tour, working, keeping our house somewhat clean and my family fed, blogging . . . there's not enough hours in the day.
A lot of people juggle a lot more than I do every day, so I'm not complaining, but I have challenged myself to find more time for writing. I can be a skimmer; I can try to have the courage to extract myself from a conversation I'd rather not be in; I can rid myself of possessions that require time to dust, clean, fix or store.
Tick, tick, tick.
I stopped a very nice neighbor a minute into a story she was telling because she'd told me the same story the day before. I'm in the habit of being a people pleaser, so I've listened to a lot of stories more than once, but no more Mr. Nice Guy.
I didn't make a salad for dinner the other night. There was a touch of fresh spinach in the chicken wraps I made, and corn on the cob on the side. A nice green salad would have been perfect, but that would have taken another 15 minutes of my time.
Writing a book, getting a garden ready for the local garden tour, working, keeping our house somewhat clean and my family fed, blogging . . . there's not enough hours in the day.
A lot of people juggle a lot more than I do every day, so I'm not complaining, but I have challenged myself to find more time for writing. I can be a skimmer; I can try to have the courage to extract myself from a conversation I'd rather not be in; I can rid myself of possessions that require time to dust, clean, fix or store.
Tick, tick, tick.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Surprises
The day lilies that line the path outside the office building where I work were a bit of a mess this morning. I wondered why they had been dug up, and then I saw the big, oval rock. I like rocks and I'm not a fan of day lilies, so I thought, "Nice!" as I walked by. Once I passed, however, I realized all was not as it seemed! I stopped, looked back and was eyeball to eyeball with one big, honking mother turtle. Hunkered down, she was obviously laying her eggs. Way cool!
But nature wasn't done. A flock of wild turkeys was just around the corner, strutting and flapping their wings, putting on quite a display.
All this before 8 a.m. Wow!
But nature wasn't done. A flock of wild turkeys was just around the corner, strutting and flapping their wings, putting on quite a display.
All this before 8 a.m. Wow!
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Earning $1.75
With our annual garage sale thankfully behind us (I worked on it for a week, sold probably 150 plants plus accumulated rummage, and made over $400!), it is time to get back to writing.
I told word-guru Gretchen that I missed my book the other day. She surmised, "I can imagine. These people (my characters) are like friends now."
That Gretchen. She's so smart. I hadn't even thought about being connected to my characters, but she was right. I'm just getting to know these people, and of course I have some vague idea of the journey they are on. But the bits and pieces of these creations are still coming together; as the book is built page by page, so the characters develop in my head, changing, growing. And as the small ideas I have for each of them begin to roll around in my mind, waking me up too early each morning, I can't wait to start putting them down on paper so I can build on who Tom and Finely and Mary and Bernice are, showing their strengths, uncovering their weaknesses, turning them into interesting people, people you would like to get to know.
I just read a a short blurb from Garrison Keillor in this week's Time magazine. He said there are 18 million authors in America, "each with an average of 14 readers, eight of who are blood relatives. Average annual earnings: $1.75."
I think it was a good sign that this information made me laugh.
Of course, since I am in the midst of writing a book, I did ask myself if all this work would be worth $1.75, and the answer was "no." In and of itself, the agony of finding the right words or coming up with the next plot turn or giving up time with my family or putting off my happy-time in the garden is not worth just $1.75. That's why it is key that my earnings will also include the pleasure I have experienced getting to know and like these quite interesting, quirky, fallable people and seeing them come to life. It may not buy me a cup of coffee, but in other ways, the payback is incalculable.
Besides, I've got one humongous family who will all be loyal enough to each buy a book. I see my earnings easily topping $2.00! This should be a piece of cake.
I told word-guru Gretchen that I missed my book the other day. She surmised, "I can imagine. These people (my characters) are like friends now."
That Gretchen. She's so smart. I hadn't even thought about being connected to my characters, but she was right. I'm just getting to know these people, and of course I have some vague idea of the journey they are on. But the bits and pieces of these creations are still coming together; as the book is built page by page, so the characters develop in my head, changing, growing. And as the small ideas I have for each of them begin to roll around in my mind, waking me up too early each morning, I can't wait to start putting them down on paper so I can build on who Tom and Finely and Mary and Bernice are, showing their strengths, uncovering their weaknesses, turning them into interesting people, people you would like to get to know.
I just read a a short blurb from Garrison Keillor in this week's Time magazine. He said there are 18 million authors in America, "each with an average of 14 readers, eight of who are blood relatives. Average annual earnings: $1.75."
I think it was a good sign that this information made me laugh.
Of course, since I am in the midst of writing a book, I did ask myself if all this work would be worth $1.75, and the answer was "no." In and of itself, the agony of finding the right words or coming up with the next plot turn or giving up time with my family or putting off my happy-time in the garden is not worth just $1.75. That's why it is key that my earnings will also include the pleasure I have experienced getting to know and like these quite interesting, quirky, fallable people and seeing them come to life. It may not buy me a cup of coffee, but in other ways, the payback is incalculable.
Besides, I've got one humongous family who will all be loyal enough to each buy a book. I see my earnings easily topping $2.00! This should be a piece of cake.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Life Interfers . . . again
Spent last weekend building a garden with my family. My seven sibs showed up, including Kathy from NYC along with granddaughter Crissy! Katz was a trouper, my boys were there and some hard working in-laws pitched in, too. It took a good part of the day and turned out pretty good. I've attached some photos to show off the end result!
I'm doing something called Square Foot Gardening in my new garden, so that means we even made our own dirt recipe and planting space is maximized. It is all very hip and happening. (Oh dear. Hip and happening is so not hip and happening, am I right?)
My dilemma is this SFG needs to be planted, and now is the time. So, for the next two weeks, I've changed my priorities and my writing is being put on the back burner. I say this with a healthy dose of guilt, but the pull of the garden is pretty strong and the window of time is limited.
So forgive me and don't give up on me. I'll try to keep in touch, blog-wise, and I'll be back working on Chapter 5 after Memorial Day. Wish me a green thumb, good days for planting and garden tending, and a few decent rain showers.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Reality Check
When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time--the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes--when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever--there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.
A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving
Yes, I am still working my way through this book, still savoring Irving's words. It can be days between reads, and sometimes I only finish a page or two before life interferes, but he never fails to impress. Irving inspires me. He daunts me. He makes me ask: If I truly want to write a piece of literature, if this is the bar to clear, how do I do it?
And if I can't do it--if I can only write a book good enough to be published and read but not remembered, quoted, kept instead of turned in to Half Price Books-- should that be enough?
A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving
Yes, I am still working my way through this book, still savoring Irving's words. It can be days between reads, and sometimes I only finish a page or two before life interferes, but he never fails to impress. Irving inspires me. He daunts me. He makes me ask: If I truly want to write a piece of literature, if this is the bar to clear, how do I do it?
And if I can't do it--if I can only write a book good enough to be published and read but not remembered, quoted, kept instead of turned in to Half Price Books-- should that be enough?
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Letting Go
Thought you'd like to read a sample of my writing. Not the kind of words you've read in It Was a Cold and Stormy Night . . ., which is assignment-like writing, but a hint of what I've written as I've waded through four plus chapters of my book. I want to be a good writer, clever and literary, so the bar is high and I have no idea if I'm clearing it.
So, let's give this a try. Tell me what you think.
Setup: Police Chief Tom Wexler is on his way to interview a resident of his small town who thinks she has witnessed a crime. She's not the most reliable witness but Tom has a soft spot for her. Here are his thoughts:
She’d had a daddy who’d loved her dearly, a man who had been a storyteller of the first degree, and he’d touched her with the gift of words. Alice Hodgeson’s stories flowed from her mouth and spun color in your mind, and whether the stories were true or imagined, they were a gift.
Truth be told, these are lost words. In the switch from third person to first person, events were rearranged, characters and perspective changed, and this passage was cut. I liked them enough to paste them at the end of the document, just in case they could be resurrected. It's not likely, but I'm having a hard time letting go.
Opinions anyone?
So, let's give this a try. Tell me what you think.
Setup: Police Chief Tom Wexler is on his way to interview a resident of his small town who thinks she has witnessed a crime. She's not the most reliable witness but Tom has a soft spot for her. Here are his thoughts:
She’d had a daddy who’d loved her dearly, a man who had been a storyteller of the first degree, and he’d touched her with the gift of words. Alice Hodgeson’s stories flowed from her mouth and spun color in your mind, and whether the stories were true or imagined, they were a gift.
Truth be told, these are lost words. In the switch from third person to first person, events were rearranged, characters and perspective changed, and this passage was cut. I liked them enough to paste them at the end of the document, just in case they could be resurrected. It's not likely, but I'm having a hard time letting go.
Opinions anyone?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Setting as a Character
BB commented that she didn't quite understand what it means to build a setting in such a way that it actually becomes a character. Some examples of books where the setting is a character might be To Kill a Mockingbird, where small town Southern living in the 1930s is more than just a place, it creeps into characters such as Scout, Jem , and Atticus, impacts how they behave and who they become. Edgar Allen Poe's House of Usher is a place and a family--both dark and decaying--and the two are intertwined.
Carl Hiaasen, one of my favorite contemporary writers, is a born and bred Floridian, and Florida is central to his books. Steve Kroft of 60 minutes had this to say about Hiaasen's setting: "Whether he's writing fiction or journalism, Carl Hiaasen's main character is always Florida, that axis of weirdness that gave us the sagas of Elian Gonzales, and dimpled "chads." It's also where developers build homes around gravel pits advertised as "lakefront property," and where marijuana falls out of the sky."
Pretty heady company, I know, and I don't presume to be up to Poe's or Lee's or Hiaasen's caliber. Still, I get this concept; I understand it. I love when I stumble on a setting that touches a character in such a way it moves the action along and defines the people. That's what I'm shooting for.
Carl Hiaasen, one of my favorite contemporary writers, is a born and bred Floridian, and Florida is central to his books. Steve Kroft of 60 minutes had this to say about Hiaasen's setting: "Whether he's writing fiction or journalism, Carl Hiaasen's main character is always Florida, that axis of weirdness that gave us the sagas of Elian Gonzales, and dimpled "chads." It's also where developers build homes around gravel pits advertised as "lakefront property," and where marijuana falls out of the sky."
Pretty heady company, I know, and I don't presume to be up to Poe's or Lee's or Hiaasen's caliber. Still, I get this concept; I understand it. I love when I stumble on a setting that touches a character in such a way it moves the action along and defines the people. That's what I'm shooting for.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Setting: Rural USA
Time to figure out a new skill: How to add photos to a posting.
These are pictures I took on my research trip, so you are seeing some of the scenery and places I will be trying to describe in my book.
Since brother Tim and my sweet, understanding sister-in-law Emily settled in this area, my extended family has spent their share of time in this part of rural America. Of my 19followers, many have been here and seen this place in person. Still, whether you've been there or not, I'd love your feedback. Tell me what you think. Can I bring this place to life on the page? Can I make it a character in my book? (Actually, I'm desperate for feedback. You followers are not a very chatty bunch, are you?)
Pictures remind me how beautiful this place is, but they also remind me how limited a photograph can be in capturing beauty in all its nuance. Writers have an opportunity to fill the gaps a photo might not reveal--to enhance the color or improve the light. It's up to the writer to tell the story that brings a place to life.
I hope I'm up to the task.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Reading or Writing?
"I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice--not because of his voice, or because he was the instrument of my mother's death, but because he is the reason I believe in God . . ."
John Irving A Prayer for Owen Meany
I've given up a few things to make time for novel writing, and one of them is reading books. I read the paper every day--much of it while I'm working out on the treadmill at the Y--and I have some periodicals I try to keep up with, but my book reading has diminished.
I picked A Prayer for Owen Meany from my too-full, too-neglected book shelf when I headed to Tim and Emily's last week to do my research. A week later, I'm all of 124 pages in to it--barely a dent. If I weren't writing a book, I'd be reading this one feverishly. It's got a sense of place and time that captures the reader, and Irving has created characters so precise and tangible they have come to life inside my head. That I can't sit down for a couple of hours and read, well, it's so sad.
Reading the work of great writers is inspiring. I read words like those at the top of this post and I invariably come away with an idea or a rhythm or an inspiration that will help me in my writing. Of course, if I read more, there's less time to write, and I need every minute of my writing time, even if sometimes I lack the inspiration to write another word.
So the question here is, which do I need most: Inspiration or discipline?
Catch 22, anyone?
John Irving A Prayer for Owen Meany
I've given up a few things to make time for novel writing, and one of them is reading books. I read the paper every day--much of it while I'm working out on the treadmill at the Y--and I have some periodicals I try to keep up with, but my book reading has diminished.
I picked A Prayer for Owen Meany from my too-full, too-neglected book shelf when I headed to Tim and Emily's last week to do my research. A week later, I'm all of 124 pages in to it--barely a dent. If I weren't writing a book, I'd be reading this one feverishly. It's got a sense of place and time that captures the reader, and Irving has created characters so precise and tangible they have come to life inside my head. That I can't sit down for a couple of hours and read, well, it's so sad.
Reading the work of great writers is inspiring. I read words like those at the top of this post and I invariably come away with an idea or a rhythm or an inspiration that will help me in my writing. Of course, if I read more, there's less time to write, and I need every minute of my writing time, even if sometimes I lack the inspiration to write another word.
So the question here is, which do I need most: Inspiration or discipline?
Catch 22, anyone?
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
A Place for a Book to Call Home
The morel mushrooms were in hiding, but the weather was beautiful and the small town characters were afoot, so it was a great trip! I interviewed sheriffs from two counties and a small town mayor, visited with an Amish woman newly transplanted and homesick for her family in Minnesota, and found out that a tree can not only be dead, it can be "too dead." (This distinction is going to make it into the book, so I'll save the explanation for now.)
I've visited this place many times, and now it's crept into my book. It's always been a place of bits and pieces, almost all of them full of beauty, spread out over miles of land loved by hunters and farmers and people who are small town born and bred. While it's not undiscovered, it is out of the way enough, isolated enough, and underpopulated enough to slip under the radar.
I want the setting to be a character in the book, so I came to visit in hopes of pulling all those bits and pieces together and making it whole . . . solid . . . formidable. I want the setting to be a force, and this place has the chops to pull it off.
I can't wait for you two to meet . . .
I've visited this place many times, and now it's crept into my book. It's always been a place of bits and pieces, almost all of them full of beauty, spread out over miles of land loved by hunters and farmers and people who are small town born and bred. While it's not undiscovered, it is out of the way enough, isolated enough, and underpopulated enough to slip under the radar.
I want the setting to be a character in the book, so I came to visit in hopes of pulling all those bits and pieces together and making it whole . . . solid . . . formidable. I want the setting to be a force, and this place has the chops to pull it off.
I can't wait for you two to meet . . .
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Road Trip
Life is a little crazy right now. Work has picked up at my "real" job and so have the demands, I'm preparing a major garden project that involves a daylong activity in May by my extended family, and I've decided a road trip to the place where my book is set is in order.
That means I'm hitting the road to Western Wisconsin tomorrow for a couple days where I've scheduled meetings with the county sheriff, a retired county sheriff, and a small town mayor. My brother Tim and sister-in-law Emily are putting me up, and I'm using Tim's connections to find my way around. He's told me the retired sheriff pulls his gun out and sets it across his lap when the dentist pulls out his drill. Too good to be true? Who knows, but you can probably guess I'm hoping to pick up lots of local color once I'm there.
In the meantime, I want to write about the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel winning a Pulitzer, about a classy production of The Sweetest Swing in Baseball by Rebecca Gilman that we saw at the Milwaukee Chamber Theatre this past weekend, and about my hopes to come home at the end of my trip with a bag full of morel mushrooms, but there is no time.
So hold that thought . . .
That means I'm hitting the road to Western Wisconsin tomorrow for a couple days where I've scheduled meetings with the county sheriff, a retired county sheriff, and a small town mayor. My brother Tim and sister-in-law Emily are putting me up, and I'm using Tim's connections to find my way around. He's told me the retired sheriff pulls his gun out and sets it across his lap when the dentist pulls out his drill. Too good to be true? Who knows, but you can probably guess I'm hoping to pick up lots of local color once I'm there.
In the meantime, I want to write about the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel winning a Pulitzer, about a classy production of The Sweetest Swing in Baseball by Rebecca Gilman that we saw at the Milwaukee Chamber Theatre this past weekend, and about my hopes to come home at the end of my trip with a bag full of morel mushrooms, but there is no time.
So hold that thought . . .
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Teachers of Influence
The Journal Sentinel ran a column by Pulitzer Prize winning writer Kathleen Parker (2010 for Commentary) in yesterday's paper in which she talked about an influential high school teacher. As I'm sure is the case for many writers, Parker had an English teacher who helped her recognize her talent.
Maybe it was the era when I was in school, back in the 60s, but I never got lucky and landed an influential English teacher. Don't get me wrong, English was always my best subject and my teachers liked having me in class. I still have a creative writing piece tucked away somewhere, graded "A+++++", that I wrote for freshman English. But nobody took me aside and said, "This is your destiny!" even though being a writer was all I really wanted to be from the time I was 10.
I went to college planning on being a writer, only to have a terrible experience in my first creative writing course. The "B" I got in that class was as clear a message as any that I wasn't writer material.
It wasn't until a few years after I graduated that I even thought about writing again. My husband and I attended a school in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, and I took a writing course for fun. The teacher was an aged, retired editor from True Confessions magazine and she loved, loved, loved everything I wrote. She told me I would be a published writer someday.
I didn't take to writing professionally until I was in my 30s, and even then I was always a bit of a dabbler. I wonder after reading Kathleen Parker's column if I might not have bloomed earlier and with more commitment if I'd only had a high school teacher of influence.
Maybe it was the era when I was in school, back in the 60s, but I never got lucky and landed an influential English teacher. Don't get me wrong, English was always my best subject and my teachers liked having me in class. I still have a creative writing piece tucked away somewhere, graded "A+++++", that I wrote for freshman English. But nobody took me aside and said, "This is your destiny!" even though being a writer was all I really wanted to be from the time I was 10.
I went to college planning on being a writer, only to have a terrible experience in my first creative writing course. The "B" I got in that class was as clear a message as any that I wasn't writer material.
It wasn't until a few years after I graduated that I even thought about writing again. My husband and I attended a school in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, and I took a writing course for fun. The teacher was an aged, retired editor from True Confessions magazine and she loved, loved, loved everything I wrote. She told me I would be a published writer someday.
I didn't take to writing professionally until I was in my 30s, and even then I was always a bit of a dabbler. I wonder after reading Kathleen Parker's column if I might not have bloomed earlier and with more commitment if I'd only had a high school teacher of influence.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Of Meteors and Weekends . . .
Son Ben saw the big meteor that came down over Wisconsin Wednesday night. He has a first floor apartment with a big glass door that leads to a patio off his bedroom. He was lying in bed and looking out that glass door when he saw it. He said it was a thrill. Lucky kid . . .
A meteor would be good right about now, for entertainment and inspiration. Even though I cranked out 400 words yesterday, it felt like a slow slog. Today I'm talking my weekly walk with my friend Linda. She's interesting and kind and a great listener, so I rarely pass up our Friday morning ramble. Then I'm garden building with nephew Joe; we've scheduled 5 hours of hard labor. You can probably guess I'm already thinking writing will be a challenge today. Then it's the weekend, and you all know how my perception of weekends can impact any semblance of writing discipline I have. (See "Permission Denied" posting from March 25 for details!)
Anyway, I've changed the template, but you probably already noticed that. I guess with this blog program I'm using, I could change it up regularly, no sweat, so let me know what you think. In the meantime, enjoy the weekend and keep your eyes peeled for meteors. A thrill would be a good thing for everyone, don't you think?
A meteor would be good right about now, for entertainment and inspiration. Even though I cranked out 400 words yesterday, it felt like a slow slog. Today I'm talking my weekly walk with my friend Linda. She's interesting and kind and a great listener, so I rarely pass up our Friday morning ramble. Then I'm garden building with nephew Joe; we've scheduled 5 hours of hard labor. You can probably guess I'm already thinking writing will be a challenge today. Then it's the weekend, and you all know how my perception of weekends can impact any semblance of writing discipline I have. (See "Permission Denied" posting from March 25 for details!)
Anyway, I've changed the template, but you probably already noticed that. I guess with this blog program I'm using, I could change it up regularly, no sweat, so let me know what you think. In the meantime, enjoy the weekend and keep your eyes peeled for meteors. A thrill would be a good thing for everyone, don't you think?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Things Big and Little
It was double coupon day at the grocery store and I finished a chapter.
Good day . . .
Good day . . .
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Influences
My brother, Terry, teased me today, saying he felt sorry for my husband . . . in essence, for being married to a woman who writes about him. He was refering to an article I wrote on weddings for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel(http://www.jsonline.com/entertainment/90371284.html) in which Katz was the comic foil.
Obviously, my brother hasn't peeked at It Was a Cold and Stormy Night, where my profile refers to Katz as "high performance" and tosses around risky words like "libido." Terry would really hate that kind of attention. Heck, if he finds out he got mentioned in my blog, it might make him a little crazy. In the unlikely case that this happens, I'm sorry!
Writers are a product of life's experiences and the people who touch them, and Katz has brought out the funny in me. I know for a fact that without him, I'd be lost in many ways. And I know beyond a fact that without him feeding my creative juices, my writing might still be good but it wouldn't be good enough.
Obviously, my brother hasn't peeked at It Was a Cold and Stormy Night, where my profile refers to Katz as "high performance" and tosses around risky words like "libido." Terry would really hate that kind of attention. Heck, if he finds out he got mentioned in my blog, it might make him a little crazy. In the unlikely case that this happens, I'm sorry!
Writers are a product of life's experiences and the people who touch them, and Katz has brought out the funny in me. I know for a fact that without him, I'd be lost in many ways. And I know beyond a fact that without him feeding my creative juices, my writing might still be good but it wouldn't be good enough.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Changes Afoot?
Katz's cousin Judy in California was nice enough to ask Joel, a relative and a writer, to take a look at It Was a Cold and Stormy Night and give me some of that feedback I've been asking for. He was kind enough to oblige.
Joel liked the easy flow of my writing and found me to be "readable." Hurray!
He acknowledged that he, too, knows "the pleasure of rewriting and playing around with words." To avoid getting stuck he suggested "setting a time limit on the daily rewrite and giving the blank page on the screen equal time." And he told Judy to tell me, "No dessert or new outfits unless she turns out two pages daily for a month." I hate to shop these days so no new outfits won't be a problem, but no dessert! Yikes!
Finally, Joel had a couple of suggestions for my blog, and I'd like to see what everyone else thinks. Should I:
-Eighty-six the white print on the black background because it's hard to read.
-Avoid blogging every day to take the pressure off my followers.(I haven't been every-day-faithful for awhile, so this may be a moot point.)
-Change things up a bit so the blog isn't always about "me, me, me." (I'm worried about this one. What do bloggers write about if they don't write about themselves? I'm going to need help, ideas, and direction to pull this off!)
Joel, thanks for inspecting my blog so carefully. As for the rest of you, tell me what you think of Joel's suggestions. With the right encouragement, I'm willing to give them a try, so keep that feedback coming.
Joel liked the easy flow of my writing and found me to be "readable." Hurray!
He acknowledged that he, too, knows "the pleasure of rewriting and playing around with words." To avoid getting stuck he suggested "setting a time limit on the daily rewrite and giving the blank page on the screen equal time." And he told Judy to tell me, "No dessert or new outfits unless she turns out two pages daily for a month." I hate to shop these days so no new outfits won't be a problem, but no dessert! Yikes!
Finally, Joel had a couple of suggestions for my blog, and I'd like to see what everyone else thinks. Should I:
-Eighty-six the white print on the black background because it's hard to read.
-Avoid blogging every day to take the pressure off my followers.(I haven't been every-day-faithful for awhile, so this may be a moot point.)
-Change things up a bit so the blog isn't always about "me, me, me." (I'm worried about this one. What do bloggers write about if they don't write about themselves? I'm going to need help, ideas, and direction to pull this off!)
Joel, thanks for inspecting my blog so carefully. As for the rest of you, tell me what you think of Joel's suggestions. With the right encouragement, I'm willing to give them a try, so keep that feedback coming.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The End of Lonely Man
Great day! I hit the computer early, the juices were flowing and Tom is now less of a lonely man. His deputy, who up until now was nothing but a name until chapter three, is now riding along with Tom on page 2 of the book. This rearrangement is creating the energy I was looking for, and, what a change! Instead of lots of reflection, we're dealing with snappy repartee and things are lively. Hurray!
My only concern is the amount of rewriting I'm doing. For weeks now I've been reworking the first three chapters when I was really hoping to be plowing into chapters four and five.
Still, I'm looking forward to writing tomorrow, and that feels good!
My only concern is the amount of rewriting I'm doing. For weeks now I've been reworking the first three chapters when I was really hoping to be plowing into chapters four and five.
Still, I'm looking forward to writing tomorrow, and that feels good!
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Taking It To Another Level
I've decided Tom has got to stop being "lonely man." As the protagonist, the story rests on his shoulder, but right now I've got him working alone. This means there's a lot of reflecting and observing going on. Now when I'm writing, this is something I'm pretty good at; it's one of my comfort zones. That makes it hard to shake free and move on to some serious action. Still, I'm thinking now is the time to get over the hump.
Maybe readers won't mind getting inside Tom's head, but I think if what I've written were in the hands of an agent/editor/publisher they'd be asking me (and Tom!) to be less cerebral.
Tomorrow, I'll give it a try.
Maybe readers won't mind getting inside Tom's head, but I think if what I've written were in the hands of an agent/editor/publisher they'd be asking me (and Tom!) to be less cerebral.
Tomorrow, I'll give it a try.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Life interferes . . .
I've fallen behind, and so early in the process. Oh my! Kids home for the holiday weekend, family gatherings, nice (gardening) weather, work (my "real" job, as I call it) is picking up--these are all my excuses. Both my blogging and book writing have been neglected, and the rest of the week doesn't look good. Despite that, I'm going to try and turn it up a notch.
I do see that this year-long writing project is going to be a constant time management challenge, and I'm going to have to stay vigilant. That's why I called It's a Cold and Stormy Night an accountability blog: This is a tool I'm going to use to keep me on track, so hold me accountable. Set the bar high, give me feedback, encouragement, criticism, talk to me!
I am hearing from people that they are having a hard time figuring out how to comment. Being challenged by technology, I'm not sure I can help. While I appreciate the ease of setting up a blog through the g-mail program I used, having it linked to g-mail seems to create some barriers. Should I start over using another program? I dread the thought, but maybe it would pay off by proving easier to access.
Or maybe not . . .
I tried to answer Lynne's comment yesterday and couldn't get it to "stick." I'll try again tonight. In the meantime, for those of you willing to take the time to figure out this comment business, thanks! With friends and followers like you, I know I will be able to recover when I get frustrated, lost, when life interferes or when I fall behind. What more could a girl ask for?
I do see that this year-long writing project is going to be a constant time management challenge, and I'm going to have to stay vigilant. That's why I called It's a Cold and Stormy Night an accountability blog: This is a tool I'm going to use to keep me on track, so hold me accountable. Set the bar high, give me feedback, encouragement, criticism, talk to me!
I am hearing from people that they are having a hard time figuring out how to comment. Being challenged by technology, I'm not sure I can help. While I appreciate the ease of setting up a blog through the g-mail program I used, having it linked to g-mail seems to create some barriers. Should I start over using another program? I dread the thought, but maybe it would pay off by proving easier to access.
Or maybe not . . .
I tried to answer Lynne's comment yesterday and couldn't get it to "stick." I'll try again tonight. In the meantime, for those of you willing to take the time to figure out this comment business, thanks! With friends and followers like you, I know I will be able to recover when I get frustrated, lost, when life interferes or when I fall behind. What more could a girl ask for?
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
A Funny Thing . . .
Sue was my friend and coworker before she became my boss, and I'm grateful that she's found a way to stay my friend since moving up the ladder. She was one of the lucky masses who received a heads up about the launch of It Was a Cold and Stormy Night, and I could see from those magic Follower icons that she was one of the first to check it out.
For the next week there was silence.
When I finally got around to asking what she thought of the blog, she confessed she found it hard to read. Sue reads the articles I write as a freelancer for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, and she has always enjoyed my work. As she tried to put her finger on why the blog didn't grab her, one comment struck me:
"I'm not used to you being funny," she said.
Believe me, I get this all the time, and for this I blame Katz. It's what happens when you marry the funniest person you've ever known. I know it sounds like hyperbole, but Katz is a savant when it comes to funny; it oozes from his body as naturally as sweat! Verbally, he's a gunslinger--quick and deadly accurate. Add in his non-verbals and he is the complete package.
I've written plays for many years, a couple dozen darn funny plays for the most part, and it is not uncommon for people who know us to reference some laugh-inducing dialogue and say, "Katz wrote that part, didn't he?"
So, let me set the record straight: Katz's humour is innate and interactive. If you are in hearing distance, he will make you laugh, usually at your expense. However, he couldn't write a joke if you paid him. (Love you, sweetie!)
I think there were other reasons Sue didn't take to my blog, and I do understand. While I'm hoping for a loyal following, this isn't for everyone. But, for those of you who choose to read my postings and find something to laugh about as you read along, I have one thing to say: You're welcome!
For the next week there was silence.
When I finally got around to asking what she thought of the blog, she confessed she found it hard to read. Sue reads the articles I write as a freelancer for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, and she has always enjoyed my work. As she tried to put her finger on why the blog didn't grab her, one comment struck me:
"I'm not used to you being funny," she said.
Believe me, I get this all the time, and for this I blame Katz. It's what happens when you marry the funniest person you've ever known. I know it sounds like hyperbole, but Katz is a savant when it comes to funny; it oozes from his body as naturally as sweat! Verbally, he's a gunslinger--quick and deadly accurate. Add in his non-verbals and he is the complete package.
I've written plays for many years, a couple dozen darn funny plays for the most part, and it is not uncommon for people who know us to reference some laugh-inducing dialogue and say, "Katz wrote that part, didn't he?"
So, let me set the record straight: Katz's humour is innate and interactive. If you are in hearing distance, he will make you laugh, usually at your expense. However, he couldn't write a joke if you paid him. (Love you, sweetie!)
I think there were other reasons Sue didn't take to my blog, and I do understand. While I'm hoping for a loyal following, this isn't for everyone. But, for those of you who choose to read my postings and find something to laugh about as you read along, I have one thing to say: You're welcome!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Point of View
Perspective fascinates me. I love conversations with my brothers and sisters whenever we get together, the rehashing of our childhood, the recollections of who we were and what we did or how our parents related to us are often very different--sometimes a lot different! Who's right? Who's wrong? Who knows!
I decided within the last couple of weeks to change the narrative voice in my book, so I'm busy recrafting three chapters of work from third person into first.
How's it going? Slowly. It's much more challenging to do the switchover than I anticipated, and a lot of the difficulty is that change in perspective. Thoughts of a simple change of pronouns--one, two, three, viola!--have been replaced by the agony of rewriting whole portions to reflect a more limited point of view. Still, I've gone from observing my protagonist to being inside his head, and I got to say I'm liking the view. Unfortunately, getting there is like pulling teeth!
I love this quote from Mark Twain's Notebooks and Journals, vol 3:
"Dying man couldn't make up his mind which place to go to -- both have their advantages, "heaven for climate; hell for company!"
So there you go. It's all about perspective.
I decided within the last couple of weeks to change the narrative voice in my book, so I'm busy recrafting three chapters of work from third person into first.
How's it going? Slowly. It's much more challenging to do the switchover than I anticipated, and a lot of the difficulty is that change in perspective. Thoughts of a simple change of pronouns--one, two, three, viola!--have been replaced by the agony of rewriting whole portions to reflect a more limited point of view. Still, I've gone from observing my protagonist to being inside his head, and I got to say I'm liking the view. Unfortunately, getting there is like pulling teeth!
I love this quote from Mark Twain's Notebooks and Journals, vol 3:
"Dying man couldn't make up his mind which place to go to -- both have their advantages, "heaven for climate; hell for company!"
So there you go. It's all about perspective.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Follow, Follow, Follow . . . How To!
When you start a blog, you let all your friends and family know about it, right? Well, right or wrong, that's what I did. After telling people who I love and respect that following me would be a simple commitment, I discover there is a slight trick to posting your comments. Oops!
If you're still interested in checking out my blog from time to time and helping me out with your feedback, here's how to do it:
I hope some of you will see the need to keep me in line, and believe me, I really appreciate it. So take the plunge and let me know how I'm doing.
If you're still interested in checking out my blog from time to time and helping me out with your feedback, here's how to do it:
- Above the Followers icons on the right side at the top of the blog page is a white button that says "Follow". Click on that button and a screen will open with a display of accounts you might already have. Any of these accounts will allow you to interact with my blog. (If you already Twitter, you are in like flint and way ahead of me!)
- If you don't have one of these accounts, you can set up an e-mail account with Google (no need to use it for anything else!).
- On the bottom of the page are the words "Create a new Google Account"! Click on it, follow the easy instructions, and ta-da, you're connected.
I hope some of you will see the need to keep me in line, and believe me, I really appreciate it. So take the plunge and let me know how I'm doing.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Evolution
Here's the scene: Police Chief Tom Wesley (name subject to change) finds his office unlocked one night and his father waiting inside. Tom has just left a violent crime scene and his father is the last person he wants to deal with tonight. There's all that history between them, that power struggle that never gives Tom any peace, that anger. And then there's the question of how he got into his locked office.
That was a week ago. Since then, the person waiting for Tom has morphed from father to embittered former police chief to controlling mayor of the small, rural town where the story is set. Heck, for a micro-second, he was Tom's father and the former police chief!
I'm pretty sure the evolution of this scene is complete and if/when you read this book the mayor will be waiting for Tom to arrive, but you never know.
I started this book with a crime in mind, a good idea of my protagonist, and a setting I felt strongly about.
That was it.
While interesting ideas come to me at unexpected times (taking a shower, lying in bed, on the treadmill at the Y), much of what I write comes as I (figuratively) put pen to paper. For me, the physical act of writing starts the flow. I could spend time coming up with a whole cast of characters, motives, emotions, unresolved tensions, plot twists, and put it all down in some sort of outline , but that outline would become obsolete as soon as I started writing. That's because every word I put down takes me down a path. Put down a different word and my protagonist could be headed in a whole new direction.
And that's fine with me. It's always an adventure to see what's waiting just around the bend.
That was a week ago. Since then, the person waiting for Tom has morphed from father to embittered former police chief to controlling mayor of the small, rural town where the story is set. Heck, for a micro-second, he was Tom's father and the former police chief!
I'm pretty sure the evolution of this scene is complete and if/when you read this book the mayor will be waiting for Tom to arrive, but you never know.
I started this book with a crime in mind, a good idea of my protagonist, and a setting I felt strongly about.
That was it.
While interesting ideas come to me at unexpected times (taking a shower, lying in bed, on the treadmill at the Y), much of what I write comes as I (figuratively) put pen to paper. For me, the physical act of writing starts the flow. I could spend time coming up with a whole cast of characters, motives, emotions, unresolved tensions, plot twists, and put it all down in some sort of outline , but that outline would become obsolete as soon as I started writing. That's because every word I put down takes me down a path. Put down a different word and my protagonist could be headed in a whole new direction.
And that's fine with me. It's always an adventure to see what's waiting just around the bend.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Permission denied!
It doesn't take much of a reason for me not to write, but that kind of thinking isn't going to get a book written, now, is it? Here are the days when letting myself off the hook is easiest:
Work Days. Well, this one is a no-brainer. Who wants to spend a couple of hours looking at a computer screen when you've already put in a considerable part of the day doing just that?
Cleaning Days. These don't occur with enough frequency around my house to be quick and painless , so if I have scheduled a date with the vacuum cleaner, dust rag, and mop, my computer most likely sits idle.
Gardening Days are both all-absorbing and exhausting. Enough said.
Days When the Party Is At Our House are too chock full of shopping, cooking, and cleaning (see Cleaning Days, above) to make room for creative thinking and word processing.
Ditto for The Day Before the Party.
And what would a Holiday be if you had to work? Well, it wouldn't be a holiday, would it? Unfortunately, this reasoning usually comes into play on Weekends, too.
I'd like to tell you that from now on it will be "Permission denied" when I ask if I can have the day off, but I don't have that kind of faith in myself. So how do I find the discipline to recapture many of these lost days? You tell me . . .
Work Days. Well, this one is a no-brainer. Who wants to spend a couple of hours looking at a computer screen when you've already put in a considerable part of the day doing just that?
Cleaning Days. These don't occur with enough frequency around my house to be quick and painless , so if I have scheduled a date with the vacuum cleaner, dust rag, and mop, my computer most likely sits idle.
Gardening Days are both all-absorbing and exhausting. Enough said.
Days When the Party Is At Our House are too chock full of shopping, cooking, and cleaning (see Cleaning Days, above) to make room for creative thinking and word processing.
Ditto for The Day Before the Party.
And what would a Holiday be if you had to work? Well, it wouldn't be a holiday, would it? Unfortunately, this reasoning usually comes into play on Weekends, too.
I'd like to tell you that from now on it will be "Permission denied" when I ask if I can have the day off, but I don't have that kind of faith in myself. So how do I find the discipline to recapture many of these lost days? You tell me . . .
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)