So many different things are pointing me in this direction lately, so I thought I would discuss it here, where I can toss the topic out and you all can help me bat it around for a while.
I just found Aerin’s other blog, No Coward’s Soul and I am looking forward to seeing the content she’ll put forth. I find Aerin’s thoughts on faith to be both thought provoking and intelligent... so, if you’re reading this, Aerin, you’ve got at least one avid reader before you’ve begun.
And then I read Sarah’s comment there, which got me thinking about something else. Most people who dislike religion, or were once religious and find it hypocritical have a story – usually one that starts with a person of position in their faith talking down to them or treating them as ‘less than’. I have one that equates:
I went to Catholic School growing up... grade school and high school. In fourth grade, right around Halloween, my teacher asked us to raise our hands if we believed in ghosts. Mine was the only hand in the air. I can still hear her response.
“Now, Merry,” her voice was sugary sweet, “we know there are no such things as real ghosts, don’t we?” Then, to the class, “Are there any such things as ghosts, class?”
“No Miss. Pain in the ass teacher” (okay, that wasn’t her name, but it might as well have been and they replied in the sing songy tone of a mass of children just given the golden opportunity to fillet one of their peers on the playground)
“But... Father, Son, and Holy Ghost...” I said in the high-pitched kid whisper you get when you’re sure you’re right, are bordering on tears, but know you’re going to get punished for responding and do it anyway.
By this time she was already turned toward the chalkboard, but she heard me. I could tell in the same way a kid can tell when their mother’s heard them swear – the silence is accusatory.
“That’s different,” she snapped, “That’s the Holy Spirit, not some made up ghost like Caspar”
But she didn’t ask about a made up ghost like Caspar, just about ghosts. I was not stupid enough to push her on it; I just lowered my head and tried to avoid any more attention. Looking back now I kind of wish I had argued with her – even as a fourth grader, I think I might’ve won that one... though, I wouldn’t have made it past fourth grade, but that’s another story.
A few months later and we were in the glorious month of December – every kid knows what December brings!!! There were snow forts and games of King of the Mountain. There were candy canes, and boots full of treats from St. Nick... We watched the advent wreath each week, thrilled to see another candle flicker to life... when we got to the pink one, the yearning was palpable... Oh yes, Christmas was a joyous time for a kid.
And then my fourth grade teacher asked another stupid question.
“Who believes in Santa?”
Anyone want to guess how I screwed this one up? I couldn’t help it really. I had two older brothers and I knew this little fact of life, well, for as long as I can remember... we used to make a game of hunting down our presents... the only time my mother out maneuvered us was the time she hid them in the neighbor’s garage... We still figured that out when we saw her going back and forth through the gangway late one night to wrap them... but we didn’t get to play with them ahead of time that year...
Again, I can still hear the tone in this teacher’s voice. It was the same tone you use when you think someone is beneath you. It’s the same tone you’d use to call someone stupid. Meanwhile, all I could think was, here’s a lady who goes to Church, is a practicing Catholic but doesn’t believe in ghosts... while still petitioning saints? And saying the line, “Father, Son, and Holy Ghost”... And she believes in Santa... oh, and she once corrected me for saying the television show “Family Ties” was not realistic... okay, I’m getting off track, but I still... still don’t like her.
I wonder if she knows that. I wonder if I was that kid in her class. The one she just didn’t care for? I most likely was because the feeling was absolutely palpable and I can still feel it at age 35.
The thing is, I had other teachers throughout my education that more than made up for her... okay, my second grade teacher wasn’t that great either – surly nuns rarely are. But for the most part, I’ve had other people to look to in my faith that helped me to form a more solid thought process on things – that encouraged questioning, that adored thought and reveled in respectful discussion and tolerance of all positions. Respect is the optimal word in this little essay.
Often when religion is discussed, respect is in short supply. But I think when a lot of things are discussed, the same can be said. I’ve been following Post Secret for some time now, and occasionally wander over to the message boards to read what’s said. There was a postcard today that said, “I love my wife but I don’t respect her, because she’s not very smart”
It’s someone’s secret and I’m not going to sit here and tear it apart, but I was astounded at the number of commenters who agreed or stated that they couldn’t respect someone who was less intelligent than them. If I got to impart one great truth to the masses, if I got to give the world one tenet of character which they’d all adopt, it’s this:
No human being is less than you, nor are they more. We are equal. Education does not make you superior. Nor intelligence, nor money, nor power. The illusion of superiority is the crutch of the petty man.
We each, every one of us, have gifts and talents that we’re born with – some are better with numbers or good with the turn of the phrase. Some are kind of heart, or responsible and just. Innate talent is a thing you’re born with, it makes you no better or worse than someone who wasn’t given the same gift. When you can hone these things to improve a life other than your own, then you’ve got something to feel proud of. When you feel the need to belittle others for any reason, you’ve lowered yourself in character.
Another religious themed thing that’s taken my attention these last few days is the sign placed in a government building in Washington. It’s an Atheist group who wanted a sign next to the Nativity scene. You guys can google it and find it pretty easy. I think Atheists have every right to have a sign – it is state property and if a religion is allowed their form of speech then it’s fair for every philosophy to have the same courtesy. What I find unsettling is the lack of respect for other peoples’ beliefs. The leader of this particular Atheist group claims the Nativity scene is hate speech toward any non Christian, which I think is a little ludicrous. The sign is purposely inflammatory. I will defend his right to post it, but I think the message belittles his character. Notice that I did not say it belittles all Atheists... I’m guessing all Atheists wouldn’t agree with him. Now they’re just playing tit for tat, like little kids caught fighting on the playground who point at each other screaming, “He started it.”
Doesn’t matter who started it, you earn respect by giving it. And you can’t take instances that a person or people acted in a negative fashion and blame the whole of their religious group. That’s just bigotry wrapped in justification.
Was this long enough for you guys? I’m on a nice long tear here, aren’t I?
Let me get to the end then... and here’s my message for the holiday season:
My kids had their Holiday Gift shop this week. Their class has an assigned time and all the kids file in and can buy presents for their family. I gave each of my kids a (fairly small) amount of money and they had a list of who to buy for but they had to budget themselves and buy their own Christmas gifts. They looked so forward to this.
The day of his class’ turn at the holiday shop, my oldest son asked me if it would be okay for him to buy himself a gift after he bought his presents... of course, I told him it was fine. He’s a great kid and he’s only 8, and I know it’s hard for a kid that age to be around so many toys and things and not get themselves anything.
After school the kids ran to the car with their bags, all excited about their day. We got in the car and I asked oldest son, “Well, did you get to buy yourself a gift?”
“Yes,” he said, “I bought myself a cup filled with candies... but I don’t have it anymore.”
“Why don’t you have it anymore?” I asked.
“When I was done shopping and bought all of my things, I went back by the door to stand in line, and my friend (we’ll call him Joe) didn’t have any bags and he looked really sad” he explained.
“Oh,” I said. Nothing else would come out. I felt terrible for little Joe. It’s a rough year this year and there are a lot of people in my community that are having a hard time.
“Anyway,” Oldest son continued, “I asked him why he was sad and Joe said his parents didn’t give him any money to shop... so I gave him the gift I bought for myself and it made him happy.”
“Oh.” Still all I could think of to say and I was trying really hard not to cry.
“It’s okay, though, mom, I didn’t need anymore candy and I still got to get presents for my family.”
Not one thing for himself, and my 8 year old was perfectly happy. Happier I think than he would have been with the candy... I don’t think I’d have been so astute at his age – with a bag full of brand new crap, I doubt I would have noticed another kid was sad...
For this Christmas, scratch that, from now on, I’m going to follow the example of the 8 year old. I don’t know why so many people spend so much time, money, and energy exerting their opinions over others. The world is full of opportunities to make another person smile, and I think we can each find a cup full of candy that we really don’t need to eat.
Tirade over... thoughts?
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
A Few Links that Amused Me... not that that's really all that hard to do
I spent too much time on the internet today... But I share with you the fruits of my labor...
What happens when you mug a writer
For the musically inclined with confrontational issues
The Porn Shop Clerk’s Manifesto This one, by the way, is my favorite... but if you’re easily offended you might want to skip it.
Craigslist apparently has more to it than job ads and really lame freelance writing gigs that pay in “exposure”.
What happens when you mug a writer
For the musically inclined with confrontational issues
The Porn Shop Clerk’s Manifesto This one, by the way, is my favorite... but if you’re easily offended you might want to skip it.
Craigslist apparently has more to it than job ads and really lame freelance writing gigs that pay in “exposure”.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Tell Me a Story
Tell me a story
Tell me a story....
Tell me a story,
Remember what you said:
You promised me,
You said you would,
You gotta give in,
So I’ll be good,
Tell me a story...
And then I’ll go to bed!
My parents used to sing that song to me when I was a wee little ragamuffin... and I sang it to my kids when they were little... I still break into it on occasion. Moonrat’s challenge to share a story for the National Day of Listening brought this song back to mind... along with a lot of spoken stories.
My family is full of story tellers, though most of our stories become even better, and less recognizable, through re-telling. Picking just one, seemed near impossible, so get ready for a long ramble:
My grandmother was a picker. She could spot lint on the carpet from five yards away, and she’d go over and pick it up, shaking her head. When we came in for family parties and holidays, I went straight over to my grandmother first. She was the first person I had to say hello to, or she’d get offended. I’d sit next to her and she’d stick her bony little finger in my ear to make sure I’d cleaned them right – I hated that... but she was a picker. It’s what she did. Once she got Alzheimer’s, she spoke to me solely in Italian – which I didn’t understand... before that it was a mix between Italian and English, which was a little easier for me. I remember nodding my head and smiling, because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and tell her I didn’t speak Italian.
I was named after my Grandmother, though my mother changed the spelling and gave me a different middle name. My name was supposed to be Marie Antoinette – though Mary would have been okay, as that’s what my Grandmother’s name was changed to in this country... she was born in Sicily, as was my father – she brought him over when he was an infant. Funny, I knew exactly when my aunt started making out my birthday or holiday cards – she spelled my name correctly. My grandmother never would. She spelled it like hers and said, “She’s named after me – I know how to spell my own name!” It was her way of claiming ownership, which is the highest of compliments. I hate it when people misspell my name normally, but I miss it from her – there’s very few people in this world to whom you belong.
My dad just turned forty nine when they had me. He started his family late, and all of my cousins were adults or close to it by the time my brothers and I came along. My Grandma and Papa celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary right around the time I was born.
So my memory of them is tainted by their age. I didn’t get the full impact of their vigor, and I feel slightly cheated because of it... I did get some of the stories.
Papa died when I was in second grade, but my dad hadn’t let me go see him for the last year or so of his life. He had lung cancer, which emaciated him and my father didn’t want me to remember him that way. After my father’s death, my uncle let me look through all of the photos they had from my grandparents’ house to make some copies and take some... it was the first time I’d seen a photo of Papa sick. I’m glad my dad didn’t let me go see him... he was right, I wouldn’t have remembered past the stark illness.
What I remember is Papa’s wide smile and broken English. I read one of those joke things once, “you know you’re a grease ball if...” one of the things was, “Your father or grandfather had a fig tree”. I’m a grease ball. Papa loved his garden. It was the big dream to have a house of your own, and he worked really hard to get there. My grandparents got their first house after all of their kids were grown. My father grew up in apartments, during the depression.
Grandma wore a house dress (remember those?) and usually a sweater, as she was always cold. I remember her plastic covered front room – every couch, chair, and lamp shade was covered. And there was a plastic runner that went from one end of the room all the way to the front door. We used to try to knock each other off the runner – knowing that whoever touched the carpet would get yelled at... is was more fun to annoy Grandma than Papa... Papa could whip off his belt while running to catch you... in his seventies.
From my grandmother, I got thick, wavy black hair (but hers was white by the time I knew her) and a penchant for ball busting. Though she really only messed with Papa, and those stories are some of my favorites.
Papa used to like to go to the track – it was a treat for him and something he looked forward to. One day, he was putting on his hat to go, when Grandma stopped him and said he had to clean the windows. Okay, he took off his hat, got out the ladder, and took all of the storm windows off the house – lining them up against the fence in the yard. He cleaned each window front and back.
Just as he was picking up the first window, to put back on the house, Grandma came outside. She walked up and down the line of windows and said, “Spot, spot, spot... streak, streak, streak... these are no good. Do it again.”
Papa took a deep breath, and swore under it repeatedly. But he cleaned the windows all over again.
Just as he put away the supplies, ready to hang the windows, out comes Grandma.
“Spot, spot, spot... No good, they filthy!” She said.
Papa went into the garage and came back out with a mallet. He busted every single window on the fence.
Out of breath and red faced, he nodded his head once and said, “There! Now can you see through them?”
Then he stuffed his hat on his head and went to the track.
This post is longer than most of mine already... so I’ll end with just the one story. Maybe we’ll revisit on another day. How about you guys? Have any good stories to share?
Tell me a story....
Tell me a story,
Remember what you said:
You promised me,
You said you would,
You gotta give in,
So I’ll be good,
Tell me a story...
And then I’ll go to bed!
My parents used to sing that song to me when I was a wee little ragamuffin... and I sang it to my kids when they were little... I still break into it on occasion. Moonrat’s challenge to share a story for the National Day of Listening brought this song back to mind... along with a lot of spoken stories.
My family is full of story tellers, though most of our stories become even better, and less recognizable, through re-telling. Picking just one, seemed near impossible, so get ready for a long ramble:
My grandmother was a picker. She could spot lint on the carpet from five yards away, and she’d go over and pick it up, shaking her head. When we came in for family parties and holidays, I went straight over to my grandmother first. She was the first person I had to say hello to, or she’d get offended. I’d sit next to her and she’d stick her bony little finger in my ear to make sure I’d cleaned them right – I hated that... but she was a picker. It’s what she did. Once she got Alzheimer’s, she spoke to me solely in Italian – which I didn’t understand... before that it was a mix between Italian and English, which was a little easier for me. I remember nodding my head and smiling, because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and tell her I didn’t speak Italian.
I was named after my Grandmother, though my mother changed the spelling and gave me a different middle name. My name was supposed to be Marie Antoinette – though Mary would have been okay, as that’s what my Grandmother’s name was changed to in this country... she was born in Sicily, as was my father – she brought him over when he was an infant. Funny, I knew exactly when my aunt started making out my birthday or holiday cards – she spelled my name correctly. My grandmother never would. She spelled it like hers and said, “She’s named after me – I know how to spell my own name!” It was her way of claiming ownership, which is the highest of compliments. I hate it when people misspell my name normally, but I miss it from her – there’s very few people in this world to whom you belong.
My dad just turned forty nine when they had me. He started his family late, and all of my cousins were adults or close to it by the time my brothers and I came along. My Grandma and Papa celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary right around the time I was born.
So my memory of them is tainted by their age. I didn’t get the full impact of their vigor, and I feel slightly cheated because of it... I did get some of the stories.
Papa died when I was in second grade, but my dad hadn’t let me go see him for the last year or so of his life. He had lung cancer, which emaciated him and my father didn’t want me to remember him that way. After my father’s death, my uncle let me look through all of the photos they had from my grandparents’ house to make some copies and take some... it was the first time I’d seen a photo of Papa sick. I’m glad my dad didn’t let me go see him... he was right, I wouldn’t have remembered past the stark illness.
What I remember is Papa’s wide smile and broken English. I read one of those joke things once, “you know you’re a grease ball if...” one of the things was, “Your father or grandfather had a fig tree”. I’m a grease ball. Papa loved his garden. It was the big dream to have a house of your own, and he worked really hard to get there. My grandparents got their first house after all of their kids were grown. My father grew up in apartments, during the depression.
Grandma wore a house dress (remember those?) and usually a sweater, as she was always cold. I remember her plastic covered front room – every couch, chair, and lamp shade was covered. And there was a plastic runner that went from one end of the room all the way to the front door. We used to try to knock each other off the runner – knowing that whoever touched the carpet would get yelled at... is was more fun to annoy Grandma than Papa... Papa could whip off his belt while running to catch you... in his seventies.
From my grandmother, I got thick, wavy black hair (but hers was white by the time I knew her) and a penchant for ball busting. Though she really only messed with Papa, and those stories are some of my favorites.
Papa used to like to go to the track – it was a treat for him and something he looked forward to. One day, he was putting on his hat to go, when Grandma stopped him and said he had to clean the windows. Okay, he took off his hat, got out the ladder, and took all of the storm windows off the house – lining them up against the fence in the yard. He cleaned each window front and back.
Just as he was picking up the first window, to put back on the house, Grandma came outside. She walked up and down the line of windows and said, “Spot, spot, spot... streak, streak, streak... these are no good. Do it again.”
Papa took a deep breath, and swore under it repeatedly. But he cleaned the windows all over again.
Just as he put away the supplies, ready to hang the windows, out comes Grandma.
“Spot, spot, spot... No good, they filthy!” She said.
Papa went into the garage and came back out with a mallet. He busted every single window on the fence.
Out of breath and red faced, he nodded his head once and said, “There! Now can you see through them?”
Then he stuffed his hat on his head and went to the track.
This post is longer than most of mine already... so I’ll end with just the one story. Maybe we’ll revisit on another day. How about you guys? Have any good stories to share?
Visions of Websites Dance through their Heads
Many of my blogging buddies have their own websites these days. It’s one of the things a writer can do to help build their profile and prepare for once their work is published. I’ve been thinking of putting up my own for a number of years, but not knowing enough about it, I’ve been checking out some web hosting articles at various sites and discussions. For me, I think it can wait a while... at least until I find an agent. The blog will suffice for my writing space, and it’s free... but I like to keep reading up on it, so I’m prepared when it’s time.
There’s a lot to learn. How do you choose a host? Who will design your graphics? How important is your domain name and should I get my domain name now and park it for when I’m ready?
Thankfully, I have a great writer’s circle who I will be able to bother for information when I’m ready... Be afraid, be very afraid. But it never hurts to do a little research so that you know how much work and money it will take to get off the ground. Plus, I’m hoping that preparation will save me some mistakes and time once I get to the point where I’m setting up a site.
How about you guys? Do you have a site now? How hard was it for you to muddle through building it, or did you have someone build it for you? If you don’t have a site, are you thinking about it and researching?
There’s a lot to learn. How do you choose a host? Who will design your graphics? How important is your domain name and should I get my domain name now and park it for when I’m ready?
Thankfully, I have a great writer’s circle who I will be able to bother for information when I’m ready... Be afraid, be very afraid. But it never hurts to do a little research so that you know how much work and money it will take to get off the ground. Plus, I’m hoping that preparation will save me some mistakes and time once I get to the point where I’m setting up a site.
How about you guys? Do you have a site now? How hard was it for you to muddle through building it, or did you have someone build it for you? If you don’t have a site, are you thinking about it and researching?
Friday, November 28, 2008
Setting the Mood
I’ve been taking stock of my writing area, lately. I don’t have an office specifically for writing – I wish. Instead I have my desk in my living room. It’s my favorite room in the house and it doesn’t have a television, so the kids are less likely to hang out here. But I’ve started thinking about making, at least the little area where my desk is, a little more me.
The room is.... well, what my husband refers to as gaudy Italian... but he’s like a cabin so I don’t think his version of taste counts... but the colors are subdued, moreso than I’d like for my writing area. Paint is out of the question, because the bright hues I’d like won’t match the front room or dining room couches. So I started thinking of little ways that I could decorate just the area where my desk is. The first think I thought of was my lamp. It’s a standard, white ceramic affair, but I’d kind of like to do something a little different.
Maybe a hanging light something with a colorful shade – I’m loud and obnoxious, sue me... I thought that might be a good way to clear off some of the surface space and allow me more room to pile my crap... er, umn, you know put gracious knickknacks... okay, that’s a lie, more room to pile my papers is pretty much what would happen.
Maybe, though, I could get a more slender based desk lamp that would be better for the limited space I have here, and still give me good lighting... I’ve got kid pictures scattered around by my piano, but I’m thinking of picking up a colorful print or maybe doing a dream board to hang on the wall space above.
What about you guys? Do you have a whole room for your writing, or just any little space you could fit in a desk? And have you set a mood, or do your just get down to work and not care about your surroundings?
The room is.... well, what my husband refers to as gaudy Italian... but he’s like a cabin so I don’t think his version of taste counts... but the colors are subdued, moreso than I’d like for my writing area. Paint is out of the question, because the bright hues I’d like won’t match the front room or dining room couches. So I started thinking of little ways that I could decorate just the area where my desk is. The first think I thought of was my lamp. It’s a standard, white ceramic affair, but I’d kind of like to do something a little different.
Maybe a hanging light something with a colorful shade – I’m loud and obnoxious, sue me... I thought that might be a good way to clear off some of the surface space and allow me more room to pile my crap... er, umn, you know put gracious knickknacks... okay, that’s a lie, more room to pile my papers is pretty much what would happen.
Maybe, though, I could get a more slender based desk lamp that would be better for the limited space I have here, and still give me good lighting... I’ve got kid pictures scattered around by my piano, but I’m thinking of picking up a colorful print or maybe doing a dream board to hang on the wall space above.
What about you guys? Do you have a whole room for your writing, or just any little space you could fit in a desk? And have you set a mood, or do your just get down to work and not care about your surroundings?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Hard Headed
My daughter’s always liked money. When we brought her home from the hospital, friends and family came to see the new baby girl. My friend’s dad handed her a silver dollar, as is the Greek tradition... she grasped it in her tiny little hand and wouldn’t let it go. He said that was a good sign – it meant she’d be good with money.
When she was five, she was infatuated with bills. Didn’t matter if it was a single or a twenty, but she knew enough to like the paper more than shiny quarters. One day she asked me how she could get her picture on money. Kind of a shocking question for a five year old. She pointed to the pictures on the bills and asked again, and I tried to explain that they were all great men who helped build our country.
She didn’t take me at my word, or it was enough of an obsession that she had to double check me, because she asked her teacher about it the next day at Kindergarten. She came out the door triumphant, with her big blue eyes dancing and a grin that took up half her tiny face.
“You have to be a president to get your picture on money, mommy!” she said, jumping up and down.
“Oh,” I said, “yes, most of them were presidents.”
“Now all I have to do is figure out how to become president.” She clapped her hands and danced around...
Don’t you just love five year olds? Easy cheesey, just become president... that wouldn’t have even occurred to me at five, it would have been an out of reach thing... or maybe that’s just how I view it now, as an adult.
My daughter has a lazy eye. She had to wear glasses from the age of four and patch the stronger eye to build up the weak one. Today she doesn’t need glasses or a patch, but her eyes work independently. Most people automatically look at things with both eyes, hers don’t work that way, she can easily be focused with one eye but not the other. It’s just part of that particular eye condition.. They’re straight, we take her for regular checkups, the only real inconvenience is that those eye tests where they put your face in the little viewer (like at school or the DMV) she’ll always fail those... she can’t pass them with her particular sight issue.
She just had to take one of those eye tests at school and I got the traditional note telling me to have her vision tested... You’d think the nurse would write my name down, because we had this conversation last year. Anyway, my daughter and I had a little conversation about why she can’t pass this test and why her vision is like that. And in saying that it really doesn’t make any difference as long as we keep making sure that the sight is even in both eyes, I mentioned that she’ll never be a fighter pilot. (If you didn’t know that, you need good vision for that job, she’d be out of the running before she started).
“What do you mean I can’t? What if I want to?” she asked, scowl firmly planted across her brow.
“Well, I don’t make the rules. You need perfect vision.”
“What if I fly better than anyone else? Think they’d make an exception?” She asked.
You could see the little hamster running behind her eyes.
“No, I don’t think they’d make an exception. Since when do you want to be a fighter pilot?” I asked.
“Since you told me I can’t.”
I don’t think she really wants to be one, it was the end of the conversation in any event, but it was the idea of having a door closed for her, without her choice to close it. She’s stubborn and she’ll have none of it, and I waver a bit between trying to teach her to live within reality and being damn proud that she’s got enough backbone to want to make her own reality. Screw the rules, let’s rewrite them.
So, I thought about my daughter’s character, along with all of the doom and gloom assailing publishing with the current economy... or the regular doom and gloom that assails the unwashed masses of unpublished authors after a few good years of query hell.
I think you need that hard headedness to keep at it. Sure, we all hear stories about the author who had three agents clamoring to represent them and sold at auction on their first book... we hear about them because they’re rare... if it happened all the time, it wouldn’t be worth repeating in awe. Sometimes those great stories can give you hope. Other times you compare their reality with your own, and yours doesn’t look so good in the contrast.
And we can get into the need for work on your craft, the ability to self edit, to follow rules, to work with critique partners, to study the industry... and the million other things you need to do to educate yourself for success as an author. But I think the most important quality is stubbornness – the absolute refusal to believe it when everything around you tells you that you can’t.
That hard-headedness will give you the drive to keep improving, instead of giving up. It’ll tell you to knock on the next door, when the last three turned out the lights and acted like they weren’t home... even though you just saw them scurry in the side door... (I’m not advocating stalking agents, relax... but that is what it feels like when they don’t respond at all... especially the ones you know normally do respond all the time)
So, what do you guys think? Does stubbornness rank up there as a top quality for you? Or do you have a laundry list of other qualities that trump it?
When she was five, she was infatuated with bills. Didn’t matter if it was a single or a twenty, but she knew enough to like the paper more than shiny quarters. One day she asked me how she could get her picture on money. Kind of a shocking question for a five year old. She pointed to the pictures on the bills and asked again, and I tried to explain that they were all great men who helped build our country.
She didn’t take me at my word, or it was enough of an obsession that she had to double check me, because she asked her teacher about it the next day at Kindergarten. She came out the door triumphant, with her big blue eyes dancing and a grin that took up half her tiny face.
“You have to be a president to get your picture on money, mommy!” she said, jumping up and down.
“Oh,” I said, “yes, most of them were presidents.”
“Now all I have to do is figure out how to become president.” She clapped her hands and danced around...
Don’t you just love five year olds? Easy cheesey, just become president... that wouldn’t have even occurred to me at five, it would have been an out of reach thing... or maybe that’s just how I view it now, as an adult.
My daughter has a lazy eye. She had to wear glasses from the age of four and patch the stronger eye to build up the weak one. Today she doesn’t need glasses or a patch, but her eyes work independently. Most people automatically look at things with both eyes, hers don’t work that way, she can easily be focused with one eye but not the other. It’s just part of that particular eye condition.. They’re straight, we take her for regular checkups, the only real inconvenience is that those eye tests where they put your face in the little viewer (like at school or the DMV) she’ll always fail those... she can’t pass them with her particular sight issue.
She just had to take one of those eye tests at school and I got the traditional note telling me to have her vision tested... You’d think the nurse would write my name down, because we had this conversation last year. Anyway, my daughter and I had a little conversation about why she can’t pass this test and why her vision is like that. And in saying that it really doesn’t make any difference as long as we keep making sure that the sight is even in both eyes, I mentioned that she’ll never be a fighter pilot. (If you didn’t know that, you need good vision for that job, she’d be out of the running before she started).
“What do you mean I can’t? What if I want to?” she asked, scowl firmly planted across her brow.
“Well, I don’t make the rules. You need perfect vision.”
“What if I fly better than anyone else? Think they’d make an exception?” She asked.
You could see the little hamster running behind her eyes.
“No, I don’t think they’d make an exception. Since when do you want to be a fighter pilot?” I asked.
“Since you told me I can’t.”
I don’t think she really wants to be one, it was the end of the conversation in any event, but it was the idea of having a door closed for her, without her choice to close it. She’s stubborn and she’ll have none of it, and I waver a bit between trying to teach her to live within reality and being damn proud that she’s got enough backbone to want to make her own reality. Screw the rules, let’s rewrite them.
So, I thought about my daughter’s character, along with all of the doom and gloom assailing publishing with the current economy... or the regular doom and gloom that assails the unwashed masses of unpublished authors after a few good years of query hell.
I think you need that hard headedness to keep at it. Sure, we all hear stories about the author who had three agents clamoring to represent them and sold at auction on their first book... we hear about them because they’re rare... if it happened all the time, it wouldn’t be worth repeating in awe. Sometimes those great stories can give you hope. Other times you compare their reality with your own, and yours doesn’t look so good in the contrast.
And we can get into the need for work on your craft, the ability to self edit, to follow rules, to work with critique partners, to study the industry... and the million other things you need to do to educate yourself for success as an author. But I think the most important quality is stubbornness – the absolute refusal to believe it when everything around you tells you that you can’t.
That hard-headedness will give you the drive to keep improving, instead of giving up. It’ll tell you to knock on the next door, when the last three turned out the lights and acted like they weren’t home... even though you just saw them scurry in the side door... (I’m not advocating stalking agents, relax... but that is what it feels like when they don’t respond at all... especially the ones you know normally do respond all the time)
So, what do you guys think? Does stubbornness rank up there as a top quality for you? Or do you have a laundry list of other qualities that trump it?
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Sense of Direction
I have no sense of direction. It’s a gift. My friends joke about my ability to get lost on a regular basis, in fact I often get lost in my own damn city... never mind road trips. I need driving directions, specific ones, too, to pretty much any neighborhood I’m not intimately familiar with... worse than that, I don’t care very much if I do get lost... I’ve always managed to make my way to the assigned destination... eventually... so I kind of take the detour of getting lost as a mini-adventure... Yes, my friends laugh at me – when they’re not completely indignant that I’m so late, or worse, made them late.
Chicago is laid out in a pretty straight forward grid, which is another reason I don’t worry so much... if I miss a turn, it’s really easy to find your way when you know which streets run north and south or east and west... and I generally know the neighborhoods I frequent well enough to drive on autopilot... but, being that I’m home with the kids or at kid friendly places, I’ve lost a bit of touch with what there is to do for just adults. Getting together with my girlfriends, unless they have a specific place picked out, I find myself going online to search restaurants or check out reviews for plays or nightclubs.
It makes you feel a little out of touch, having to look this stuff up rather than having haunts you’re familiar with... Pre-parenthood, I could’ve written my own guide to the city – but I would have skipped all the fancy dancy restaraunts with humongous plates and tiny portions... it’s Chicago, the best places heap on the food and don’t skip the calories. My guidebook today would include gymnasiums, arcades, and batting cages, as well as parks and pools... I wonder what it’ll look like when I hit the Grandparent stage... knowing me, I’ll still need directions.
Chicago is laid out in a pretty straight forward grid, which is another reason I don’t worry so much... if I miss a turn, it’s really easy to find your way when you know which streets run north and south or east and west... and I generally know the neighborhoods I frequent well enough to drive on autopilot... but, being that I’m home with the kids or at kid friendly places, I’ve lost a bit of touch with what there is to do for just adults. Getting together with my girlfriends, unless they have a specific place picked out, I find myself going online to search restaurants or check out reviews for plays or nightclubs.
It makes you feel a little out of touch, having to look this stuff up rather than having haunts you’re familiar with... Pre-parenthood, I could’ve written my own guide to the city – but I would have skipped all the fancy dancy restaraunts with humongous plates and tiny portions... it’s Chicago, the best places heap on the food and don’t skip the calories. My guidebook today would include gymnasiums, arcades, and batting cages, as well as parks and pools... I wonder what it’ll look like when I hit the Grandparent stage... knowing me, I’ll still need directions.
Monday, November 17, 2008
They gave us Shakespeare... We give them ‘meh’...
As the bully kid from the Simpsons might say, “Ha, ha!” In case you have no idea what I’m talking about, there’s an article about new words entering the British language that’s slightly amusing... it also reinforces the notion that Brits are elegant and polished while their American counterparts are, well, not so much...
I, for one, blame them. Hey, we didn’t skewer the English language. We gave it colour... and we do have some other distinctly Yankee phrases that they could have included in that book....
In other news
Our beloved Church Lady is back... go visit Chris and tell her what to do with her ridiculously high clear healed shoes... I’m voting for Ello’s sandwich and chip combo, but I could just as easily lean toward chocolate and booze (don’t make me decide, here).
And on this here blog
I’m just full of little updates today, aren’t I? In light of current economic turmoil and the usual status of most unpublished writers like myself – that being poor and starving... I’ve decided to start taking paid posts. I did do a lot of paid posting a long time ago, but stopped because I didn’t want to clutter the blog. Now they’re making me an offer that I just can’t refuse... I can decline anything I don’t want to write about, which makes it easier and I promise I’ll try to make them all entertaining and interesting.
Just thought I’d let you all know in case you page in here next week and wonder when I decided to sell out... that would be today... but at least I’m an honest sell out.
Writing Progress
I’m not doing the nano thing, but the rest of the bloggy verse seems to be, so I thought I’d just post a bit of progress on goal to finish by December 31st... I think I can... I think I can... I’m pretty sure I can...
I find it hard to post in word count because I can write three pages and then delete the whole thing and rewrite... and there’s usually deletion and re-writing involved every time I sit down to write lately... hopefully that bodes well for my self-editing abilities. I will say that I think I’m fairly well on track with it and the characters are fleshing out amazingly well.
Okie-dokie artichokies, that’s about it here. How about you guys? Writing progress? New links for to help me waste time? What say you?
I, for one, blame them. Hey, we didn’t skewer the English language. We gave it colour... and we do have some other distinctly Yankee phrases that they could have included in that book....
In other news
Our beloved Church Lady is back... go visit Chris and tell her what to do with her ridiculously high clear healed shoes... I’m voting for Ello’s sandwich and chip combo, but I could just as easily lean toward chocolate and booze (don’t make me decide, here).
And on this here blog
I’m just full of little updates today, aren’t I? In light of current economic turmoil and the usual status of most unpublished writers like myself – that being poor and starving... I’ve decided to start taking paid posts. I did do a lot of paid posting a long time ago, but stopped because I didn’t want to clutter the blog. Now they’re making me an offer that I just can’t refuse... I can decline anything I don’t want to write about, which makes it easier and I promise I’ll try to make them all entertaining and interesting.
Just thought I’d let you all know in case you page in here next week and wonder when I decided to sell out... that would be today... but at least I’m an honest sell out.
Writing Progress
I’m not doing the nano thing, but the rest of the bloggy verse seems to be, so I thought I’d just post a bit of progress on goal to finish by December 31st... I think I can... I think I can... I’m pretty sure I can...
I find it hard to post in word count because I can write three pages and then delete the whole thing and rewrite... and there’s usually deletion and re-writing involved every time I sit down to write lately... hopefully that bodes well for my self-editing abilities. I will say that I think I’m fairly well on track with it and the characters are fleshing out amazingly well.
Okie-dokie artichokies, that’s about it here. How about you guys? Writing progress? New links for to help me waste time? What say you?
Friday, November 14, 2008
Politics and Religion and Hypocrisy, Oh, My!
I don’t often discuss either politics or religion on this blog because they tend to invoke ire, mostly in myself... here I shall abandon my normal abstinence on the subjects and point you to this little abomination
A Catholic Priest holding Communion over the heads of his democratic voting parishioners
If any of you stopped in for the usual fiction writing banter, I’ll continue that in my next post. I’ll state ahead of time that I don’t tolerate derogatory commentary about an entire group of people, so any religion or Catholic bashing is disallowed – making points on things you dislike is fair game, but not blaming an entire population.
If you haven’t read the article yet, go read it... I’ll still be here when you get back...
This is wrong on so many levels I scarcely know where to begin. The thing I find possibly most offensive is that this priest is a representative of my faith. It is fine to preach from his pulpit, that is his job. It’s fine to impart to his individual parishioners the teachings of the Church, but to tell them that voting for a candidate is a sin so grievous that they should forfeit the right to the Sacrament of Communion? Really, Father?
To be fair, Rev. Jay Scott Newman actually said that if his parishioners voted for a pro-abortion candidate when there was an alternative candidate who was pro-life, it, “...constitutes material cooperation with intrinsic evil, and those Catholics who do so place themselves outside of the full communion of Christ's Church and under the judgment of divine law.”
He went on to say that they should not receive Communion until they had made the Sacrament of Reconciliation... Okay, I have a few qualms with this. First, aren’t we always under the judgment of divine law, and by ‘divine’, don’t we mean God’s judgment rather than a priest’s judgment? Not to negate the job of a priest, they are spiritual leaders and if his vantage point was in counseling one of his parishioners against having an abortion, I’d have no problem with this. That’s his job, and is in line with the Church’s teaching for his congregation and parishioners, not for the entire country regardless of what they believe.
This smacks to me of spiritual extortion – and I am a Catholic, which makes this even more unnerving, because it seems to me that this priest is laying aside other tenets of our faith in order to further one agenda. What of those parishioners who voted for Obama? They could just make confession, take their penance and be done with this, right? Not if they are true Catholics and abide by their faith, they can’t. You can’t lie a penance – God doesn’t fool that easy, and that’s essentially what this priest is telling them to do – repent their vote... how many of them do you think changed their minds in light of his sermon? So, say some of them did decide just to lie the confession and get the episode behind them – lying to a priest is a sin, too, isn’t it? And wouldn’t it be the priest at fault for that sin?
Another factor to the Sacrament of Reconciliation that he seems to be missing – by the Church’s teaching, a sin is an action taken by a person with full knowledge that what they are doing is wrong and harmful to another person, their relationship with another person, and theirs (or another’s) relationship with God. While the priest might argue that by voting this way they’ve affected another person’s relationship with God, or that they’ve condoned another person’s sin, the priest cannot verify in any way that the parishioner believed this to be a sin at the time they voted or even currently consider it a sin... you can’t sin on accident – you also can’t judge what’s in another person’s heart – not even if you’re a priest.
Many devout Catholics do believe that you should abstain from Communion unless you’ve received Reconciliation. So telling his parishioners to go to Confession isn’t so much the issue, as telling them what they have to confess.
There have been other cases of Church officials stating that politicians who support pro-choice legislation should be denied the Sacraments. First, this is a little less unsettling to me than telling an entire congregation who might disagree with a politician’s stance on this issue but think him best for the job otherwise that they are sinning by voting for him. It’s still unsettling though because you are asking a politician to put his job to the side and rule through his religion – and they can’t do that. Well, I take that back, many of them do just that, but it’s absolutely wrong when they do. There’s a separation between Church and State for a reason and no one of faith should want them to overlap at all.
Ethically, the politician has promised to answer for his constituents, not himself. As a private entity the Church is allowed to deny the Sacrament, but I think it’s an injustice to deny any Catholic the body and blood of Christ for following a promise and doing what he feels is ethically and morally right. And I think it’s overstepping for the Church to deem these sins, especially sins heavy enough to essentially cut the person off from God – isn’t that the biggest sin, to turn someone away from God?
I think the largest problem here, for me, is that you have one or a handful of priests and Bishops making these decisions. These are men. Their vocation demands respect, but they are still men. I don’t feel that these rulings adequately portray the teachings of the Church, either, but people outside of the Catholic faith see these things and form an opinion that is less than good... it’s been known to turn Catholics away from their faith as well.
Well, that’s my two cents. What’s yours?
A Catholic Priest holding Communion over the heads of his democratic voting parishioners
If any of you stopped in for the usual fiction writing banter, I’ll continue that in my next post. I’ll state ahead of time that I don’t tolerate derogatory commentary about an entire group of people, so any religion or Catholic bashing is disallowed – making points on things you dislike is fair game, but not blaming an entire population.
If you haven’t read the article yet, go read it... I’ll still be here when you get back...
This is wrong on so many levels I scarcely know where to begin. The thing I find possibly most offensive is that this priest is a representative of my faith. It is fine to preach from his pulpit, that is his job. It’s fine to impart to his individual parishioners the teachings of the Church, but to tell them that voting for a candidate is a sin so grievous that they should forfeit the right to the Sacrament of Communion? Really, Father?
To be fair, Rev. Jay Scott Newman actually said that if his parishioners voted for a pro-abortion candidate when there was an alternative candidate who was pro-life, it, “...constitutes material cooperation with intrinsic evil, and those Catholics who do so place themselves outside of the full communion of Christ's Church and under the judgment of divine law.”
He went on to say that they should not receive Communion until they had made the Sacrament of Reconciliation... Okay, I have a few qualms with this. First, aren’t we always under the judgment of divine law, and by ‘divine’, don’t we mean God’s judgment rather than a priest’s judgment? Not to negate the job of a priest, they are spiritual leaders and if his vantage point was in counseling one of his parishioners against having an abortion, I’d have no problem with this. That’s his job, and is in line with the Church’s teaching for his congregation and parishioners, not for the entire country regardless of what they believe.
This smacks to me of spiritual extortion – and I am a Catholic, which makes this even more unnerving, because it seems to me that this priest is laying aside other tenets of our faith in order to further one agenda. What of those parishioners who voted for Obama? They could just make confession, take their penance and be done with this, right? Not if they are true Catholics and abide by their faith, they can’t. You can’t lie a penance – God doesn’t fool that easy, and that’s essentially what this priest is telling them to do – repent their vote... how many of them do you think changed their minds in light of his sermon? So, say some of them did decide just to lie the confession and get the episode behind them – lying to a priest is a sin, too, isn’t it? And wouldn’t it be the priest at fault for that sin?
Another factor to the Sacrament of Reconciliation that he seems to be missing – by the Church’s teaching, a sin is an action taken by a person with full knowledge that what they are doing is wrong and harmful to another person, their relationship with another person, and theirs (or another’s) relationship with God. While the priest might argue that by voting this way they’ve affected another person’s relationship with God, or that they’ve condoned another person’s sin, the priest cannot verify in any way that the parishioner believed this to be a sin at the time they voted or even currently consider it a sin... you can’t sin on accident – you also can’t judge what’s in another person’s heart – not even if you’re a priest.
Many devout Catholics do believe that you should abstain from Communion unless you’ve received Reconciliation. So telling his parishioners to go to Confession isn’t so much the issue, as telling them what they have to confess.
There have been other cases of Church officials stating that politicians who support pro-choice legislation should be denied the Sacraments. First, this is a little less unsettling to me than telling an entire congregation who might disagree with a politician’s stance on this issue but think him best for the job otherwise that they are sinning by voting for him. It’s still unsettling though because you are asking a politician to put his job to the side and rule through his religion – and they can’t do that. Well, I take that back, many of them do just that, but it’s absolutely wrong when they do. There’s a separation between Church and State for a reason and no one of faith should want them to overlap at all.
Ethically, the politician has promised to answer for his constituents, not himself. As a private entity the Church is allowed to deny the Sacrament, but I think it’s an injustice to deny any Catholic the body and blood of Christ for following a promise and doing what he feels is ethically and morally right. And I think it’s overstepping for the Church to deem these sins, especially sins heavy enough to essentially cut the person off from God – isn’t that the biggest sin, to turn someone away from God?
I think the largest problem here, for me, is that you have one or a handful of priests and Bishops making these decisions. These are men. Their vocation demands respect, but they are still men. I don’t feel that these rulings adequately portray the teachings of the Church, either, but people outside of the Catholic faith see these things and form an opinion that is less than good... it’s been known to turn Catholics away from their faith as well.
Well, that’s my two cents. What’s yours?
Sunday, November 09, 2008
CONNIVING 101: Lessons my Mother Taught Me
It was suggested by Travis in the comments section of a recent blog post that I might be a bit of a conniver. Actually, my conniving skills aren’t much to speak of, at least not to me. But that’s because I grew up watching in awe some of my mother’s more prolific shots.
I love my mother, but she’s not normal. Don’t get offended. She would be happy with the description – normal would never be a thing she’d aspire to. I’ve often told her that she should be writing her memoir – but she’s convinced that no one would believe it, and she’s likely right. If I didn’t live there, I wouldn’t believe half the shit she did while we were little, and she mellowed out quite a bit after having children from what I understand. To make you understand a bit of her character, my oldest brother can’t watch I Love Lucy. He has a physical aversion to it, it reminds him so much of some of my mother’s shots... I think it even gives him a bit of a tick. I kind of understand – it can be hard to deal with from the inside when you’d really love a mom who bakes cookies and wound up, instead, with one who hatches schemes.
One person in particular that my mother loved to play practical jokes on was one of my dad’s friends. He could take it, and would sometimes even try to get even, so I think it was more mental gymnastics for her. When we were young, so sometime in the late seventies or maybe very early eighties, he opened a hot dog joint. It was pretty run of the mill, hot dogs, beef sandwiches, gyros, and the like – but it was his own business, which is a very big deal and he was proud of it. Early on, he got this big sign for over the counter. It was pretty expensive and nice, it had his whole menu and the prices and he kept talking about it for weeks before it arrived and right after he got it. For ease in narration, without using real names, I’ll refer to him as ‘our mark’ in this story.
That first week that the sign was up, my mom came in and placed an order. They stood at the counter talking for a few minutes, when a man in a suit came in with a brief case.
The man walked up to the counter, staring at the sign.
“Can I help you?” Our mark asked.
“Yeah,” man with brief case responded, handing over a business card, “I’m a representative of Oscar Myer Company. Your sign is in violation of our company trademark.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t even use Oscar Myer, there’s no Oscar Myer mentioned on the sign” Our mark said.
“Yes, I know. If you used Oscar Myer there would be no problem. As it stands, you use Vienna – but you used the spelling B-E-E-F – that spelling is trademarked to our company. You can’t use it without our written permission. The sign will have to come down.”
“What are you, crazy? That’s how you spell beef. You can’t have a trademark on that.”
“No, sir, you spell beef, B-E-A-F.” Briefcase guy replied.
My mother was standing to the side of the counter through the entire conversation, trying to avert her eyes.
“No... that’s not right... beef is B-E-E-F,” our mark mumbled, “Hey,” he said to my mother, “How do you spell beef?”
My mother looked at him blank eyed, “B-E-A-F. Why?”
“What do you mean?” he yelled in agitation, “It’s B-E-E-F!”
“No, it’s not,” my mother responded, and then looking at the sign, “Oh, they spelled it wrong.”
Now our mark was thoroughly confused. Another patron had been sitting in a booth just near the counter, listening. Our mark looked at her, eyes wide in confusion.
“I think they’re right,” the patron said, “I’m pretty sure it’s B-E-A-F.”
“You’ll have to remove the sign until the spelling is fixed.” Briefcase guy went on.
Our mark looked at his lovely sign that he’d been bragging about for eons, and didn’t want to take it down. He pulled a ladder out of the back and was climbing up to try to cover the “E” with an “A” written in magic marker on a piece of paper when my mother finally broke and started laughing.
Briefcase guy was my brother’s little league coach. Patron was just a very gullible stranger.
All of this just to have a little fun. Makes you wonder what she might accomplish if she ever uses her powers for good.
I love my mother, but she’s not normal. Don’t get offended. She would be happy with the description – normal would never be a thing she’d aspire to. I’ve often told her that she should be writing her memoir – but she’s convinced that no one would believe it, and she’s likely right. If I didn’t live there, I wouldn’t believe half the shit she did while we were little, and she mellowed out quite a bit after having children from what I understand. To make you understand a bit of her character, my oldest brother can’t watch I Love Lucy. He has a physical aversion to it, it reminds him so much of some of my mother’s shots... I think it even gives him a bit of a tick. I kind of understand – it can be hard to deal with from the inside when you’d really love a mom who bakes cookies and wound up, instead, with one who hatches schemes.
One person in particular that my mother loved to play practical jokes on was one of my dad’s friends. He could take it, and would sometimes even try to get even, so I think it was more mental gymnastics for her. When we were young, so sometime in the late seventies or maybe very early eighties, he opened a hot dog joint. It was pretty run of the mill, hot dogs, beef sandwiches, gyros, and the like – but it was his own business, which is a very big deal and he was proud of it. Early on, he got this big sign for over the counter. It was pretty expensive and nice, it had his whole menu and the prices and he kept talking about it for weeks before it arrived and right after he got it. For ease in narration, without using real names, I’ll refer to him as ‘our mark’ in this story.
That first week that the sign was up, my mom came in and placed an order. They stood at the counter talking for a few minutes, when a man in a suit came in with a brief case.
The man walked up to the counter, staring at the sign.
“Can I help you?” Our mark asked.
“Yeah,” man with brief case responded, handing over a business card, “I’m a representative of Oscar Myer Company. Your sign is in violation of our company trademark.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t even use Oscar Myer, there’s no Oscar Myer mentioned on the sign” Our mark said.
“Yes, I know. If you used Oscar Myer there would be no problem. As it stands, you use Vienna – but you used the spelling B-E-E-F – that spelling is trademarked to our company. You can’t use it without our written permission. The sign will have to come down.”
“What are you, crazy? That’s how you spell beef. You can’t have a trademark on that.”
“No, sir, you spell beef, B-E-A-F.” Briefcase guy replied.
My mother was standing to the side of the counter through the entire conversation, trying to avert her eyes.
“No... that’s not right... beef is B-E-E-F,” our mark mumbled, “Hey,” he said to my mother, “How do you spell beef?”
My mother looked at him blank eyed, “B-E-A-F. Why?”
“What do you mean?” he yelled in agitation, “It’s B-E-E-F!”
“No, it’s not,” my mother responded, and then looking at the sign, “Oh, they spelled it wrong.”
Now our mark was thoroughly confused. Another patron had been sitting in a booth just near the counter, listening. Our mark looked at her, eyes wide in confusion.
“I think they’re right,” the patron said, “I’m pretty sure it’s B-E-A-F.”
“You’ll have to remove the sign until the spelling is fixed.” Briefcase guy went on.
Our mark looked at his lovely sign that he’d been bragging about for eons, and didn’t want to take it down. He pulled a ladder out of the back and was climbing up to try to cover the “E” with an “A” written in magic marker on a piece of paper when my mother finally broke and started laughing.
Briefcase guy was my brother’s little league coach. Patron was just a very gullible stranger.
All of this just to have a little fun. Makes you wonder what she might accomplish if she ever uses her powers for good.
Friday, November 07, 2008
Hearty Congratulations and Happy Dances Abound!!!
If you haven’t met my friend, Shelly Bryant, you should make it a point to go introduce yourself.
She is the featured poet in the November 8th issue of Scifaikuest. They’ve included fifteen of her poems!!! Yay, you, Shelly!!!! I’m so proud of you!
A little bit about the poet:
I met Shelly way back when at a little blogging community we both frequented. Back then, she went under the screen name, Believin – a reference to her favorite baseball team, The Astros... you’d think baseball would’ve been a contributing factor to our close friendship, being that I’m ridiculous about it... but actually, Shelly held some of the most profound literary discussions I’ve ever been privileged to take part in.
Shelly grew up in Texas, but has lived in Singapore for most of her adult life. She teaches literature to third and fourth year University students. She also happens to have a great knowledge of history and theology and all of these influences make their way into her blog posts and subsequent discussions, as well as her writing.
If you get some time, drop over and check out her awesome website and peruse some of her writings, or just offer her congratulations.
If you’re interested in checking out Scifaikuest, you can order a copy of your very own here
She is the featured poet in the November 8th issue of Scifaikuest. They’ve included fifteen of her poems!!! Yay, you, Shelly!!!! I’m so proud of you!
A little bit about the poet:
I met Shelly way back when at a little blogging community we both frequented. Back then, she went under the screen name, Believin – a reference to her favorite baseball team, The Astros... you’d think baseball would’ve been a contributing factor to our close friendship, being that I’m ridiculous about it... but actually, Shelly held some of the most profound literary discussions I’ve ever been privileged to take part in.
Shelly grew up in Texas, but has lived in Singapore for most of her adult life. She teaches literature to third and fourth year University students. She also happens to have a great knowledge of history and theology and all of these influences make their way into her blog posts and subsequent discussions, as well as her writing.
If you get some time, drop over and check out her awesome website and peruse some of her writings, or just offer her congratulations.
If you’re interested in checking out Scifaikuest, you can order a copy of your very own here
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Moonrat! Where it's at!
As many of you know, we’re celebrating Moonrat’s Second Blog-i-versary!!! I thought of writing an ode, but she’s already inundated with haiku’s... I thought of hiring Michael Chabon to serenade her with bad karaoke, but I’m guessing he’d charge quite a bit for that humiliation and I don’t make that kind of money...
So instead I’ll tell you all how I met our dear anonymous editor in the first place.
Long ago and far away, I don’t recall the exact date as time seems to slip and slide in odd dimensions in this space we call Blog Land, I got a comment on one of my blog posts from a visitor I didn’t really know. She – or I assumed it was a she, but the anonymous nature of blogging under screen names makes you guess at this sort of thing... I often assume ‘she’ when the speaker is either a writer or intelligent, which is probably quite unfair to some of my male friends, but it is what it is...
Anyhoo, the only knowledge I had of this speaker was that her name was Moonrat and she thought I might like to join a group blog called The Book Book... hmmmm... there was a linky dink right there pointing me to the blog. And the blog looked pretty interesting, but all I could think was, “Who the hell is this?”
I declined, or probably said something more like, “Oh it looks interesting and I’ll think about it,” which is the writer’s equivalent of, “umnnn... no.” Sort of like, “Don’t call us – we’ll call you.”
I just didn’t have time to participate in another blog – and it’s probably a good thing I didn’t know her yet, as I’d have said yes for sure... I have this problem saying no to people I like.
Over the course of time I got to know Moonie a lot better. She is the best cheerleader a writer ever had, I swear. Just look at her growing Mischief!!! She’s even offered to watch mine and Precie’s writing status – with a megaphone if we slack.
Even the average blog reader must grow to adore her, with her industry insider posts and humorous looks at such favorites as “Momrat”, “Dadrat”, and “Rally Monkey”.
If you’re a fan, or just looking for a great blog – Go wish her a happy anniversary at the awesome party put together by some of her readers. Go on, now. I’ll see ya there!
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Fifth Grade Politics
In honor of the election year, my daughter’s fifth grade class had an assignment to draft their own campaign literature... They designed their own buttons, three fold pamphlets on the issues, and even designed the symbol for their own made up political party. I thought you might enjoy some of the highlights from my daughter’s campaign:
Her answers are copy typed verbatim in blue.
My silly commentary is italicized.
Campaign Button:
If I were President – I would lower taxes and gas prices. I would also be fair, kind, and helpful. Even if you don’t elect me, remember: “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” Hey, it worked for Kennedy.
Pamphlet on the Candidate:
I am running for President because:
I want to be the first woman in the office.
I’m hoping she’ll grow out of this type of reasoning.
Two skills that I have that would make me a good President are:
My comedian skills – we need a fun President. My creativity – for good speeches.
Actually, she might be on to something here.
The symbol for the Republican Party is the elephant, which represents intelligence and strength. They symbol for the Democratic Party is the donkey, which represents intelligence and courage.
My symbol is The Dragon. It represents Bravery and The American Dream.
I’d go for that – hers is waaay cooler!
As President, I will work to solve these problems that face kids:
The right for eleven year olds to vote. No homework and free candy with lunch.
Eeeeek!!! Is she bribing people? She really is a politician.
As President, I plan to help the American people by doing these things:
Help the poor, sick, and hurt.
I thought this was pretty good for a fifth grader... until I flipped it over and saw what she wrote on the back of her pamphlet...
P.S. – I know where you live.
Her answers are copy typed verbatim in blue.
My silly commentary is italicized.
Campaign Button:
If I were President – I would lower taxes and gas prices. I would also be fair, kind, and helpful. Even if you don’t elect me, remember: “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” Hey, it worked for Kennedy.
Pamphlet on the Candidate:
I am running for President because:
I want to be the first woman in the office.
I’m hoping she’ll grow out of this type of reasoning.
Two skills that I have that would make me a good President are:
My comedian skills – we need a fun President. My creativity – for good speeches.
Actually, she might be on to something here.
The symbol for the Republican Party is the elephant, which represents intelligence and strength. They symbol for the Democratic Party is the donkey, which represents intelligence and courage.
My symbol is The Dragon. It represents Bravery and The American Dream.
I’d go for that – hers is waaay cooler!
As President, I will work to solve these problems that face kids:
The right for eleven year olds to vote. No homework and free candy with lunch.
Eeeeek!!! Is she bribing people? She really is a politician.
As President, I plan to help the American people by doing these things:
Help the poor, sick, and hurt.
I thought this was pretty good for a fifth grader... until I flipped it over and saw what she wrote on the back of her pamphlet...
P.S. – I know where you live.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
FUN WITH PASSIVE AGGRESSION
My computer is almost two years old. I like it. I bought it with money I earned through freelance writing, which was a big thing for me – making enough money through writing to buy a big ticket item... I also bought my desk, so I basically funded my writing through my writing. I know this might seem insignificant to some people, but I have been a stay at home mom since I was twenty four... I was in fiction writing courses for the year prior to having my daughter, so my last paycheck, with my own little name on it, on any regular basis prior to my little writing money was when I was twenty three years old... that’s flippin’ eons ago... and it kind of wears on you to have so much responsibility and yet have such diminished freedom.
The keyboard I use is the one that came with the computer... I bought a separate printer and flat screen monitor, but the keyboard, I didn’t really care... just whatever’s clever, it wasn’t a big deal.
Now, I type quite a lot. Don’t we all? More so than non-writers anyway, and most of the people in my real world are non-writers. So the letters have worn off some of the oft-used keys on this keyboard... Personally I think it’s because it’s a cheap one... either that or the oil in my skin is acidic... but, if you sat down at my keyboard, you’d notice that A, S, D, E, L, N, M, C, and R are missing... K is about half gone... the arrow keys are hanging on by a thread.
I learned how to type when I was nine. I don’t look at the damn keys. Not even when I’m using the numbers... I barely glance at them ever, to be honest, so this absence of the alphabet troubles me not at all.
My husband sat down at my computer the other day and got so frustrated after two minutes he had to walk away. Couldn’t even compose a small response email. Looked at me like I was a nitwit to keep such a broken down keyboard. Even offered to get me a new one, which I declined.
My daughter asked to use my computer to work on a site they recommend at school... She’s a little more hard-headed than the husband type person, it took her five minutes to get frustrated enough to vacate the desk. The boys won’t even touch it. Mom’s computer is a broken down mess. They want the one in the family room... which means they have to share it with dad, or more accurately, dad has to wait until they’re busy with homework or in bed to check his football scores and surf for porn.
So, as I sit here running my acidic fingers across my broken down little keyboard, I can’t help but smile. How long do you think it’ll take him to figure out why I won’t buy a better keyboard? I’m thinking I can milk the ‘I’m sentimental... and I bought it myself’ thing for a while longer... though you’d think he’d know I’m not sentimental after 11 years of marriage... ah well, that’s what he gets for not paying attention.
The keyboard I use is the one that came with the computer... I bought a separate printer and flat screen monitor, but the keyboard, I didn’t really care... just whatever’s clever, it wasn’t a big deal.
Now, I type quite a lot. Don’t we all? More so than non-writers anyway, and most of the people in my real world are non-writers. So the letters have worn off some of the oft-used keys on this keyboard... Personally I think it’s because it’s a cheap one... either that or the oil in my skin is acidic... but, if you sat down at my keyboard, you’d notice that A, S, D, E, L, N, M, C, and R are missing... K is about half gone... the arrow keys are hanging on by a thread.
I learned how to type when I was nine. I don’t look at the damn keys. Not even when I’m using the numbers... I barely glance at them ever, to be honest, so this absence of the alphabet troubles me not at all.
My husband sat down at my computer the other day and got so frustrated after two minutes he had to walk away. Couldn’t even compose a small response email. Looked at me like I was a nitwit to keep such a broken down keyboard. Even offered to get me a new one, which I declined.
My daughter asked to use my computer to work on a site they recommend at school... She’s a little more hard-headed than the husband type person, it took her five minutes to get frustrated enough to vacate the desk. The boys won’t even touch it. Mom’s computer is a broken down mess. They want the one in the family room... which means they have to share it with dad, or more accurately, dad has to wait until they’re busy with homework or in bed to check his football scores and surf for porn.
So, as I sit here running my acidic fingers across my broken down little keyboard, I can’t help but smile. How long do you think it’ll take him to figure out why I won’t buy a better keyboard? I’m thinking I can milk the ‘I’m sentimental... and I bought it myself’ thing for a while longer... though you’d think he’d know I’m not sentimental after 11 years of marriage... ah well, that’s what he gets for not paying attention.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Break on through to the other side.........
A while back, I got into a conversation on Precie’s blog about getting down to the writing. We struck a little deal that we would each finish our novels by December 31st. We struck this little bargain, back in August, but as any writer will tell you, two months is a mere blip on the radar in the novel writing process.
We also had two witnesses (and assorted blog commenters who will certainly heckle and cajole us should we slack off). The lovely Moonrat is watching from the sidelines, with her megaphone, chanting, “Down with the downward spiral!” And the wonderful Ello is nudging for to beta read at the end of our marathon runs.
Precie – status check!!! Are you still hitting the fifteen minutes a day? Progress report time... (p.s. – if you’d prefer me to pester you in private, rather than on my blog, just send me comment rasberries and I shall desist)
For me, August through September was productive, as far as the fact that I was actually writing... just not the novel I’m on now... so I’ll explain my oddities for those who are better organized with their efforts.
I decided way back while I was doing revisions for RASKIN’S WINGS that I would try to write in a more organized way. I would be the type of writer who outlines – sha-zahhh, therefore saving myself tons and tons of revision time... I would be the type of writer who writes out the pitch first and follows it through in the writing... yep, one of them.
Okay, I tried it. It doesn’t work for me. It’s great that it works for some of you, but not me. I tried. Never again. What happens when I try to outline that way is that I get bombarded by all new plots and brand new shiny ideas. I don’t know why, maybe it’s because I’m in pitch mode and since I’m not writing a pitch for a novel whose characters I’ve lived and breathed with for eons, but a brand new one I haven’t fleshed out yet... well, instead of getting into those characters, I keep going with the whole marketing pitch thing. I can’t shut it off. It’s like a water spigot with a broken handle. So I had to just stop. I’m guessing that sounds odd to some of you – too many ideas? What the hell’s the matter with you? But the fact that I kept getting a new idea, instead of getting uber excited about the one I’d just written the pitch for, told me that they weren’t the ones. Not yet, anyway.
Then I decided to work with another middle grade fantasy. I got about two chapters in (three really, but the third one sucked and I tossed it). The middle grade fantasy I will go back to, I’m sure. But I’m not there. I’m not in that mode.
Okay, so that takes you through to the end of September, when this main character bounced into my head... and he did, what I love most about writing fiction – took up every available corner of space and yapped at me even when I was trying to sleep. So I started with page one, which ran into two and three and four and before I knew it there was a brand new shiny first chapter... and then a prologue, that screamed out of my fingertips within the span of about six minutes. I love when that happens and it only happens for me when I’m open to it... when I’m not worried about the rules, when I’m not second guessing what I can and can’t do in fiction.
I talked a long time ago about embarking on a novel that was too big, that maybe was a bit ahead of what you thought you could do. That’s what I’m tackling with this one. My narrator has a voice all his own and I keep thinking, while I’m not actually writing, ‘gee, can I do that? Doesn’t some of that fly in the face of some of the rules?’ But when I’m writing, all of that stuff goes out the window... as it should. I’m having fun with it because I’m not bouncing my head off the desk over whether or not it should be more active, shorter sentence structure, blah, blah, blah... I can look at that stuff in revision.
So, the first month was a wash, albeit a creative one. From the end of September until today, I’ve gotten a prologue and the first five chapters done. I know where he’s going, who’s going with him, and how he’s going to get there... but I can’t wait to see the side roads he leads me down that I haven’t already guessed.
How about you guys? Are you plotters and planners or do you let the characters lead you through the journey? Do you pay strict attention to the rules in your rough draft, or do you leave that off for later? And how’s your writing coming?
We also had two witnesses (and assorted blog commenters who will certainly heckle and cajole us should we slack off). The lovely Moonrat is watching from the sidelines, with her megaphone, chanting, “Down with the downward spiral!” And the wonderful Ello is nudging for to beta read at the end of our marathon runs.
Precie – status check!!! Are you still hitting the fifteen minutes a day? Progress report time... (p.s. – if you’d prefer me to pester you in private, rather than on my blog, just send me comment rasberries and I shall desist)
For me, August through September was productive, as far as the fact that I was actually writing... just not the novel I’m on now... so I’ll explain my oddities for those who are better organized with their efforts.
I decided way back while I was doing revisions for RASKIN’S WINGS that I would try to write in a more organized way. I would be the type of writer who outlines – sha-zahhh, therefore saving myself tons and tons of revision time... I would be the type of writer who writes out the pitch first and follows it through in the writing... yep, one of them.
Okay, I tried it. It doesn’t work for me. It’s great that it works for some of you, but not me. I tried. Never again. What happens when I try to outline that way is that I get bombarded by all new plots and brand new shiny ideas. I don’t know why, maybe it’s because I’m in pitch mode and since I’m not writing a pitch for a novel whose characters I’ve lived and breathed with for eons, but a brand new one I haven’t fleshed out yet... well, instead of getting into those characters, I keep going with the whole marketing pitch thing. I can’t shut it off. It’s like a water spigot with a broken handle. So I had to just stop. I’m guessing that sounds odd to some of you – too many ideas? What the hell’s the matter with you? But the fact that I kept getting a new idea, instead of getting uber excited about the one I’d just written the pitch for, told me that they weren’t the ones. Not yet, anyway.
Then I decided to work with another middle grade fantasy. I got about two chapters in (three really, but the third one sucked and I tossed it). The middle grade fantasy I will go back to, I’m sure. But I’m not there. I’m not in that mode.
Okay, so that takes you through to the end of September, when this main character bounced into my head... and he did, what I love most about writing fiction – took up every available corner of space and yapped at me even when I was trying to sleep. So I started with page one, which ran into two and three and four and before I knew it there was a brand new shiny first chapter... and then a prologue, that screamed out of my fingertips within the span of about six minutes. I love when that happens and it only happens for me when I’m open to it... when I’m not worried about the rules, when I’m not second guessing what I can and can’t do in fiction.
I talked a long time ago about embarking on a novel that was too big, that maybe was a bit ahead of what you thought you could do. That’s what I’m tackling with this one. My narrator has a voice all his own and I keep thinking, while I’m not actually writing, ‘gee, can I do that? Doesn’t some of that fly in the face of some of the rules?’ But when I’m writing, all of that stuff goes out the window... as it should. I’m having fun with it because I’m not bouncing my head off the desk over whether or not it should be more active, shorter sentence structure, blah, blah, blah... I can look at that stuff in revision.
So, the first month was a wash, albeit a creative one. From the end of September until today, I’ve gotten a prologue and the first five chapters done. I know where he’s going, who’s going with him, and how he’s going to get there... but I can’t wait to see the side roads he leads me down that I haven’t already guessed.
How about you guys? Are you plotters and planners or do you let the characters lead you through the journey? Do you pay strict attention to the rules in your rough draft, or do you leave that off for later? And how’s your writing coming?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
I am SO NOT a Southern Belle
When I was a little kid, my mother dressed me as a flower for Halloween. I was only about five, but I still remember it more vividly than any other costume I’ve ever had. She took a green leotard and sewed red felt petals all around the collar. I wore green tights and dainty little ballet slippers, and the other mothers “ooohed and aaahed,” when she proudly showed off, “Her little flower.”
I hated that costume.
I was not a flower. She tried valiantly to make me one, buying me pretty dresses and making the floufy little things with her own two hands. She even wrestled me into wearing a few of them, but they never stayed pretty for long. I had two older brothers and I wanted to play ball, jump off the roof into the pool, and play with their star wars toys – and not just the Princess Lea ones, either. I was not a flower.
The slippers had no traction and the only good thing about them was that I could get them off quick as lightning and pummel my brothers with them for laughing at me... and they didn’t leave marks – ha. I can remember that Halloween because I had to stand and be admired while desperately itching to get down the block to the house that gave out the full size Snickers bars before all the good loot was gone.
When my daughter was in Kindergarten, I made her costume, too. She was the Lollipop Princess from Candyland. I made her a yellow jumper and painted lollipops all around the trim, and added the three lollipop buttons to the top. I made her a crown from Styrofoam wreaths wrapped in yellow ribbon and hot glued real lollipops on top.
My daughter has very thick wavy hair, so it took about an hour to pin it all up and I sprayed it all pink... she looked adorable for school... Oddly enough, she didn’t want to wear that costume the next night for the costume party at the Parish. She insisted on being a cowboy. At the time I was sure she didn’t want to spend all that time on the hair... it wasn’t until this year that I caught the connection...
A few weeks ago, we were looking online to get ideas for her costume. She didn’t like anything. She’s eleven and at her age the costumes are, sad to say, either trampy or stupid. Zooming along, I caught sight of a “southern belle” costume, designed like Scarlett’s dress from the barbeque... the white with green trim thing... and I clicked on it, opening up the picture to full screen and “oooohing and aaaahing”... to which my daughter replied:
“I am SO NOT a southern belle!”
She rolled her eyes and walked away and by the next day she decided she wanted to be a hobo... okay, I’m a little hard-headed and I still wasn’t getting it. I mean, fine, I get the not wanting to be girly... yeah, I’m there with ya...
So yesterday, I get a sheet from the school about all of the things that are unacceptable for Halloween. And I’m still a little worried about the hobo thing because I’m not sure how it’ll look and wouldn’t she rather have store bought than thrown together? And yes, I’m a hard-head...
Me: You know, the school has all of these rules about what’s acceptable for your costume. Are you sure we can’t just go buy you one?
Daughter: What kind of rules?
Me: You know, nothing with weapons or drugs or alcohol...
Daughter: I’m not going as a drunk. What, do they have something against poor people?
So you see my dilemma here? My eleven year old is obviously smarter than I am... I swear, she clears my perspective and teaches me something new all the time... I’m helping her find a flannel this afternoon... I wonder which jeans to fill up with patches.
I hated that costume.
I was not a flower. She tried valiantly to make me one, buying me pretty dresses and making the floufy little things with her own two hands. She even wrestled me into wearing a few of them, but they never stayed pretty for long. I had two older brothers and I wanted to play ball, jump off the roof into the pool, and play with their star wars toys – and not just the Princess Lea ones, either. I was not a flower.
The slippers had no traction and the only good thing about them was that I could get them off quick as lightning and pummel my brothers with them for laughing at me... and they didn’t leave marks – ha. I can remember that Halloween because I had to stand and be admired while desperately itching to get down the block to the house that gave out the full size Snickers bars before all the good loot was gone.
When my daughter was in Kindergarten, I made her costume, too. She was the Lollipop Princess from Candyland. I made her a yellow jumper and painted lollipops all around the trim, and added the three lollipop buttons to the top. I made her a crown from Styrofoam wreaths wrapped in yellow ribbon and hot glued real lollipops on top.
My daughter has very thick wavy hair, so it took about an hour to pin it all up and I sprayed it all pink... she looked adorable for school... Oddly enough, she didn’t want to wear that costume the next night for the costume party at the Parish. She insisted on being a cowboy. At the time I was sure she didn’t want to spend all that time on the hair... it wasn’t until this year that I caught the connection...
A few weeks ago, we were looking online to get ideas for her costume. She didn’t like anything. She’s eleven and at her age the costumes are, sad to say, either trampy or stupid. Zooming along, I caught sight of a “southern belle” costume, designed like Scarlett’s dress from the barbeque... the white with green trim thing... and I clicked on it, opening up the picture to full screen and “oooohing and aaaahing”... to which my daughter replied:
“I am SO NOT a southern belle!”
She rolled her eyes and walked away and by the next day she decided she wanted to be a hobo... okay, I’m a little hard-headed and I still wasn’t getting it. I mean, fine, I get the not wanting to be girly... yeah, I’m there with ya...
So yesterday, I get a sheet from the school about all of the things that are unacceptable for Halloween. And I’m still a little worried about the hobo thing because I’m not sure how it’ll look and wouldn’t she rather have store bought than thrown together? And yes, I’m a hard-head...
Me: You know, the school has all of these rules about what’s acceptable for your costume. Are you sure we can’t just go buy you one?
Daughter: What kind of rules?
Me: You know, nothing with weapons or drugs or alcohol...
Daughter: I’m not going as a drunk. What, do they have something against poor people?
So you see my dilemma here? My eleven year old is obviously smarter than I am... I swear, she clears my perspective and teaches me something new all the time... I’m helping her find a flannel this afternoon... I wonder which jeans to fill up with patches.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Freedom of Speech and the Loss of Compassion
On a few occasions in life, I’ve been hit by overwhelming grief at the absence of compassion where ego is easy. I know, in my heart of hearts, that most people don’t mean to cause hurt or pain – they’re just not thinking past their point or motive or own needs. They forget, briefly or otherwise, the basic rules of humanity. Those who are Christian might call it the golden rule, but every culture and every person who’s ever been hurt by the words and actions of another can understand the importance of the tenet, “Put yourself in the other guy’s shoes”.
Yesterday, I heard some unsettling news. A man who was a friend of a friend (I know that sounds convoluted, but I didn’t know him personally and don’t want to name him for reasons you’ll understand shortly) – this man killed himself. He was a stock broker, so I guess you might already imagine the motives.
I happened to notice that it was also written up in the larger local papers, and clicked on the articles on one of the sites. It gave the basic facts, his name and where he lives, where it occurred and the assumed reasons he would have become so despondent. And then there was the section for comments.
Most were well meaning, but some, well some had to admonish how foolish it was to take ones’ life over money... some couldn’t put aside the judgment... and I get it, I do... But, all I kept thinking was, “Oh my God, I’ll bet his family is reading this. I bet they’re pouring through every comment and aching with every word.” And I doubt so much that the people who did comment even considered it. To them, it’s just an article in the paper. A faceless person they’ll never know. And I wonder if they would be so crass to say these things at his funeral, in the presence of his loved ones – and I wonder if they know they essentially did just that.
I am a huge advocate of freedom of speech, and I get that that also includes the things I don’t think should be said. But I think, on occasion, we need to remember that our words have impact. We have a responsibility to be compassionate. This economy is not getting better in a day or a week and there’s a very real chance that the changes coming will be long and arduous for a great many people. Nothing is insurmountable and I have a great deal of faith that whatever is coming, we can handle, that even the worst of obstacles can make way for the greatest of triumphs. But while we’re on the road, be kind. Not because there’s payment in it. Not to pad your reputation or help your own situation, but because it’s right.
Go out and do something nice today. Restore my faith in humanity, because I swear sometimes it’s lagging.
Yesterday, I heard some unsettling news. A man who was a friend of a friend (I know that sounds convoluted, but I didn’t know him personally and don’t want to name him for reasons you’ll understand shortly) – this man killed himself. He was a stock broker, so I guess you might already imagine the motives.
I happened to notice that it was also written up in the larger local papers, and clicked on the articles on one of the sites. It gave the basic facts, his name and where he lives, where it occurred and the assumed reasons he would have become so despondent. And then there was the section for comments.
Most were well meaning, but some, well some had to admonish how foolish it was to take ones’ life over money... some couldn’t put aside the judgment... and I get it, I do... But, all I kept thinking was, “Oh my God, I’ll bet his family is reading this. I bet they’re pouring through every comment and aching with every word.” And I doubt so much that the people who did comment even considered it. To them, it’s just an article in the paper. A faceless person they’ll never know. And I wonder if they would be so crass to say these things at his funeral, in the presence of his loved ones – and I wonder if they know they essentially did just that.
I am a huge advocate of freedom of speech, and I get that that also includes the things I don’t think should be said. But I think, on occasion, we need to remember that our words have impact. We have a responsibility to be compassionate. This economy is not getting better in a day or a week and there’s a very real chance that the changes coming will be long and arduous for a great many people. Nothing is insurmountable and I have a great deal of faith that whatever is coming, we can handle, that even the worst of obstacles can make way for the greatest of triumphs. But while we’re on the road, be kind. Not because there’s payment in it. Not to pad your reputation or help your own situation, but because it’s right.
Go out and do something nice today. Restore my faith in humanity, because I swear sometimes it’s lagging.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
How Do You Crit?
I’ve often mentioned that blogging, for all its time-suck-ability, has been the best resource for me as far as a writing circle. Most of my beta readers, whom I adore and are the most helpful giving people ever, have started as blogging buddies. In those scenarios, I’ve gotten to know them pretty well over the course of months, and in some cases years, and developed email relationships that surpass regular blogging relationships (and some of those can be pretty tight, too).
That type of writing relationship works for me because I have a good idea, before work is exchanged, what they’re looking for in a crit and they have a good idea of what type of things I’ll point out... except maybe for Travis, because I couldn’t find a single thing to tell him might need work, and I doubt he knows how rare that is for me.
In my experience, every crit partner offers something a bit different. Some come at it in an overall type of way, giving you a feel for the characters or themes that hit and miss but not necessarily specific lines or places that lose them in the story. Some crit partners will focus on the specifics and let you worry over the larger things. And, like any relationship, you’re not going to get along with every crit partner and not all of them will have a benefit on your work – usually I think this has more to do with personal conflicts than with the actual writing.
I’ve had a few crit partners that I didn’t particularly mesh with, and I think in most scenarios it’s because either the type of writing we’re into aren’t similar enough that we’re any help to each other, or because we don’t work the same way, sensibility wise.
I had one crit partner, a while back, that made a particular impact on me... partially because I should have seen the storm brewing and walked away before I lost my temper, and partially because I still feel like my specific crit wasn’t the problem. I didn’t know this person in the real world, and they weren’t a blogging friend, so we pretty much exchanged some long emails before getting down to the critique work... After the first few exchanges, I started omitting things that I would normally have mentioned – that should have been the red flag. I didn’t want to hurt feelings, and it shouldn’t have been about that.
Like any relationship, the minute you have to omit things to be ‘kind’ is when the honesty breaks down... when the honesty breaks down the tension begins. From my end of things, over the course of many exchanges, I started to get the feeling that this writer felt that I was beneath her. When I commented on grammatical issues, the response I got basically gave me the impression that she had better educated sources to go over that, I was there to look at the overall, and more specifically, to point out mannerisms to flesh out the scumbag characters... okay, so you can see how I felt slightly insulted.
But looking back on this now, I doubt that she understands why I was so insulted. At the time, I was pretty sure it was intentional... there are still comments ringing in my ears that couldn’t have been meant as anything other than an insult, but in retrospect, some of that was after the relationship had become more than tense.
Like any failed relationship, I think it’s important to learn from it. The writer in question isn’t a bad person or a bad writer – in fact she’s a rather good writer, to be fair. The problem was, we have very different mindsets about writing and about life. Had we bumped into each other in person, or met at a writing conference or something like that, I doubt we would have clicked personally – and that’s okay. Not everyone has to like me... and here we get to the heart of what went wrong.
Honesty. Honesty is essential in critique. It is. It is sometimes painful to hear and you need to approach it with tact, but it’s a waste of time for me to read someone’s pages and not tell them the truth. Honesty means that not only will I give you my honest opinion, but I will not take offense if you find that it doesn’t work for you. Critique isn’t a mandate, it’s an opinion.
So, for me, I’ve taken a valuable lesson into all of my other writing relationships. If I start to feel that I need to sugar coat things or can’t be honest, then I can’t work with you. That doesn’t mean I’m going out of my way to be mean, I’ll phrase things as nicely as possible and I always include things that work, because I think it’s helpful... but still, life is too short to work with people that irritate you (and vice versa) especially for free. It also means knowing that their critique is valid and they will point out what they see, which is not necessarily the thing you’re concerned about... but in the long run you’re getting fresh eyes on the ms. That can see things you might miss... So, I take all crits into consideration... that doesn’t mean I use all of the advice, but I at least give it careful thought.
So how about you guys? Have you ever had a crit relationship not work out? Are there specific things you look for in a crit partner, or specific things you want from a critique? Are there specific things you hate for people to crit (for instance, do you hate it when they’re nitpicky about grammar or tense, or do you hate it when they don’t mention these things?) How do you crit?
That type of writing relationship works for me because I have a good idea, before work is exchanged, what they’re looking for in a crit and they have a good idea of what type of things I’ll point out... except maybe for Travis, because I couldn’t find a single thing to tell him might need work, and I doubt he knows how rare that is for me.
In my experience, every crit partner offers something a bit different. Some come at it in an overall type of way, giving you a feel for the characters or themes that hit and miss but not necessarily specific lines or places that lose them in the story. Some crit partners will focus on the specifics and let you worry over the larger things. And, like any relationship, you’re not going to get along with every crit partner and not all of them will have a benefit on your work – usually I think this has more to do with personal conflicts than with the actual writing.
I’ve had a few crit partners that I didn’t particularly mesh with, and I think in most scenarios it’s because either the type of writing we’re into aren’t similar enough that we’re any help to each other, or because we don’t work the same way, sensibility wise.
I had one crit partner, a while back, that made a particular impact on me... partially because I should have seen the storm brewing and walked away before I lost my temper, and partially because I still feel like my specific crit wasn’t the problem. I didn’t know this person in the real world, and they weren’t a blogging friend, so we pretty much exchanged some long emails before getting down to the critique work... After the first few exchanges, I started omitting things that I would normally have mentioned – that should have been the red flag. I didn’t want to hurt feelings, and it shouldn’t have been about that.
Like any relationship, the minute you have to omit things to be ‘kind’ is when the honesty breaks down... when the honesty breaks down the tension begins. From my end of things, over the course of many exchanges, I started to get the feeling that this writer felt that I was beneath her. When I commented on grammatical issues, the response I got basically gave me the impression that she had better educated sources to go over that, I was there to look at the overall, and more specifically, to point out mannerisms to flesh out the scumbag characters... okay, so you can see how I felt slightly insulted.
But looking back on this now, I doubt that she understands why I was so insulted. At the time, I was pretty sure it was intentional... there are still comments ringing in my ears that couldn’t have been meant as anything other than an insult, but in retrospect, some of that was after the relationship had become more than tense.
Like any failed relationship, I think it’s important to learn from it. The writer in question isn’t a bad person or a bad writer – in fact she’s a rather good writer, to be fair. The problem was, we have very different mindsets about writing and about life. Had we bumped into each other in person, or met at a writing conference or something like that, I doubt we would have clicked personally – and that’s okay. Not everyone has to like me... and here we get to the heart of what went wrong.
Honesty. Honesty is essential in critique. It is. It is sometimes painful to hear and you need to approach it with tact, but it’s a waste of time for me to read someone’s pages and not tell them the truth. Honesty means that not only will I give you my honest opinion, but I will not take offense if you find that it doesn’t work for you. Critique isn’t a mandate, it’s an opinion.
So, for me, I’ve taken a valuable lesson into all of my other writing relationships. If I start to feel that I need to sugar coat things or can’t be honest, then I can’t work with you. That doesn’t mean I’m going out of my way to be mean, I’ll phrase things as nicely as possible and I always include things that work, because I think it’s helpful... but still, life is too short to work with people that irritate you (and vice versa) especially for free. It also means knowing that their critique is valid and they will point out what they see, which is not necessarily the thing you’re concerned about... but in the long run you’re getting fresh eyes on the ms. That can see things you might miss... So, I take all crits into consideration... that doesn’t mean I use all of the advice, but I at least give it careful thought.
So how about you guys? Have you ever had a crit relationship not work out? Are there specific things you look for in a crit partner, or specific things you want from a critique? Are there specific things you hate for people to crit (for instance, do you hate it when they’re nitpicky about grammar or tense, or do you hate it when they don’t mention these things?) How do you crit?
Friday, October 10, 2008
I'm In Love................................
Moonie and Precie pointed out this awesome entry by Libba Bray way back in July. It compares writing a novel to falling in love, and it’s well worth the read if any of you missed it over the summer and need a good grin.
For me, like everything else in life, writing has an ebb and flow. We’ll leave the business end (researching agents/publishers, writing queries, submissions, query hell, etc.) to the side for this post, and just talk about the actual writing process.
In my experience with both Raskin’s Wings and The Terrible Piece of Tripe that Shall Not Be Named but was My First Attempt at a Full Novel, I would hit periods of writing where the work just flowed and I was excited even when I wasn’t actively writing. During those periods of writing, the story kept fleshing out while I was doing other things, like dishes or dinner, or (unfortunately) trying to carry out conversations in which my friends and spouse lost a lot of patience with me.
Then it would ebb. Somewhere in the writing process I would hit a chapter that snagged, or a passage that I just couldn’t seem to get down right. It sounded wrong to me, or the words were, well, I don’t know – overly done, wrong for the voice... something... and once I wrote past that ebb I’d always get back to pace and excited again about the work.
Right now, I’m in love... so much so that all of my other writing before it just doesn’t seem to matter. I wonder if other writers do this – published ones, specifically, I wonder if subsequent novels eclipse their earlier work for them or if this is just a gushy stage in the Brand New Shiny WIP saga.
Lately, I’ve been uber busy with the kids, and putting my house together, and a host of other things I hadn’t expected – and still, I can’t keep away from my manuscript for a whole day. I’ve written something, everyday, since I began... some of it, admittedly, I cut the next day, but still it’s a work that has me hooked and wishing, rather fervently, that I could just wake in the morning and start writing, and not have to put it away until I was ready for bed... If I could pass all of my other responsibilities to someone else, it would be heaven... but kids have to be fed and bathed, homework done, parent teacher meetings attended, practices and games... well, you get it...
The funny thing, usually all of that stopping and starting makes writing hard for me. Even when I’m excited about the story, the fact that I have to stop mid-page or sometimes mid-sentence pulls me out of it enough that when I sit back down I have to re-read endlessly to get back into the mind frame. Not this time, though... Am I gushing? Seriously, I’m in love.
So, I thought I’d include a bit in case you guys wanted to see what’s been taking up all of my blogging time.. This short prologue is in the MC’s voice, and I sooo dig him... Oh, brand new shiny wip’s title? FROM THE NEIGHBORHOOD:
I don’t come back to the old neighborhood very often, even though it’s just a short drive on the Eisenhower. There’s no one there, no one left who remembers me – who remembers us. I see the familiar street monikers from the expressway on my way downtown. I hear them in my head, in my old voice, the one I learned to hide long ago. It sneaks in, though, that guttural slang and dropping of consonants – when I’m angry or tired or thinking of home. And it unnerves people in my life today, to hear who I really am. They shake their heads as if they’ve imagined it and I revert to the polished grammar they’ve come to expect, and I hate them a little for the judgment but I think sometimes I hate myself more.
It’s a funny thing about that neighborhood; it never really lets you go. It’s always there, under your skin, in your veins, part of who you are – there is no eradicating it from your person, if you ever had need or want to.
Taking the turn onto Austin, it pounds in my ears, reverberating off the pavement and concrete, echoing from brick and lifting the corners of my mouth in that cocky half-smile. By the time I pass Roosevelt, I’m back. In my head I’m ten, twelve, fifteen, running through alleys or playing ball on the corner. Voices of long ago sing crisp and clear. The place I’m looking for doesn’t exist – only in memory and what little history that brick and concrete holds within, tracks of the people who owned those streets once, who called that place home and never quite left it, no matter how far they wandered.
For me, like everything else in life, writing has an ebb and flow. We’ll leave the business end (researching agents/publishers, writing queries, submissions, query hell, etc.) to the side for this post, and just talk about the actual writing process.
In my experience with both Raskin’s Wings and The Terrible Piece of Tripe that Shall Not Be Named but was My First Attempt at a Full Novel, I would hit periods of writing where the work just flowed and I was excited even when I wasn’t actively writing. During those periods of writing, the story kept fleshing out while I was doing other things, like dishes or dinner, or (unfortunately) trying to carry out conversations in which my friends and spouse lost a lot of patience with me.
Then it would ebb. Somewhere in the writing process I would hit a chapter that snagged, or a passage that I just couldn’t seem to get down right. It sounded wrong to me, or the words were, well, I don’t know – overly done, wrong for the voice... something... and once I wrote past that ebb I’d always get back to pace and excited again about the work.
Right now, I’m in love... so much so that all of my other writing before it just doesn’t seem to matter. I wonder if other writers do this – published ones, specifically, I wonder if subsequent novels eclipse their earlier work for them or if this is just a gushy stage in the Brand New Shiny WIP saga.
Lately, I’ve been uber busy with the kids, and putting my house together, and a host of other things I hadn’t expected – and still, I can’t keep away from my manuscript for a whole day. I’ve written something, everyday, since I began... some of it, admittedly, I cut the next day, but still it’s a work that has me hooked and wishing, rather fervently, that I could just wake in the morning and start writing, and not have to put it away until I was ready for bed... If I could pass all of my other responsibilities to someone else, it would be heaven... but kids have to be fed and bathed, homework done, parent teacher meetings attended, practices and games... well, you get it...
The funny thing, usually all of that stopping and starting makes writing hard for me. Even when I’m excited about the story, the fact that I have to stop mid-page or sometimes mid-sentence pulls me out of it enough that when I sit back down I have to re-read endlessly to get back into the mind frame. Not this time, though... Am I gushing? Seriously, I’m in love.
So, I thought I’d include a bit in case you guys wanted to see what’s been taking up all of my blogging time.. This short prologue is in the MC’s voice, and I sooo dig him... Oh, brand new shiny wip’s title? FROM THE NEIGHBORHOOD:
I don’t come back to the old neighborhood very often, even though it’s just a short drive on the Eisenhower. There’s no one there, no one left who remembers me – who remembers us. I see the familiar street monikers from the expressway on my way downtown. I hear them in my head, in my old voice, the one I learned to hide long ago. It sneaks in, though, that guttural slang and dropping of consonants – when I’m angry or tired or thinking of home. And it unnerves people in my life today, to hear who I really am. They shake their heads as if they’ve imagined it and I revert to the polished grammar they’ve come to expect, and I hate them a little for the judgment but I think sometimes I hate myself more.
It’s a funny thing about that neighborhood; it never really lets you go. It’s always there, under your skin, in your veins, part of who you are – there is no eradicating it from your person, if you ever had need or want to.
Taking the turn onto Austin, it pounds in my ears, reverberating off the pavement and concrete, echoing from brick and lifting the corners of my mouth in that cocky half-smile. By the time I pass Roosevelt, I’m back. In my head I’m ten, twelve, fifteen, running through alleys or playing ball on the corner. Voices of long ago sing crisp and clear. The place I’m looking for doesn’t exist – only in memory and what little history that brick and concrete holds within, tracks of the people who owned those streets once, who called that place home and never quite left it, no matter how far they wandered.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
CALLING ALL WRITERS!!!!
Many of you may know about this already, but for those stumbling by or not familiar with the wonderful world of Moonrat and her Mischief, here are the details:
Our dear friend, Moonrat, has opened a raffle to support her friend, Mischief Fights Cancer You can read the whole story at the bottom post on that site, but long story short – Moonie’s good friend has no insurance and has been diagnosed with cancer. Being an editor, Moonie can’t help her very much monetarily (as any of you familiar with the earnings in publishing can imagine) but decided to put her talent up for auction in order to help raise funds.
She put the post up yesterday and has reached almost $700.00 as of this writing – which is flippin’ fantabulous, Moonie!!! But as you all can imagine, medical procedures are extremely costly and that $700.00 isn’t likely to go very far as far as treatments are concerned...
Okay, if you’re not the charitable type, here’s what’s in it for you:
Moonrat is an editor, and a lovely person, but wait let’s stick with the ‘what’s in it for you’ thing... She’s offered up a raffle to provide full editorial feedback on the winner’s novel. There are also separate raffles for other editorial feedback, such as on queries... and, just today, an agent at Curtis Brown has signed on to raffle off her services in reviewing and critiquing YA or children’s fiction.
The stipulations for each raffle are up at the Mischief Fights Cancer Site. I hope you all will consider entering, if at all possible.
Side note to Moonie, put up a donation button for those that don’t want to enter but might want to donate.
Our dear friend, Moonrat, has opened a raffle to support her friend, Mischief Fights Cancer You can read the whole story at the bottom post on that site, but long story short – Moonie’s good friend has no insurance and has been diagnosed with cancer. Being an editor, Moonie can’t help her very much monetarily (as any of you familiar with the earnings in publishing can imagine) but decided to put her talent up for auction in order to help raise funds.
She put the post up yesterday and has reached almost $700.00 as of this writing – which is flippin’ fantabulous, Moonie!!! But as you all can imagine, medical procedures are extremely costly and that $700.00 isn’t likely to go very far as far as treatments are concerned...
Okay, if you’re not the charitable type, here’s what’s in it for you:
Moonrat is an editor, and a lovely person, but wait let’s stick with the ‘what’s in it for you’ thing... She’s offered up a raffle to provide full editorial feedback on the winner’s novel. There are also separate raffles for other editorial feedback, such as on queries... and, just today, an agent at Curtis Brown has signed on to raffle off her services in reviewing and critiquing YA or children’s fiction.
The stipulations for each raffle are up at the Mischief Fights Cancer Site. I hope you all will consider entering, if at all possible.
Side note to Moonie, put up a donation button for those that don’t want to enter but might want to donate.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Under Water................
Other than a bit of celebrating for our lovely friend, Ello, I’ve been largely absent from blogland the last week or so because I’ve been under water – figuratively and literally, I’m afraid – we flooded last Sunday.
First, I hope all of my bloggy friends who live in areas hardest hit are doing okay. Stacey, Ralph, and Travis, I’ve been thinking of you guys especially over the last week or so...
My case isn’t so bad, I keep telling myself how much worse it could be and how dare I even bemoan my own situation while so many people have been flooded out of homes and are dealing with devastation in their communities? But guilting myself into bucking up doesn’t seem to be working.
The actual damage here wasn’t so bad. I’ve lived in my house for eleven years and this is the first time we’ve gotten a drop of water... unfortunately, it was sewage... ewe, ewe, ewe... And, lovely as it is – I live in a bi-level... there are seven steps down to my family room/laundry room/etc... seven steps up to the bedrooms... so, the water came in through my downstairs shower and flooded into the laundry room... we got a handle on it pretty quick, but the flippin’ smell is killing me!!!!!
I have washed more laundry this week than I ever remember washing in my life.
I’ve bleached the floors, poured bleach down drains, and I think I bleached myself...
The carpet has about a one foot square in the doorway that got wet, despite my best efforts... I cannot get the flippin smell out.... I wet vacc’d, vacuumed, steam cleaned it... I steam cleaned again, sprayed Febreze – I think I have to tear it up and I can’t can’t can’t afford new carpet and that is our most used room so I can’t very well have the kids walking around on whatever the hell is underneath there....
Oh, and in the mad dash to move everything in the water’s way, and stop the rush, and put towels down to protect the carpet... I fell down the stairs – not once, but three flippin’ times! Partially because it was dripping with water... mostly because I’m a klutz... but I’m so bruised I look like a poster child for the abuse hotline and I’d really like a long hot bath... that lasts ten years or so...
Ah, better. There were already some personal issues going on that made this little added difficulty a bit harder to handle... I’m not getting into it here, but we’ll just say that my hands are too full to blog much. I’m sorry I haven’t been checking in on you all with regularity, but I hope you’ve all weathered the storms and are doing well...
For now, I’ll leave you with a poem. It’s one of my favorites, and it’s been making me feel a bit better lately:
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as a Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be,
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance,
My head is bloodied, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how straight the gate
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
- William Ernest Henley
First, I hope all of my bloggy friends who live in areas hardest hit are doing okay. Stacey, Ralph, and Travis, I’ve been thinking of you guys especially over the last week or so...
My case isn’t so bad, I keep telling myself how much worse it could be and how dare I even bemoan my own situation while so many people have been flooded out of homes and are dealing with devastation in their communities? But guilting myself into bucking up doesn’t seem to be working.
The actual damage here wasn’t so bad. I’ve lived in my house for eleven years and this is the first time we’ve gotten a drop of water... unfortunately, it was sewage... ewe, ewe, ewe... And, lovely as it is – I live in a bi-level... there are seven steps down to my family room/laundry room/etc... seven steps up to the bedrooms... so, the water came in through my downstairs shower and flooded into the laundry room... we got a handle on it pretty quick, but the flippin’ smell is killing me!!!!!
I have washed more laundry this week than I ever remember washing in my life.
I’ve bleached the floors, poured bleach down drains, and I think I bleached myself...
The carpet has about a one foot square in the doorway that got wet, despite my best efforts... I cannot get the flippin smell out.... I wet vacc’d, vacuumed, steam cleaned it... I steam cleaned again, sprayed Febreze – I think I have to tear it up and I can’t can’t can’t afford new carpet and that is our most used room so I can’t very well have the kids walking around on whatever the hell is underneath there....
Oh, and in the mad dash to move everything in the water’s way, and stop the rush, and put towels down to protect the carpet... I fell down the stairs – not once, but three flippin’ times! Partially because it was dripping with water... mostly because I’m a klutz... but I’m so bruised I look like a poster child for the abuse hotline and I’d really like a long hot bath... that lasts ten years or so...
Ah, better. There were already some personal issues going on that made this little added difficulty a bit harder to handle... I’m not getting into it here, but we’ll just say that my hands are too full to blog much. I’m sorry I haven’t been checking in on you all with regularity, but I hope you’ve all weathered the storms and are doing well...
For now, I’ll leave you with a poem. It’s one of my favorites, and it’s been making me feel a bit better lately:
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as a Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be,
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance,
My head is bloodied, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how straight the gate
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
- William Ernest Henley
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
JOIN US IN A HAPPY DANCE!!!
The very lovely Ello has just signed for representation with Bill Contardi!!!
As a loyal blog reader, and very lucky beta reader, let me tell you, her talent is deserving of every success. I'm looking forward to announcing the amazing book deals that are sure to follow!
Pop on over to Ello's and offer your congratulations.
Yay, Ello!
Yay, Ello!
Shake your booty!
Yay, Ello!
As a loyal blog reader, and very lucky beta reader, let me tell you, her talent is deserving of every success. I'm looking forward to announcing the amazing book deals that are sure to follow!
Pop on over to Ello's and offer your congratulations.
Yay, Ello!
Yay, Ello!
Shake your booty!
Yay, Ello!
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Perspective and Pixie Dust
When I was little, young enough so that I had to stand on my tippy toes to look out the front door window, I can remember spending oodles of time in my front hall. It was a cavernous entryway, with a large wooden front door and the glass window had diamond shaped panes of glass that I later learned were called cottage windows. The floor was brown and white patterned ceramic tile, with two steps that led up to the entry of the front room, and there was an oil painted replica of Dali’s Christ of St. John Over the Water hanging perfectly at eye level with the door. I would sit on the top step, in the late afternoon, as the sun shone in streams through the panes of glass, and watch the dust dancing through the beams as if they were magic. I thought they were pixie dust – they were far too pretty to be every day dust, after all... and surely my mother would hate that I reiterated this here to you, if it was just her lax with the vacuum that filled my daydreams and not something far more magical.
Today, though we moved from my childhood house twenty years ago (oy, that sounds terrible... that I can say I did anything twenty years ago just sounds odd), but I know that room to be less than cavernous, probably a bare four feet from doorway to steps, and the arching door led straight into our front room... ah, my favorite part of Chicago homes, we have front room rather than living rooms or ‘Great Rooms’ or ‘Drawing Room’... what makes them great? Do you actually draw in them? Okay, well, I could probably get into that last one... but it’s one of the things that’s so a part of me, Chicago is low on its pretention, just the way I like it.
I went on a girls’ weekend this weekend, with two of my friends from high school... I may be posting more on that later – with pictures if I get their permission first, and have been waxing a bit philosophical about perspective, and the way things change with age. I don’t think dust is nearly as pretty these days and I kind of miss that mindset, that there’s something magical in dust – at my age it’s only another of life’s irritations you try to keep at bay, but can’t quite master.
I wonder if you guys can page back and remember what it felt like to look out at the world from tippy toes, to have to hop and pull yourself up to sit on your parents’ car trunk, to see snow about your head (though it’s only four feet)... I can remember that vividly. I remember the feel of bite on my cheeks that was so cold it felt hot and made my face glow a crimson candy apple red beneath my scarf and little red snow suit. I hear the laughter, loud vivacious guffaws, from the front porch where the adults sat while we ran under streetlights in the summer.
And I think, maybe that’s the allure of writing for children. That there are these things in my head that I still feel and see and understand... more keenly and more magical than any of my adult stories... maybe I’ll dive into those later, but those early days, the newness the heartbreak that you steel yourself against later – the things that lose their bite as your skin gets thicker... those are the things pulling me now, today...
How about you? Has your perspective changed in leaps and bounds? Can you still feel and see and smell things from other passages in your timeline? And do those things motivate you to write, or are there other things, pulling your fingers along the keyboard?
Today, though we moved from my childhood house twenty years ago (oy, that sounds terrible... that I can say I did anything twenty years ago just sounds odd), but I know that room to be less than cavernous, probably a bare four feet from doorway to steps, and the arching door led straight into our front room... ah, my favorite part of Chicago homes, we have front room rather than living rooms or ‘Great Rooms’ or ‘Drawing Room’... what makes them great? Do you actually draw in them? Okay, well, I could probably get into that last one... but it’s one of the things that’s so a part of me, Chicago is low on its pretention, just the way I like it.
I went on a girls’ weekend this weekend, with two of my friends from high school... I may be posting more on that later – with pictures if I get their permission first, and have been waxing a bit philosophical about perspective, and the way things change with age. I don’t think dust is nearly as pretty these days and I kind of miss that mindset, that there’s something magical in dust – at my age it’s only another of life’s irritations you try to keep at bay, but can’t quite master.
I wonder if you guys can page back and remember what it felt like to look out at the world from tippy toes, to have to hop and pull yourself up to sit on your parents’ car trunk, to see snow about your head (though it’s only four feet)... I can remember that vividly. I remember the feel of bite on my cheeks that was so cold it felt hot and made my face glow a crimson candy apple red beneath my scarf and little red snow suit. I hear the laughter, loud vivacious guffaws, from the front porch where the adults sat while we ran under streetlights in the summer.
And I think, maybe that’s the allure of writing for children. That there are these things in my head that I still feel and see and understand... more keenly and more magical than any of my adult stories... maybe I’ll dive into those later, but those early days, the newness the heartbreak that you steel yourself against later – the things that lose their bite as your skin gets thicker... those are the things pulling me now, today...
How about you? Has your perspective changed in leaps and bounds? Can you still feel and see and smell things from other passages in your timeline? And do those things motivate you to write, or are there other things, pulling your fingers along the keyboard?
Monday, August 25, 2008
Room Mom Lament
In my last post I discussed education and some of the reasons why schools work or fail. If you read that, and my fairly opinionated commentary, you already know that my feeling is that the single greatest determining factor in a child’s scholastic success rests with the parents. That’s not to say that a failing district can be overcome by the parent, but I think failing districts often have an overabundance of parents who are not accountable for their children…
Well, hell, I just re-read that and realized that I’m about to piss a lot of people off. If you have tender hearts or virgin ears, please discontinue reading. Otherwise, buckle up.
I am, once again, a room mom – this year for my middle child’s class. I already know what’s coming, having been ridiculously involved since my oldest started three year old pre-school (she’s in fifth grade this year). I didn’t volunteer for this one, in fact I purposely didn’t sign up. I have three kids in school and wanted to make sure I could make at least one party for each of them. When you’re a room parent, you have to attend the majority of the events for that class… okay, that was long and windy, but the basic thing is – no one else would accept the position, which already tells me I’m going to have a hell of a time finding volunteers. Luckily, the first and third grade have their Christmas parties on different days, so hopefully I can attend that one for youngest.
But enough about how I’m going to balance spending some time in each of my children’s classes – the point is the lack of volunteers. Here’s how this conversation can often go:
Me: Hi, my name is Merry and my child is in your child’s class. We need parents to help with their holiday parties. Do you think you can sign up for one of them?
Parent: Oh, no, I work. Sorry.
AAAAARGGGGGG!!!!! Not for nothing, but what kind of bullshit answer is that? There are a lot of parents who work and still make their children’s school life a priority and quite frankly there are relatively few employers who will hold it against you for taking one afternoon off in a ten month school year to attend your child’s party. If you are the extreme case whose boss will boil you in oil, you are excused from this rant… but for the most part, these same parents who can’t commit to an one hour party in the afternoon are also never in attendance at the evening or weekend events, so in some of those cases I’m thinking they just can’t be bothered – which sucks for their kid.
I get that working and raising children is hard to balance. I even get it if you can’t make the afternoon stuff but try to make the evening events or in some other way volunteer (there are a lot of things you can do from home, just ask the school). And forget the fact that it’s flippin’ annoying to the rest of us who, by the way, also WORK – that line just kills me, I’m sorry. I’m not sitting on the couch eating bon-bons for fuck’s sake – even if I wasn’t writing at home, I’d still have every ounce of time consumed with raising my own kids and taking up the slack at school for the parents that don’t flippin’ bother!
Okay, sorry. You can unplug your virgin ears now. Here’s the thing, for any of you reading that don’t bother with your children’s events – don’t worry about annoying people like me. Hey, who the fuck am I, really? (oops, now you can unplug them) But you should definitely take into account the kind of message you want to send your kid. Do you remember being that age? Do you remember what it felt like when your parents didn’t bother to show up? When you missed a school event because they didn’t think it was a big deal?
Their school world is their whole life. It’s where they learn how to deal with people, how to build relationships, a work ethic, respect, pride in accomplishment, independence… and their parents, for better or worse, hold the reigns to how they feel about themselves for most, if not all, of their lives.
If your parents were ones that didn’t think it mattered – do your kid a favor and show them a little better.
Okay, I’m done. Carry on.
Well, hell, I just re-read that and realized that I’m about to piss a lot of people off. If you have tender hearts or virgin ears, please discontinue reading. Otherwise, buckle up.
I am, once again, a room mom – this year for my middle child’s class. I already know what’s coming, having been ridiculously involved since my oldest started three year old pre-school (she’s in fifth grade this year). I didn’t volunteer for this one, in fact I purposely didn’t sign up. I have three kids in school and wanted to make sure I could make at least one party for each of them. When you’re a room parent, you have to attend the majority of the events for that class… okay, that was long and windy, but the basic thing is – no one else would accept the position, which already tells me I’m going to have a hell of a time finding volunteers. Luckily, the first and third grade have their Christmas parties on different days, so hopefully I can attend that one for youngest.
But enough about how I’m going to balance spending some time in each of my children’s classes – the point is the lack of volunteers. Here’s how this conversation can often go:
Me: Hi, my name is Merry and my child is in your child’s class. We need parents to help with their holiday parties. Do you think you can sign up for one of them?
Parent: Oh, no, I work. Sorry.
AAAAARGGGGGG!!!!! Not for nothing, but what kind of bullshit answer is that? There are a lot of parents who work and still make their children’s school life a priority and quite frankly there are relatively few employers who will hold it against you for taking one afternoon off in a ten month school year to attend your child’s party. If you are the extreme case whose boss will boil you in oil, you are excused from this rant… but for the most part, these same parents who can’t commit to an one hour party in the afternoon are also never in attendance at the evening or weekend events, so in some of those cases I’m thinking they just can’t be bothered – which sucks for their kid.
I get that working and raising children is hard to balance. I even get it if you can’t make the afternoon stuff but try to make the evening events or in some other way volunteer (there are a lot of things you can do from home, just ask the school). And forget the fact that it’s flippin’ annoying to the rest of us who, by the way, also WORK – that line just kills me, I’m sorry. I’m not sitting on the couch eating bon-bons for fuck’s sake – even if I wasn’t writing at home, I’d still have every ounce of time consumed with raising my own kids and taking up the slack at school for the parents that don’t flippin’ bother!
Okay, sorry. You can unplug your virgin ears now. Here’s the thing, for any of you reading that don’t bother with your children’s events – don’t worry about annoying people like me. Hey, who the fuck am I, really? (oops, now you can unplug them) But you should definitely take into account the kind of message you want to send your kid. Do you remember being that age? Do you remember what it felt like when your parents didn’t bother to show up? When you missed a school event because they didn’t think it was a big deal?
Their school world is their whole life. It’s where they learn how to deal with people, how to build relationships, a work ethic, respect, pride in accomplishment, independence… and their parents, for better or worse, hold the reigns to how they feel about themselves for most, if not all, of their lives.
If your parents were ones that didn’t think it mattered – do your kid a favor and show them a little better.
Okay, I’m done. Carry on.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Back To School
This month, a group of ministers in the Chicagoland area called for a boycott of the first day of school. The reason they want to hold children back from their classrooms is in protest of the way schools are funded in Illinois. Let me first say, I think it’s ridiculous to boycott in this way – the only people really inconvenienced or hurt by keeping kids out of the classroom are the kids. But, on the whole I agree with them. The funding system here is unfair. The way it works is that schools are funded by the property taxes paid in the area, so obviously affluent suburbs have a greater amount of money to work with and far fewer students to educate.
Some suburbs have as much as $17,000.00 per student, where the inner city has about $10,000.00. Yep, that’s a discrepancy and in a public school system I have to agree that the amount of money your family earns should have no bearing on the type of education available to you through that system…
But, here’s where I diverge. Catholic Schools need about $5,000.00 per student to educate their pupils. That’s half of what’s available in the city schools. Catholic School students, on the whole, out perform their public school counterparts and a far greater percentage of them finish high school and go on to college. Now, I mentioned before that I moved my own kids from the local Catholic School to the local public school last year – so I do believe children can get a good education in the public school system – but I don’t think the answer is to throw money at it.
I think if this protest works and the funding is more equally dispersed, it will have little to no effect on how well the children in those districts are educated. I think the call for more funding in education is a great rally cry for politicians, but it doesn’t do anything to solve the problems in education.
I think what we really need to do is look at the schools that succeed (regardless if they’re public or privately funded) and see where they differ from the schools that are failing and I think the biggest variance you’ll see is in the pupils’ own families. Kids who succeed in school have parents who are supportive of their education. They have parents who come to all of their school functions, volunteer to help in the classroom, or in whatever way available to them they show their child that they value the work they do in school. They treat the child’s school career with the same respect that they treat their own career.
That is the first variance I see, there are others, but we have to own the fact that a child’s first and most powerful educator is his / her family. In other words, counting on politicians to solve this problem is ludicrous. First, most politicians do not use the public school system. They send their own children to private schools that the average American cannot afford. So why would we count on them to fix a system that they have no vested personal interest in and, quite frankly, don’t take the time to understand? And even the well-meaning politician who honestly wants to champion the school system is at a disadvantage – even the best system and most dedicated teachers can do little to educate a child whose parents won’t work with them.
I think we’ve come to a point in this country where, when things are not working, we automatically want the government to fix it and I think that’s dangerous. We need to own our own communities and our own lives.
There are other reasons education is failing in areas here, and I’d love to talk about that in the comments section, but I think the number one decider of a child’s success at school will be in the support they receive early on and throughout their education. A close second is the amount of support their peers receive, because I can be as proactive in my child’s moral and academic growth as possible, but if they’re in a classroom full of kids whose parents don’t care, kids who then start misbehaving or being disruptive, well, obviously, that puts every child at a disadvantage to learn.
If I had that situation in my own kids public school, I’d move them right back to Catholic School without batting an eye… it doesn’t solve the problem in the school system, though, does it? And right now, many parents’ hands are tied in where their child attends school because private education is very expensive.
This is a far reaching topic and I think there are a lot of variables. What do you think? How do we fix it? Can it be fixed? Do you think more government input on individual school districts is the answer, or less? Do you think more funding will solve it?
Some suburbs have as much as $17,000.00 per student, where the inner city has about $10,000.00. Yep, that’s a discrepancy and in a public school system I have to agree that the amount of money your family earns should have no bearing on the type of education available to you through that system…
But, here’s where I diverge. Catholic Schools need about $5,000.00 per student to educate their pupils. That’s half of what’s available in the city schools. Catholic School students, on the whole, out perform their public school counterparts and a far greater percentage of them finish high school and go on to college. Now, I mentioned before that I moved my own kids from the local Catholic School to the local public school last year – so I do believe children can get a good education in the public school system – but I don’t think the answer is to throw money at it.
I think if this protest works and the funding is more equally dispersed, it will have little to no effect on how well the children in those districts are educated. I think the call for more funding in education is a great rally cry for politicians, but it doesn’t do anything to solve the problems in education.
I think what we really need to do is look at the schools that succeed (regardless if they’re public or privately funded) and see where they differ from the schools that are failing and I think the biggest variance you’ll see is in the pupils’ own families. Kids who succeed in school have parents who are supportive of their education. They have parents who come to all of their school functions, volunteer to help in the classroom, or in whatever way available to them they show their child that they value the work they do in school. They treat the child’s school career with the same respect that they treat their own career.
That is the first variance I see, there are others, but we have to own the fact that a child’s first and most powerful educator is his / her family. In other words, counting on politicians to solve this problem is ludicrous. First, most politicians do not use the public school system. They send their own children to private schools that the average American cannot afford. So why would we count on them to fix a system that they have no vested personal interest in and, quite frankly, don’t take the time to understand? And even the well-meaning politician who honestly wants to champion the school system is at a disadvantage – even the best system and most dedicated teachers can do little to educate a child whose parents won’t work with them.
I think we’ve come to a point in this country where, when things are not working, we automatically want the government to fix it and I think that’s dangerous. We need to own our own communities and our own lives.
There are other reasons education is failing in areas here, and I’d love to talk about that in the comments section, but I think the number one decider of a child’s success at school will be in the support they receive early on and throughout their education. A close second is the amount of support their peers receive, because I can be as proactive in my child’s moral and academic growth as possible, but if they’re in a classroom full of kids whose parents don’t care, kids who then start misbehaving or being disruptive, well, obviously, that puts every child at a disadvantage to learn.
If I had that situation in my own kids public school, I’d move them right back to Catholic School without batting an eye… it doesn’t solve the problem in the school system, though, does it? And right now, many parents’ hands are tied in where their child attends school because private education is very expensive.
This is a far reaching topic and I think there are a lot of variables. What do you think? How do we fix it? Can it be fixed? Do you think more government input on individual school districts is the answer, or less? Do you think more funding will solve it?
Monday, August 18, 2008
What did you do all weekend?
So, hubby type person took the kiddies camping for the weekend. It sounds like they had a ball. They left Friday afternoon and are due back here in a few hours.
Yes, dear friends, I had the whole lovely weekend to myself. I couldn’t even talk to the kids on the phone because the reception was bad, so my communication with the family was relegated to hubby’s text messages via my email.
Once they got on the highway, he called to let me know where they were, what they did all weekend, etc. etc… and after a glorious recap of the friends my daughter made (my ten year old can and will make friends anywhere, she was invited to other people’s camps for dinner and even to a birthday party after having been there barely a day… of course, he couldn’t let her go off with people he just met, still she found it nice to be asked… she even garnered the whole family an invitation to spend the evening with another family at their campfire…she’s a trip, that one)
Anywhoo, after his glorious recap he asked what I did all weekend.
I wrote. I noodled my current wip a lot, I wrote, I deleted, I wrote some more… I made notes, I looked up some things, I played online and checked in at blogs… I wrote… That’s what I did pretty much all weekend.
To which he asked, okay, you wrote, but did you buy the kids school supplies?
Umn, no. Not yet. I’ll go this week, I guess.
Did you clean out their rooms? Did you organize the house? Did you stock up on groceries? Did you balance the checkbook or anything?
No… I did not. I thought about it, and then I passed. Listen, I have to do all of those things, I even thought I’d get to some of them this weekend, but no… I did some laundry… but, yanno, the machine can run while I’m still writing. I didn’t cook I didn’t clean I did nothing that would resemble work for the household, it was all about writing. I wrote. That’s what I did.
Huh… hubby replied, a bit taken back. And then he bit his tongue, which was a wiser decision than he knows. He will come home, look around the still somewhat disorganized household, and wonder why he married such a lazy woman.
Guess what… I don’t care. I wrote. It’s very rare that I get the chance to just think about the writing from sun up to sun down… I took it. I get that he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see any progress there, he only hears me say that I wrote but since there’s no promotion or paycheck involved I might as well tell him I spent the weekend drunk or zoning out in front of the tv.
And usually I feel very guilty when I spend that kind of time on my writing and not with the kids or on other people’s stuff. But I’m not doing it today. I can get in the cleaning later. Hell, they can help me clean – they live here, too.
So how about you guys? What did you do with your weekend? And do you feel guilty spending time on your writing when it’s not the job that pays the bills? Does your spouse support you in your writing and see that time as valid?
Yes, dear friends, I had the whole lovely weekend to myself. I couldn’t even talk to the kids on the phone because the reception was bad, so my communication with the family was relegated to hubby’s text messages via my email.
Once they got on the highway, he called to let me know where they were, what they did all weekend, etc. etc… and after a glorious recap of the friends my daughter made (my ten year old can and will make friends anywhere, she was invited to other people’s camps for dinner and even to a birthday party after having been there barely a day… of course, he couldn’t let her go off with people he just met, still she found it nice to be asked… she even garnered the whole family an invitation to spend the evening with another family at their campfire…she’s a trip, that one)
Anywhoo, after his glorious recap he asked what I did all weekend.
I wrote. I noodled my current wip a lot, I wrote, I deleted, I wrote some more… I made notes, I looked up some things, I played online and checked in at blogs… I wrote… That’s what I did pretty much all weekend.
To which he asked, okay, you wrote, but did you buy the kids school supplies?
Umn, no. Not yet. I’ll go this week, I guess.
Did you clean out their rooms? Did you organize the house? Did you stock up on groceries? Did you balance the checkbook or anything?
No… I did not. I thought about it, and then I passed. Listen, I have to do all of those things, I even thought I’d get to some of them this weekend, but no… I did some laundry… but, yanno, the machine can run while I’m still writing. I didn’t cook I didn’t clean I did nothing that would resemble work for the household, it was all about writing. I wrote. That’s what I did.
Huh… hubby replied, a bit taken back. And then he bit his tongue, which was a wiser decision than he knows. He will come home, look around the still somewhat disorganized household, and wonder why he married such a lazy woman.
Guess what… I don’t care. I wrote. It’s very rare that I get the chance to just think about the writing from sun up to sun down… I took it. I get that he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see any progress there, he only hears me say that I wrote but since there’s no promotion or paycheck involved I might as well tell him I spent the weekend drunk or zoning out in front of the tv.
And usually I feel very guilty when I spend that kind of time on my writing and not with the kids or on other people’s stuff. But I’m not doing it today. I can get in the cleaning later. Hell, they can help me clean – they live here, too.
So how about you guys? What did you do with your weekend? And do you feel guilty spending time on your writing when it’s not the job that pays the bills? Does your spouse support you in your writing and see that time as valid?
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Here Comes The Sun
A little lesson in Tarot before we begin:
A Tarot deck is comprised of the Major Arcana and Minor Arcana. The Minor Arcana is the predecessor of today’s playing cards, though each suit holds one extra face card – Page, Knight, Queen, and King.
The Major Arcana has twenty two cards, from Key Zero – The Fool, to Key Twenty One – The World. The cards come with a lush history and there are many different studies of how to read them and games that may have been in popular use through the ages. One philosophy is that the Major Arcana tells a story and that each card delineates a part of The Fool’s journey (all of us being the fools :-)
Since most of you probably aren’t that interested in the cards themselves, I’ll skip straight to the point. The Sun card, pictured above, notes exactly what it looks like. It’s happiness and fulfillment. It’s the spoils after the stuggle, and it’s contentment in all areas of your life. Now, each card can bear varied meanings, depending on their placement in a spread and what the other cards are around them, but overall this one is exactly the thing we all seek – fulfillment and contentment... it often means material success but I think that’s become a meaning because people seem to equate happiness with money, not so much because the cards do.
The card directly before The Sun card in the deck is, fittingly enough, The Moon. The Moon carries a lot of negative connotations in the tarot deck, despite the fact that many pagan and Wicca traditions stress the power of the moon and all of its phases. In The Fool’s journey, The Moon symbolizes the struggles to overcome, the rocks in your path and the hardships you must face on your journey. Again, the exact meaning will change with the layout and position, but overall, most people don’t like to see The Moon come up in their readings.... except for me.
The Moon was my favorite card, since I first started to learn about tarot in my teen years. I identified with it – looking at the obstacles in life not as something to fear, but as a focus of pride and a means to evolve and grow. I focused, not on the actual hindrance, but on the experience as a means to make me stronger... pride goeth before the fall...
Anyway, I think most people have their ‘things’, little symbols or quirks that people associate with them. One of mine, was the moon. A lot of people who know me don’t necessarily know that it comes from the tarot, or the signifying meaning, but they do associate it with me, enough so that I’ve received moonstone jewelry, boxes with moons on them, and all sorts of various knick knacks with the moon in it somewhere as gifts over the years. My first tattoo was a moon, on my stomach... I was nineteen and it was an adorable half moon... three kids later, and it’s not nearly so adorable... and not exactly half anymore either, but I’ll digress.
But lately I’ve been doing a lot of pondering about this, about my focus of energy and how much influence that has over the things in my life... I don’t consciously think of the moon daily, don’t get me wrong, but with various reminders of that connotation around me, I wonder if perhaps I can’t help but focus more on the tasks and less on the fun... I want this life to be a journey – I think that’s where the whole thing started, because The Sun to me always signified an end of the journey, a completion. And even if that completion was triumphant, it still meant the end – where else is there to go after reaching perfect happiness?
But, in this little path of self inspection, I’ve decided that my original summation of The Sun card was flawed. It is not happiness in completion, but happiness itself. It’s the decision to find joy in the journey, on the path, in the everyday. And I do think that’s a decision. So, I’m changing my card... I pick The Sun... The Moon and I will always be friends, but it’s time to shift focus... we’ll see where it goes from here.
So how about you guys? Do you have any symbols or things associated with you? And how about your own self-inspection – had any life revelations that would benefit the rest of us? I’d love to hear about it....
Thursday, August 07, 2008
WOW - An Open Prompt Flash Fiction Contest!
The awesomeness that is Chris Eldin turned me on to a new contest when she posted her short story, Warning Shot (follow the link to check out her haunting entry). The contest is hosted by Women On Writing, and they have one every quarter - check out the submission guidelines here. This one is the summer contest, and it’s an open prompt, so fun for all writers – the deadline is August 31, 2008. I hope all of you will consider playing... So far, I know Precie put up a stellar entry, too.
Okay, without further ado, making it in just under the 500 word count, my entry:
Most of the sorrows of the world were caused by envy and greed. Of this, Madeleine was certain. Just as she knew that the best of our history would be forgotten for fear. Our most significant accomplishments were often in the mistakes, and those we took care to bury much deeper than the ordinary lies we let people see.
Cocooned in the prison of hospital sheets, she ran crinkled fingers over the stiff material and attempted a sigh through the plastic tube stuffed down her throat.
"Not much of a thread count there, cheap bastards."
Madeleine stopped willing herself to die a number of days before. It just didn't work. You'd think a simple thing like telling her own damn heart to stop might be easy, but it wasn't.
She listened to the respirator beside her bed with its steady, annoying huff, and she whispered a prayer, if only in her own head. Well, how the hell else was she meant to do it? For once in her life, she couldn't use her mouth.
She finally resorted to swearing at God, hoping it might bait him into finishing her off. But that bastard always was smarter than her, and she figured he was keeping her there, stuck in purgatory for a lesson. Either that or he was cutting her a little break before eternal damnation, but she wasn't quite sure which it was.
Visitors came and went. Her children hovered and sat, clicking through the stations on the wall-mounted TV and staring at the blinking, neon numbers on the machine that let them know she wasn't dead yet.
Madeleine's oldest granddaughter, Fiona, swooped in once a day, filling the room with the stink of expensive perfume. The smell stayed for hours, settling in the back of Madeleine's throat with a vicious tickle.
"Have you cleaned out her house yet? We should go through the jewelry and bank accounts soon." Fiona said to her mother, who was sitting in the chair next to Madeleine's bed.
"Not yet. I think we should wait until after. Your father and aunts will throw a fit if we go through their mother's things while she's still alive." Elaine's eyes flicked over the emaciated woman, lying prostrate in bed.
Madeleine heard every word, but didn't stir. Her lashes fluttered open here and there but otherwise she acted as if she didn't know they were in the room. Thirty five years. For thirty five years Elaine was sunshine and light around her mother-in-law, and she made sure Fiona was, too. Not now, though. They had some nerve when the old lady couldn't respond.
"That's okay," Madeleine thought, the corners of her mouth just twitching up around the tube.
Her mind shot back to the papers in her desk drawer at home and the copy with her lawyer. Madeleine wished she could give a mighty guffaw, but settled for a slow cackle in her head as she slipped off to sleep in the sterile room.
Okay, without further ado, making it in just under the 500 word count, my entry:
Time In Purgatory
Most of the sorrows of the world were caused by envy and greed. Of this, Madeleine was certain. Just as she knew that the best of our history would be forgotten for fear. Our most significant accomplishments were often in the mistakes, and those we took care to bury much deeper than the ordinary lies we let people see.
Cocooned in the prison of hospital sheets, she ran crinkled fingers over the stiff material and attempted a sigh through the plastic tube stuffed down her throat.
"Not much of a thread count there, cheap bastards."
Madeleine stopped willing herself to die a number of days before. It just didn't work. You'd think a simple thing like telling her own damn heart to stop might be easy, but it wasn't.
She listened to the respirator beside her bed with its steady, annoying huff, and she whispered a prayer, if only in her own head. Well, how the hell else was she meant to do it? For once in her life, she couldn't use her mouth.
She finally resorted to swearing at God, hoping it might bait him into finishing her off. But that bastard always was smarter than her, and she figured he was keeping her there, stuck in purgatory for a lesson. Either that or he was cutting her a little break before eternal damnation, but she wasn't quite sure which it was.
Visitors came and went. Her children hovered and sat, clicking through the stations on the wall-mounted TV and staring at the blinking, neon numbers on the machine that let them know she wasn't dead yet.
Madeleine's oldest granddaughter, Fiona, swooped in once a day, filling the room with the stink of expensive perfume. The smell stayed for hours, settling in the back of Madeleine's throat with a vicious tickle.
"Have you cleaned out her house yet? We should go through the jewelry and bank accounts soon." Fiona said to her mother, who was sitting in the chair next to Madeleine's bed.
"Not yet. I think we should wait until after. Your father and aunts will throw a fit if we go through their mother's things while she's still alive." Elaine's eyes flicked over the emaciated woman, lying prostrate in bed.
Madeleine heard every word, but didn't stir. Her lashes fluttered open here and there but otherwise she acted as if she didn't know they were in the room. Thirty five years. For thirty five years Elaine was sunshine and light around her mother-in-law, and she made sure Fiona was, too. Not now, though. They had some nerve when the old lady couldn't respond.
"That's okay," Madeleine thought, the corners of her mouth just twitching up around the tube.
Her mind shot back to the papers in her desk drawer at home and the copy with her lawyer. Madeleine wished she could give a mighty guffaw, but settled for a slow cackle in her head as she slipped off to sleep in the sterile room.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Scary Stories and their linksies
A few weeks ago, I announced a contest for best scary story. There were a few takers, so I thought I’d share their links. Stop by and visit – you’ll definitely enjoy the writing.
PJD’s Three Wishes A beautifully written piece that will tear your heart out and make you catch your breath.
Sarah Laurenson’s Short An offbeat flash fiction piece, that will play on your senses... and offer new perspectives.
Colleen Katana’s Creepy Kid Ghost is a true story about the ghost child that plagued Colleen’s mom and ripped the heads off her children’s teddy bears.... Mrs. Katana is a mighty brave lady – I think I might have moved.
Sorry for the short post... I’ll be back around the blog-o-sphere to catch up soon.
PJD’s Three Wishes A beautifully written piece that will tear your heart out and make you catch your breath.
Sarah Laurenson’s Short An offbeat flash fiction piece, that will play on your senses... and offer new perspectives.
Colleen Katana’s Creepy Kid Ghost is a true story about the ghost child that plagued Colleen’s mom and ripped the heads off her children’s teddy bears.... Mrs. Katana is a mighty brave lady – I think I might have moved.
Sorry for the short post... I’ll be back around the blog-o-sphere to catch up soon.
Monday, July 28, 2008
The Dog Days of Summer
I forgot how long summer could be... okay, not really... it’s one of the few things that seems waaaaaay longer now than it did to me as a kid... but that’s only because I’m on full time mommy duty and I like to complain.
My kids however have found all sorts of interesting ways to amuse themselves. The funny thing is, I remember coming up with games when I was a kid. We made up our own all the time – ours were pretty much just pummeling the hell out of each other, though. My kids are far more inventive.
Take for instance, the new game sweeping the nation:
Dodgeball Old Lady Mock 6000
There are rules to this game.
If the ball hits you in the face, it’s a bloody nose and you’re sent to the principal’s office (apparently this means you lose a turn and sit out)
If the ball hits you in the leg, it’s a broken leg – you must hop on one foot until you’ve gotten the thrower out...
If the ball hits you in the arm, an old lady attacks you – you are forced to sit in a chair while the old lady mocks you (thus the inventive title)
Oldest does the announcer voice throughout the game... she’s rather good at it. There are sound effects and everything.
My backyard is a water war zone
We don’t have a pool. We talked about it, a few times, but so far it’s not in the cards. First of all, youngest doesn’t swim very well yet – he’s still in the beginner level at swim lessons. If he can make it up to the next level by the end of the summer, I’ve promised them that we can get a pass to the public pool next year... This, of course, is not good enough. Next summer is forever away!
So, like every mother of beasties, er, umn, I mean beautiful, well behaved children type peoples... I let them play in the sprinkler with squirt guns a few afternoons a week...
But, you know, after the first few afternoons of running around in their swimsuits through a sprinkler, it wasn’t nearly as much fun anymore... Now they’ve taken to new ways of turning a nice normal yard into six flags theme park... The super soakers all get filled up... as do water balloons.... don’t ask me what they’re doing with the tennis rackets because I’m not quite sure what that bit’s all about... oh, and they’ve turned the backyard slide into a water slide by disconnecting the hose from the sprinkler and spraying the heck out of the person at the top of the slide....
The kid down the block saw the ruckus from his own backyard and told his mom about it... I don’t think he’s allowed to come here to play anymore...
So, how about you? What have you been doing to fill up your summer months?
My kids however have found all sorts of interesting ways to amuse themselves. The funny thing is, I remember coming up with games when I was a kid. We made up our own all the time – ours were pretty much just pummeling the hell out of each other, though. My kids are far more inventive.
Take for instance, the new game sweeping the nation:
Dodgeball Old Lady Mock 6000
There are rules to this game.
If the ball hits you in the face, it’s a bloody nose and you’re sent to the principal’s office (apparently this means you lose a turn and sit out)
If the ball hits you in the leg, it’s a broken leg – you must hop on one foot until you’ve gotten the thrower out...
If the ball hits you in the arm, an old lady attacks you – you are forced to sit in a chair while the old lady mocks you (thus the inventive title)
Oldest does the announcer voice throughout the game... she’s rather good at it. There are sound effects and everything.
My backyard is a water war zone
We don’t have a pool. We talked about it, a few times, but so far it’s not in the cards. First of all, youngest doesn’t swim very well yet – he’s still in the beginner level at swim lessons. If he can make it up to the next level by the end of the summer, I’ve promised them that we can get a pass to the public pool next year... This, of course, is not good enough. Next summer is forever away!
So, like every mother of beasties, er, umn, I mean beautiful, well behaved children type peoples... I let them play in the sprinkler with squirt guns a few afternoons a week...
But, you know, after the first few afternoons of running around in their swimsuits through a sprinkler, it wasn’t nearly as much fun anymore... Now they’ve taken to new ways of turning a nice normal yard into six flags theme park... The super soakers all get filled up... as do water balloons.... don’t ask me what they’re doing with the tennis rackets because I’m not quite sure what that bit’s all about... oh, and they’ve turned the backyard slide into a water slide by disconnecting the hose from the sprinkler and spraying the heck out of the person at the top of the slide....
The kid down the block saw the ruckus from his own backyard and told his mom about it... I don’t think he’s allowed to come here to play anymore...
So, how about you? What have you been doing to fill up your summer months?
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