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February tribute.
In May, there will be a smile post.
Showing posts with label about me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label about me. Show all posts
Friday, February 14, 2014
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
A Failed Attempt
Unlike DIY blogs that make every project appear perfectly effortless, I'm chronicling it all.
My office upgrade takes second to writing and the holidays shoved it down even further, but to be honest, I'm intimidated to sew a chair cover. Without a pattern. For the first time in my life. After sewing only straight seams for curtains.
Because that's me. I took painting courses before drawing. Yes, bass-ackwards supposedly works for me.
Case in point: last fall, I decided to test my skills on a far more simple project than my office reading chair--an elastic trimmed cover for my oval glass coffee table. The pattern concept a basic shower cap fit.
My mother came over to give moral support and guidance (she of the famed "I-sewed-dining-room-chair-covers-the-day-of-a-party-while-massively-pregnant-with-you"). First, without a plan or pattern, we cut the oval too small. Then my mother left because watching me pin and re-pin was uber boring. It took a total seven rounds of pin-play (and ripping out stitches) to get the fit just right.
The cover was smooth and taut, barely gripping the edges, but it worked. I noted the age-old wisdom of making a sample with plain, thin material and vowed to do that for the chair.
Sadly, I have no picture of the table cover to share because someone forgot to pre-wash her material. After a party that included a vodka shot penalty for missed movie quotes*, the table cover needed to be washed and never again will it stretch across.
But at least I have a sample and experience for next time!
* 1 person per team took the shots because they weren't driving, and the penalties were maxed out at a certain count. Otherwise, some people would be in a coma. After my first shot, I think I yelled out, "Taxi Driver" for anything obviously not romantic.
My office upgrade takes second to writing and the holidays shoved it down even further, but to be honest, I'm intimidated to sew a chair cover. Without a pattern. For the first time in my life. After sewing only straight seams for curtains.
Because that's me. I took painting courses before drawing. Yes, bass-ackwards supposedly works for me.
 |
| The Fabric |
My mother came over to give moral support and guidance (she of the famed "I-sewed-dining-room-chair-covers-the-day-of-a-party-while-massively-pregnant-with-you"). First, without a plan or pattern, we cut the oval too small. Then my mother left because watching me pin and re-pin was uber boring. It took a total seven rounds of pin-play (and ripping out stitches) to get the fit just right.
The cover was smooth and taut, barely gripping the edges, but it worked. I noted the age-old wisdom of making a sample with plain, thin material and vowed to do that for the chair.
Sadly, I have no picture of the table cover to share because someone forgot to pre-wash her material. After a party that included a vodka shot penalty for missed movie quotes*, the table cover needed to be washed and never again will it stretch across.
But at least I have a sample and experience for next time!
* 1 person per team took the shots because they weren't driving, and the penalties were maxed out at a certain count. Otherwise, some people would be in a coma. After my first shot, I think I yelled out, "Taxi Driver" for anything obviously not romantic.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
2014 - Hey, Soul Sister
It's 2014! What to write for my first post in the new year?
Turning 40? Meh. For a heartbeat last year I let society burrow into my brain like termites, but the rot has been exterminated. Forty is going to be awesome.
Resolutions? The topic has been covered. On New Year's Eve, hubs and I wrote down and burned negatives from 2013. Some notes were actions, some were events, and a few were attitudes. I'd share them but they're gone.
I did the year-in-review on Facebook. Savoring the good is worthwhile.
In 2013 I
Turning 40? Meh. For a heartbeat last year I let society burrow into my brain like termites, but the rot has been exterminated. Forty is going to be awesome.
Resolutions? The topic has been covered. On New Year's Eve, hubs and I wrote down and burned negatives from 2013. Some notes were actions, some were events, and a few were attitudes. I'd share them but they're gone.
I did the year-in-review on Facebook. Savoring the good is worthwhile.
In 2013 I
- Married my love and best friend, Jeremy Pollreisz.
- Published my first novel, Strong Enough, as an ebook on Amazon and with Smashwords.
- Invested in my Brand by engaging Jarika Johnson at Will Write For Love.
- Took a chance and did a Summer Writing Camp with Becky and Ranee.
- Completed my second novel and am working on edits with Becky, Editor of Fierce Bluntness (my cup of tea).
- Joined the Ozarks Romance Authors group - amazing group of writers.
- Attended my first writer's conference, ORAcon2013, and it was fan-freakin-tastic.
- Publishing my second novel, The Anonymous Blog of Mrs. Jones
- Writing, writing, writing
- Such as sequel to Strong Enough, Training Wheels, Wanderlust
- Publishing, publishing, publishing
- Marketing, marketing, marketing
- Reading, reading, reading
- LOVE, LOVING, BEING LOVED
- and of course, turning 40
The rest will come in waves of unexpected glory or daily doses of joy.
E
E
Thursday, December 12, 2013
That One Summer With A Hollywood Agent
More years ago than I want to count I took an acting course with a Hollywood agent/scriptwriter. She looked like Alice Cooper's older sister. She dressed like Alice Cooper. Does Alice Cooper have breasts?
It was three long days of acting exercises and challenges. My heart raced triple-time and I was sweating because there was only one level of participation -- all in.
On the second day we read a script. We'd already practiced rapid memorization but this was read-then-act freestyle. GULP. We paired off and secretly thought about how we'd do it better each time a brave couple took the floor. It was a sexy scene between two long-term lovers. I knew my partner less than twelve hours. When we started, I giggled constantly. Mary, said agent, rasped for focus, her smoker voice as craggy as the Marlboro Man's face.
We did. I remember zero lines and no plot. I remember nothing but being on the floor surrounded by the others on their hands and knees feeding us lines. As my partner and I embraced we lived the scene, damn the words. It was glorious. I never flew so high. Mary gave us one of the only compliments of the weekend and I knew what it meant to act.
But I left a little piece of my soul on the carpet where we'd laid entangled.
Acting is hard when you slip beneath self-consciousness and lose yourself to a moment. That one scene was as exhausting as a day digging for arrowheads during July in SW Missouri.
I stumbled around giddy but unnerved by the absence of a piece of me. In that emptiness I discovered I prefer existing behind the scenes, writing the moment that makes others giddy or unnerved. I finished the workshop triumphant -- my fearlessness as an actor best used for writing.
It was three long days of acting exercises and challenges. My heart raced triple-time and I was sweating because there was only one level of participation -- all in.
 |
| Imagine her whispering in your ear, show more love. |
On the second day we read a script. We'd already practiced rapid memorization but this was read-then-act freestyle. GULP. We paired off and secretly thought about how we'd do it better each time a brave couple took the floor. It was a sexy scene between two long-term lovers. I knew my partner less than twelve hours. When we started, I giggled constantly. Mary, said agent, rasped for focus, her smoker voice as craggy as the Marlboro Man's face.
We did. I remember zero lines and no plot. I remember nothing but being on the floor surrounded by the others on their hands and knees feeding us lines. As my partner and I embraced we lived the scene, damn the words. It was glorious. I never flew so high. Mary gave us one of the only compliments of the weekend and I knew what it meant to act.
But I left a little piece of my soul on the carpet where we'd laid entangled.
Acting is hard when you slip beneath self-consciousness and lose yourself to a moment. That one scene was as exhausting as a day digging for arrowheads during July in SW Missouri.
I stumbled around giddy but unnerved by the absence of a piece of me. In that emptiness I discovered I prefer existing behind the scenes, writing the moment that makes others giddy or unnerved. I finished the workshop triumphant -- my fearlessness as an actor best used for writing.
Monday, September 9, 2013
One of Those Mondays
If you can spare a positive thought for me and mine, we'd appreciate it. Hubs and I are under a thick, putrid cloud of negativity (due to an outside force and not internal demons). It's trying to occupy our thoughts like a window breaking, bloody nose delivering mob calling itself a peaceful assembly.
My solace (other than my loving husband) is hard work. I'll be tearing through revisions this week. I need something to do.
But it's a hard time to believe in our dreams -- to push through not worrying about when things will improve and just accept life will change with hard work. Sometimes being an adult means making sacrifices. It's tough knowing how long to hold on to hope and when to accept setting aside dreams.
Ten years ago I was at another emotionally terrifying time. My father had just died from cancer nine months after detection (he was a paragon of health prior) and I was let go from my job due to the affects of recession. I hid from my pain by planning a wedding and working toward my MFA. Most of my classes were completed but I was denied formal admittance into the program. I applied a second time with a much better thesis proposal in the Spring of 2004. Unfortunately, before the decision was rendered by the school my (ex) husband's job required us to move. I let our need for his job persuade me that I couldn't wait for the school's decision. After we moved from Boston to California, I was accepted into the MFA program. I had three courses left but I didn't finish my degree. At the time I made peace with it. It's taken years to see that I didn't fight hard enough. I let fear, fatigue, and a general desire to avoid difficulty control my future.
This time my dreams, our dreams, are jeopardized by legal issues. The word "fair" (wholly abused) is battering us like a police baton. "Fair" doesn't exist anymore. It's mutated and obscene. It's stripped of its superficially pure objective. Fair is a word I do not like.
But so far we haven't retaliated. We've maintained our dignity when it counted (cursing, as is only natural, in private). And I choose to believe that I'm being tested. If I turn away again, take the easy out, it will be my fault. Trick me once and all.
My solace (other than my loving husband) is hard work. I'll be tearing through revisions this week. I need something to do.
But it's a hard time to believe in our dreams -- to push through not worrying about when things will improve and just accept life will change with hard work. Sometimes being an adult means making sacrifices. It's tough knowing how long to hold on to hope and when to accept setting aside dreams.
Ten years ago I was at another emotionally terrifying time. My father had just died from cancer nine months after detection (he was a paragon of health prior) and I was let go from my job due to the affects of recession. I hid from my pain by planning a wedding and working toward my MFA. Most of my classes were completed but I was denied formal admittance into the program. I applied a second time with a much better thesis proposal in the Spring of 2004. Unfortunately, before the decision was rendered by the school my (ex) husband's job required us to move. I let our need for his job persuade me that I couldn't wait for the school's decision. After we moved from Boston to California, I was accepted into the MFA program. I had three courses left but I didn't finish my degree. At the time I made peace with it. It's taken years to see that I didn't fight hard enough. I let fear, fatigue, and a general desire to avoid difficulty control my future.
This time my dreams, our dreams, are jeopardized by legal issues. The word "fair" (wholly abused) is battering us like a police baton. "Fair" doesn't exist anymore. It's mutated and obscene. It's stripped of its superficially pure objective. Fair is a word I do not like.
But so far we haven't retaliated. We've maintained our dignity when it counted (cursing, as is only natural, in private). And I choose to believe that I'm being tested. If I turn away again, take the easy out, it will be my fault. Trick me once and all.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Lighting My Way
So I finished the lamp. (Cue fireworks.)
A lamp seems like a little thing but it was almost too much for me.
I've been writing about my fears (debt), my reality (being a step-mom), and my hopes (the daily triumphs I'm achieving as an AUTHOR--let's say that again--as an AUTHOR). Everything in my life is about making this dream come true. Yet, my projects share a similar issue--a dream that keeps on being a dream.
Now that Strong Enough is out there and I've accepted this author thang (I AM AN AUTHOR--I have to insert that regularly), dreams equal reality.
Welcome to the first completed project in my Office Renovation: a wee little lampy.
I posted here my expectations as well as a few trials and tribulations from the very beginning. This was not a weekend project. Not for me. But it was a creative escape that nurtured my inner artist and fostered new energy.
Starting with an object I loved but wasn't working in my writer space was key. After a false start, I began again with primer. I rock at primer.
Once I sanded off most of the drips and reapplied white gloss, I placed the lamp on my desk and put off doing the lamp shade.
The original shade was red and awful. Just awful. My first solution was to find a pure drum at a flea market or garage sale (in Ellen parlance, pure drum means the top and bottom rings are the same size).
I don't have the patience for this strategy. I bought a lamp for $2 at the very first flea market, my husband and I both sick of looking at stuff. It had the correct attachment (harp), but was red and not a pure drum. Not even close. SCORE! Because the top ring was a good size, I reasoned I could buy another ring the same circumfrance, a little styrene, and I'd make my own damn shade.
And then I waited for the lamp fairies to come and finish my project.
Strangely, that plan didn't work so I bought a self-adhesive lamp shade designed to use the fabric of your choice. It comes with a pattern and a sticky surface you roll your fabric around. Presto! Instant shade!
The shape I found wasn't a pure drum but there's only 1" difference so it's hard for the naked eye to see. Good enough for me! I cut my fabric with the pattern and began the next phase of my vision: painting with typeset letters.
I already had the typeset pieces--I bought them years ago. After carefully painting each letter, I stamped out i:Novelist! over and over and over. And over and over and over and over.
After a few sets, I wrapped the fabric around the shade and looked for holes.Then I stamped some more. And more and more and more.
Once I was satisfied, my husband helped me roll the fabric onto the shade. It was super easy. THANK DOOCE!
I used scissors to trim the burlap as close to the edge of the lamp as possible because folding it over the top was never going to work. I bought some bias tape, fabric tape, and voila!
The transformation is as fantastic as I hoped and already my office feels refreshed.
I looked around the room and wondered, what will be my next project? The chair? Building a console table?
No.
I have a ton to do this month on my new novella.
This month I'll stain my filing cabinet. Ooooo - scary. I admit, it's the easiest of my tasks but before I can start, I must empty it. And that means purging. That's enough to make me cry again.
A lamp seems like a little thing but it was almost too much for me.
I've been writing about my fears (debt), my reality (being a step-mom), and my hopes (the daily triumphs I'm achieving as an AUTHOR--let's say that again--as an AUTHOR). Everything in my life is about making this dream come true. Yet, my projects share a similar issue--a dream that keeps on being a dream.
Now that Strong Enough is out there and I've accepted this author thang (I AM AN AUTHOR--I have to insert that regularly), dreams equal reality.
Welcome to the first completed project in my Office Renovation: a wee little lampy.
I posted here my expectations as well as a few trials and tribulations from the very beginning. This was not a weekend project. Not for me. But it was a creative escape that nurtured my inner artist and fostered new energy.
Starting with an object I loved but wasn't working in my writer space was key. After a false start, I began again with primer. I rock at primer.
Loving the white, I went with a white gloss and then met my Waterloo: DRIPS.
I proceeded to have a meltdown:
 |
| Read Post |
- Fact, I was busy writing.
- Fact, I was scared to death of the lamp shade.
The original shade was red and awful. Just awful. My first solution was to find a pure drum at a flea market or garage sale (in Ellen parlance, pure drum means the top and bottom rings are the same size).
I don't have the patience for this strategy. I bought a lamp for $2 at the very first flea market, my husband and I both sick of looking at stuff. It had the correct attachment (harp), but was red and not a pure drum. Not even close. SCORE! Because the top ring was a good size, I reasoned I could buy another ring the same circumfrance, a little styrene, and I'd make my own damn shade.
And then I waited for the lamp fairies to come and finish my project.
Strangely, that plan didn't work so I bought a self-adhesive lamp shade designed to use the fabric of your choice. It comes with a pattern and a sticky surface you roll your fabric around. Presto! Instant shade!
The shape I found wasn't a pure drum but there's only 1" difference so it's hard for the naked eye to see. Good enough for me! I cut my fabric with the pattern and began the next phase of my vision: painting with typeset letters.
 |
| Very first stamp painting |
After a few sets, I wrapped the fabric around the shade and looked for holes.Then I stamped some more. And more and more and more.
Once I was satisfied, my husband helped me roll the fabric onto the shade. It was super easy. THANK DOOCE!
I used scissors to trim the burlap as close to the edge of the lamp as possible because folding it over the top was never going to work. I bought some bias tape, fabric tape, and voila!
The transformation is as fantastic as I hoped and already my office feels refreshed.
I looked around the room and wondered, what will be my next project? The chair? Building a console table?
No.
I have a ton to do this month on my new novella.
This month I'll stain my filing cabinet. Ooooo - scary. I admit, it's the easiest of my tasks but before I can start, I must empty it. And that means purging. That's enough to make me cry again.
Here are the final results, the requisite before and after pics:
 |
| Before |
 |
| After |
And for a little treat--the yellow teapot at the top of the rainbow version is now a secret extra:
Friday, August 23, 2013
Vacant Uterus
There are dozens of reasons why I never had children. At one point, I even convinced myself I didn't really like them. That was an excuse I indulged primarily in the company of a former friend. She called all children parasites.
But the fact is, there's only one reason. My Women Studies minor may get revoked but I don't give a flying cow patty. If I can't work from home, I'm not having a baby. Period. End of story.
I've hid behind money concerns. I even believed that excuse but now I believe those who look at me with pity and say, "You can't plan children." Money is just a threat used by fear.
I've punched invisible assailants with "I'm too selfish and don't want to give up my life." There could be a kernel of truth in that statement but the fact is, I've uprooted and rerouted my life on at least five occasions. I'm fearless in that arena.
It comes back to one important point. I have to work from home. People figure out how to do it all the time. Because I didn't, I took it to mean I didn't want children. So much for being fearless.
Working from home is desirable on its own merits but the real why is the crux of the story. At seven years old I hated my mother working. HATED IT. I had her for four years solid. She studied in the kitchen, finishing her college education by correspondence in the 1970s. Yes, my mom rocks.
I played quietly in the kitchen just to be near her. I was good at being quiet and self-entertained. It's this imagination thing. I played in my brain a lot as a kid. The playground was awesome. I could transform basement stairs into an RV and go anywhere.
Apparently, my mom was an aid in my kindergarten class. I've racked my brain and think she's making it up. There were two ladies, not three, and my mom wasn't one of them. But then again, maybe that's why kindergarten wasn't scary to the shyest child on the planet. That's when I began to draw. I remember flipping over my daily letter page, alphabet practice, and tracing the image from the back. Apple and a backwards 'A a.' Way more satisfying.
We walked to school together during first grade so again, maybe I didn't notice. But I noticed in second grade. My mother was replaced by a witch and I called on God to take away the mean old hag and bring back my mother. Over and over I pleaded because this stressed out teacher was a stranger.
Politics meant mom didn't work at a job while I was in fourth through sixth grade. But that doesn't mean she wasn't busy. I was independent enough that she could be, too. But she was home after school most days. One day I walked in, saw an ink stamp my dog chewed up and said, "Oh Shit!" A disembodied voice came from the dining room. "Oh what?"
The first job I remember her loving came during Junior High. It was corporate. She looked sharp and felt sharp. I didn't mind. It meant I could watch more TV and not get in trouble. But during my senior year, mom was home and bored out of her gourd. I forgot the cries of a seven year old girl and saw that staying home was killing my mom's spirit. Plus, I was deeply encouraged to put education first. I learned the message so well I didn't get married until 29. I didn't avoid being a stupid, selfish twenty-something, though.
Every time the baby talk loomed (long after the nightmares in high school about immaculate conception), I erected a barricade. "It's not the right time. We don't have the money. I like my life." But I spent hours in college daydreaming about my ideal life. And being home with my kids was my dirty little secret.
I could still be a mom. We've considered it. My life will change dramatically but frankly, my life is so freakin' LIVED that the selfish "my life" crutch is broken.
I'll be OLD when my child graduates high school. But that measurement has never freaked me out like it does some of my peers. Maybe because I'm the third child and my parents aged with grace and vitality. Old has never been old to me.
As usual, I do things when I damn well feel like it. I've never liked being told when or if. And I have one demand. I have to work from home before I'll have a child. For my child. For me. And if Gloria or Camille have a problem (or one of their drones), they can suck my left titty.
But the fact is, there's only one reason. My Women Studies minor may get revoked but I don't give a flying cow patty. If I can't work from home, I'm not having a baby. Period. End of story.
I've hid behind money concerns. I even believed that excuse but now I believe those who look at me with pity and say, "You can't plan children." Money is just a threat used by fear.
I've punched invisible assailants with "I'm too selfish and don't want to give up my life." There could be a kernel of truth in that statement but the fact is, I've uprooted and rerouted my life on at least five occasions. I'm fearless in that arena.
It comes back to one important point. I have to work from home. People figure out how to do it all the time. Because I didn't, I took it to mean I didn't want children. So much for being fearless.
Working from home is desirable on its own merits but the real why is the crux of the story. At seven years old I hated my mother working. HATED IT. I had her for four years solid. She studied in the kitchen, finishing her college education by correspondence in the 1970s. Yes, my mom rocks.
I played quietly in the kitchen just to be near her. I was good at being quiet and self-entertained. It's this imagination thing. I played in my brain a lot as a kid. The playground was awesome. I could transform basement stairs into an RV and go anywhere.
Apparently, my mom was an aid in my kindergarten class. I've racked my brain and think she's making it up. There were two ladies, not three, and my mom wasn't one of them. But then again, maybe that's why kindergarten wasn't scary to the shyest child on the planet. That's when I began to draw. I remember flipping over my daily letter page, alphabet practice, and tracing the image from the back. Apple and a backwards 'A a.' Way more satisfying.
We walked to school together during first grade so again, maybe I didn't notice. But I noticed in second grade. My mother was replaced by a witch and I called on God to take away the mean old hag and bring back my mother. Over and over I pleaded because this stressed out teacher was a stranger.
Politics meant mom didn't work at a job while I was in fourth through sixth grade. But that doesn't mean she wasn't busy. I was independent enough that she could be, too. But she was home after school most days. One day I walked in, saw an ink stamp my dog chewed up and said, "Oh Shit!" A disembodied voice came from the dining room. "Oh what?"
The first job I remember her loving came during Junior High. It was corporate. She looked sharp and felt sharp. I didn't mind. It meant I could watch more TV and not get in trouble. But during my senior year, mom was home and bored out of her gourd. I forgot the cries of a seven year old girl and saw that staying home was killing my mom's spirit. Plus, I was deeply encouraged to put education first. I learned the message so well I didn't get married until 29. I didn't avoid being a stupid, selfish twenty-something, though.
Every time the baby talk loomed (long after the nightmares in high school about immaculate conception), I erected a barricade. "It's not the right time. We don't have the money. I like my life." But I spent hours in college daydreaming about my ideal life. And being home with my kids was my dirty little secret.
I could still be a mom. We've considered it. My life will change dramatically but frankly, my life is so freakin' LIVED that the selfish "my life" crutch is broken.
I'll be OLD when my child graduates high school. But that measurement has never freaked me out like it does some of my peers. Maybe because I'm the third child and my parents aged with grace and vitality. Old has never been old to me.
As usual, I do things when I damn well feel like it. I've never liked being told when or if. And I have one demand. I have to work from home before I'll have a child. For my child. For me. And if Gloria or Camille have a problem (or one of their drones), they can suck my left titty.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Communication and the Second Marriage
During our dating stage, my husband and I had to survive that murky middle where couples start to tip-toe around certain grating habits. He burped more and more and complained about dog hair. I griped about how the children got everything they wanted. With jaw muscles twitching, we stabbed away.
My dogs slept in the bed with me. Reese preferred to be under the covers and against my belly. However, he also liked to sleep in the middle. Sometimes he and I were back to back leaving his stiff little paws to push against J, as if to say, "she's mine." Every night this frustrated J but he didn't comment because Reese was my Boo Boo. He understood that I loved my dogs and we had our ritutals.
However, he did sigh and grunt. He rolled around with emphasis night after night. I'd ask what was wrong but J didn't want to complain.
After a while, I quit asking.
Society teaches us to speak in passive aggressive language--never directly asking for what we need. We're taught it's rude and are encouraged to believe that our loved one ought to figure it out and do it for us; to read between the lines and prove that they know us perfectly. Instead, the loved one is bewildered and stymied. They grow angry because they don't know what's wrong.
For us, that meant there were many stunted quarrels and plenty of snipes because I came with dogs and my husband came with children--and we were equally fierce about each. Love me, love my dogs. Love me, love my children. And that meant accepting how the other dealt with their lovable baggage.
We were living in more and more silence and both suffering because initially, we could talk about anything. It was killing us to think it might not be real after all. We were so certain in the beginning that we changed everything to be together. The disappointment was too awful to face.
Finally, J told me that he didn't want Reese sleeping in the middle anymore. He said more but why didn't matter. From that night on, Reese slept along the edge. I'm a deep sleeper but I kept the little booger from sneaking in between us.
My husband was stunned. He told me what he needed and I complied.
Several months later I lost my precious Reese in one of the most horrible tragedies imaginable. J was at a loss how to deal with that much pain but he was there for me the best way he knew how. And though he and I were still struggling, we were also talking more and more.
J considers Reese to be the critical juncture in our relationship. Without him, J wouldn't have spoken up. In his previous life, his needs were often discounted, even intentionally disregarded. My response wasn't calculated. I heard him and it changed everything.
Slowly, we rebuilt trust with a simple tradition that continues today. We have deck night every weekend. We sit outside with beers and talk about anything that's bothering us: internal demons, professional fears, relationship needles, hurt feelings, and unstuff everything before it becomes a big ugly monster that haunts the dark.
Reese reminded us how to talk. To talk. And to spend time together making our own traditions.
My dogs slept in the bed with me. Reese preferred to be under the covers and against my belly. However, he also liked to sleep in the middle. Sometimes he and I were back to back leaving his stiff little paws to push against J, as if to say, "she's mine." Every night this frustrated J but he didn't comment because Reese was my Boo Boo. He understood that I loved my dogs and we had our ritutals.
However, he did sigh and grunt. He rolled around with emphasis night after night. I'd ask what was wrong but J didn't want to complain.
After a while, I quit asking.
Society teaches us to speak in passive aggressive language--never directly asking for what we need. We're taught it's rude and are encouraged to believe that our loved one ought to figure it out and do it for us; to read between the lines and prove that they know us perfectly. Instead, the loved one is bewildered and stymied. They grow angry because they don't know what's wrong.
For us, that meant there were many stunted quarrels and plenty of snipes because I came with dogs and my husband came with children--and we were equally fierce about each. Love me, love my dogs. Love me, love my children. And that meant accepting how the other dealt with their lovable baggage.
We were living in more and more silence and both suffering because initially, we could talk about anything. It was killing us to think it might not be real after all. We were so certain in the beginning that we changed everything to be together. The disappointment was too awful to face.
Finally, J told me that he didn't want Reese sleeping in the middle anymore. He said more but why didn't matter. From that night on, Reese slept along the edge. I'm a deep sleeper but I kept the little booger from sneaking in between us.
My husband was stunned. He told me what he needed and I complied.
Several months later I lost my precious Reese in one of the most horrible tragedies imaginable. J was at a loss how to deal with that much pain but he was there for me the best way he knew how. And though he and I were still struggling, we were also talking more and more.
J considers Reese to be the critical juncture in our relationship. Without him, J wouldn't have spoken up. In his previous life, his needs were often discounted, even intentionally disregarded. My response wasn't calculated. I heard him and it changed everything.
Slowly, we rebuilt trust with a simple tradition that continues today. We have deck night every weekend. We sit outside with beers and talk about anything that's bothering us: internal demons, professional fears, relationship needles, hurt feelings, and unstuff everything before it becomes a big ugly monster that haunts the dark.
Reese reminded us how to talk. To talk. And to spend time together making our own traditions.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Thank You
Rebecca T Dickson offered a Summer Writing Camp for adults. Together with Ranee Dillon, they led a small troupe of people serious about writing toward a finish line.
Their advice was simple and wise. They kept yanking us out of the middle of the road where we hindered the flow of writing like an idiot dancing naked in traffic.
What they offered was a community of equally determined people a chance to air our fears and see that we each face the same obstacles, that the answer is to #JUSTWRITE, and to be there for us any time we needed help getting unstuck.
As a private group on Facebook, we campers made each other laugh and hoisted one another up in celebration of every achievement. We understood that the small and huge leaps forward are necessary to write a novel and reveled in each one. We were silly and fed off each other's humor, making every day as fun as Summer Camp could be. Each person's triumph inspired the rest to keep moving forward, to not get bogged down in edits, and to believe in our own voice.
We were fighting our own battles but no writer was left behind. We each had to solve our own problems but at times it was simply being in a community of understanding, supportive people that released inspiration like fairy dust. I had a major AH HA moment in a one-on-one with Becky where she spent most of the time listening. During a group session, I heard peoples' voices hit the EUREKA pitch as they solved their own dilemmas just by listening to other people share their concerns.
Writing communities are a beatiful thing. It sounds so easy but a great experience really is a magial combination of determination, willingness, and trust. I highly recommend Becky and Ranee to authors at every level of writing. Is it your first novel? Welcome! Time to get dirty. Your sixth novel? So what, I know you're still second guessing yourself. We all get in our way. We all have fear. And no matter what, we often need someone to herd our cat like brains. Could Becky and Ranee be those shepherds? I don't know. Only you can answer that question.
What I can tell you is that I entered this camp with an idea that I knew I could write in a month. Just doing it was my problem. And now I've done it. Is it a perfect first draft? Excuse me while I laugh my ass off. It's a bloody first draft--filled with dangling moments, skips like a jumpy record player, and a few scenes that capture my voice. Never disregard the importance of the first draft.
I had tears in my eyes this morning as I drove to work. My next novel is as good as I could hope. True, I have a ton of work ahead of me as I even out the flow, shore up the arcs, and develop the characters, but this draft is everything I dreamed it could be. I'm more excited about its potential than when I started.
So I thank Becky and Ranee for yanking me out of my way. And I thank myself for signing up. August will offer you a chance to Write Raw. Don't look at your budget. Don't ask permission. If you want this kind of help focusing, leap out and grab it. Give yourself this opportunity.
And now I want to shout out to some special writers I think are worth watching out for and few you can read asap:
Clare Davidson - a mum and a writer who just released Reapers Rhythm. I've bought it!
Kath Baron - a quiet sponge. I'm as curious as anyone to discover what she writes behind closed doors. Don't play poker with this one.
Kim Williams - a fiesty lady taking chances and prisoners. I adore her sense of humor and look forward to reading her first novel.
Andrew Berrigan - a dedicated detail-ist who is sculpting his novel. I sense a Hitchhiker's Guide to Dr. Who but know it will be totally different. My curiosity is piqued!
Ranee Dillon - while working with each of us, she still managed to finalize her own manuscript. Now that's awesome. "Dorky moment of the day: I looked down at the fully complete copy of Ring Binder and broke out into tears. Like major weeping tears. Then I felt kinda sick to my stomach. #facepalm" SEE! They totally understand!
Becky Dickson - Chains, whips; chips, dips. There were moments I saw her as Lisa from Weird Science. Her Definitive Guide is about to be offered to all. It's a writing essential. I can't say it more emphatically. This is a must for all writers.
And then there's little ol' me
Ellen Harger, author of Strong Enough
Go here and grab my New Adult tale of chances and friendship that delves into the emotional rollercoaster of an unexpected pregnancy. You'll recognize you, your friends, and feel the music that keeps everyone balanced. Take a look back (or forward to) your late twenties with an empathetic smile knowing you're not the only one who had to be strong enough.
Their advice was simple and wise. They kept yanking us out of the middle of the road where we hindered the flow of writing like an idiot dancing naked in traffic.
What they offered was a community of equally determined people a chance to air our fears and see that we each face the same obstacles, that the answer is to #JUSTWRITE, and to be there for us any time we needed help getting unstuck.
As a private group on Facebook, we campers made each other laugh and hoisted one another up in celebration of every achievement. We understood that the small and huge leaps forward are necessary to write a novel and reveled in each one. We were silly and fed off each other's humor, making every day as fun as Summer Camp could be. Each person's triumph inspired the rest to keep moving forward, to not get bogged down in edits, and to believe in our own voice.
We were fighting our own battles but no writer was left behind. We each had to solve our own problems but at times it was simply being in a community of understanding, supportive people that released inspiration like fairy dust. I had a major AH HA moment in a one-on-one with Becky where she spent most of the time listening. During a group session, I heard peoples' voices hit the EUREKA pitch as they solved their own dilemmas just by listening to other people share their concerns.
Writing communities are a beatiful thing. It sounds so easy but a great experience really is a magial combination of determination, willingness, and trust. I highly recommend Becky and Ranee to authors at every level of writing. Is it your first novel? Welcome! Time to get dirty. Your sixth novel? So what, I know you're still second guessing yourself. We all get in our way. We all have fear. And no matter what, we often need someone to herd our cat like brains. Could Becky and Ranee be those shepherds? I don't know. Only you can answer that question.
What I can tell you is that I entered this camp with an idea that I knew I could write in a month. Just doing it was my problem. And now I've done it. Is it a perfect first draft? Excuse me while I laugh my ass off. It's a bloody first draft--filled with dangling moments, skips like a jumpy record player, and a few scenes that capture my voice. Never disregard the importance of the first draft.
I had tears in my eyes this morning as I drove to work. My next novel is as good as I could hope. True, I have a ton of work ahead of me as I even out the flow, shore up the arcs, and develop the characters, but this draft is everything I dreamed it could be. I'm more excited about its potential than when I started.
So I thank Becky and Ranee for yanking me out of my way. And I thank myself for signing up. August will offer you a chance to Write Raw. Don't look at your budget. Don't ask permission. If you want this kind of help focusing, leap out and grab it. Give yourself this opportunity.
And now I want to shout out to some special writers I think are worth watching out for and few you can read asap:
Clare Davidson - a mum and a writer who just released Reapers Rhythm. I've bought it! Kath Baron - a quiet sponge. I'm as curious as anyone to discover what she writes behind closed doors. Don't play poker with this one.
Kim Williams - a fiesty lady taking chances and prisoners. I adore her sense of humor and look forward to reading her first novel.
Andrew Berrigan - a dedicated detail-ist who is sculpting his novel. I sense a Hitchhiker's Guide to Dr. Who but know it will be totally different. My curiosity is piqued!
Ranee Dillon - while working with each of us, she still managed to finalize her own manuscript. Now that's awesome. "Dorky moment of the day: I looked down at the fully complete copy of Ring Binder and broke out into tears. Like major weeping tears. Then I felt kinda sick to my stomach. #facepalm" SEE! They totally understand!
And then there's little ol' me
Go here and grab my New Adult tale of chances and friendship that delves into the emotional rollercoaster of an unexpected pregnancy. You'll recognize you, your friends, and feel the music that keeps everyone balanced. Take a look back (or forward to) your late twenties with an empathetic smile knowing you're not the only one who had to be strong enough.
Friday, July 12, 2013
My Mother Stuttered is Growing Up
When I started my blog "My Mother Stuttered," I was newly divorced and very single. I was writing a novel but still dabbling in all the potential possibilities. It wasn't time for the blog of author, Ellen Harger. In fact, that was unimaginable. In 2008, life was about hiking with my two dogs, driving my Mellow Yellow Mini Cooper, and being Loralie Gilmore when I grew up.
For this unplanned blog, my number one goal was finding a catchy identity so I dug into my past for a story that helped play up my name, Ellen Lynn. After divorce, I was obsessed with identity. I'd had enough of juggling last names, so I focused on what I deemed to be unfaltering and utterly me.
As I dipped my toe into the blogosphere, I also investigated freelance writing. Turns out, freelance wasn't my gig, and I still didn't know how to categorize myself as a writer. It was a massive improvement that I was actually calling myself a writer. But branding myself? Pishaw. So I went with a catchy title and ambiguous content.
Then in 2010 I returned to MO with the determination to be a published writer. My blog evolved into a more writerly home but was still about the SWF with a Mini named Daisy and two adorable orbiting moons commonly called canines.
Because I love the story about "my mother stuttered," I've clung to this identity like a blankie. But when I sent my novel baby out into the big bad world, I suddenly had to come out from the shadows with her. See, this isn't an independent human child ready to leave me behind. I have to hold up Strong Enough and tell people about her. And that means, I have to tell you about me. Wait a minute! I thought writers were supposed to be hermits, curmudgeonly and paranoid. Damn it. I need to see the guidance counselor NOW.
<mic feedback - plug ears>
So, um .... Hi! I am Ellen Harger, novelist, wife, and step-mom. These days, I hike less and write more. I'm 39 and still contemplate that whole preggers thing ... once in a while. Much of that contemplation happens on paper. After a few decades of life, imagination has been reinforced with a myriad of experiences. I love to ponder motivation and the infernal WHY?
It's 2013 and a lot of things have changed. Lately I've been considering what this blog is all about. What the hell is my point day in and day out? Yeah, still working on that. But as a fiercely independent woman married to a man with two children, chasing my dreams and finding a voice in my own home, I have a few things to say to the following people:
1) Writers - Let's Talk. On this blog, I will share my journey, plead my trials, and cry in my margarita. But get this - I'll happily share your journeys, too! Let's commiserate and then hoist each other up. All of our mad methods work and you never know when that pinch of winging-it will make the difference for someone else as well. I've written a few "how to" posts and they've done well (two really have because I inadvertently titled them with major double entendres - no seriously, it was accidental). But there are better blogs dedicated to that niche of "how to." So here we'll talk shop like we're friends. We'll share our pain and success. Others will find inspiration in those moments that is meaningful for them. Think of my blog as a really comfy couch .... ooooo, I feel a movie quote coming on. If you can name this movie, you're my new best friend. "I'd like to ger her in therapy, fuck her up real good."
2) New Step-Parent - Drinks, Anyone? They say that children don't come with manuals. Unfortunately, children of divorce kinda do--it's called "my mom/dad doesn't do it that way." Parents already know their childrens' ticks and tricks. Step-parents have to learn these traits as they deal with the obvious shenanigans the parent-from-birth no longer sees. All this, while being staunchly resisted out of loyalty to the 'real' parents. However, we former bachelor/ettes have something to contribute! True, we have more to learn, but don't disregard us all together. There was a reason our beloveds picked us to join their family. Remember that. Being a step-parent is like crossing a tight-rope suspended in the stratosphere with a tiny bucket of water to aim for in a fall. For a while, I've been scooching along with my legs draped over the rope, clinging on for dear life. But thankfully, the kids have lowered the tight-rope. Now I'll be identifiable when I splat.
3) Readers - Have You Heard? I love to talk with other readers about books, authors, characters, music etc. So please share with me things you think are interesting and I'll do the same. Don't worry, I'll take on the lion share, but I encourage you to contact me. This won't be a review space, though. It takes a special person to do that job. I'll just write and read, k? IF I feel compelled to write a review, I will do so. But I have novels to write and reviewing is a full-time job with no rest for the weary. 'Sides, I have movies to watch so I can insert quotes and giggle maniacally.
As my blog has evolved, I've traded in Daisy for Budah (butter), and I no longer want to be Loralie Gilmore. I'd like to be her friend, though. I'll be the quirky character who talks shop in the dining room of the Dragonfly with the likes of Norman Mailer. I'll be the friend who never got pregnant and has to figure out how to be a parent after years of worrying stictly about my wants. Tune in.
For this unplanned blog, my number one goal was finding a catchy identity so I dug into my past for a story that helped play up my name, Ellen Lynn. After divorce, I was obsessed with identity. I'd had enough of juggling last names, so I focused on what I deemed to be unfaltering and utterly me.
As I dipped my toe into the blogosphere, I also investigated freelance writing. Turns out, freelance wasn't my gig, and I still didn't know how to categorize myself as a writer. It was a massive improvement that I was actually calling myself a writer. But branding myself? Pishaw. So I went with a catchy title and ambiguous content.
Then in 2010 I returned to MO with the determination to be a published writer. My blog evolved into a more writerly home but was still about the SWF with a Mini named Daisy and two adorable orbiting moons commonly called canines.
Because I love the story about "my mother stuttered," I've clung to this identity like a blankie. But when I sent my novel baby out into the big bad world, I suddenly had to come out from the shadows with her. See, this isn't an independent human child ready to leave me behind. I have to hold up Strong Enough and tell people about her. And that means, I have to tell you about me. Wait a minute! I thought writers were supposed to be hermits, curmudgeonly and paranoid. Damn it. I need to see the guidance counselor NOW.
<mic feedback - plug ears>
So, um .... Hi! I am Ellen Harger, novelist, wife, and step-mom. These days, I hike less and write more. I'm 39 and still contemplate that whole preggers thing ... once in a while. Much of that contemplation happens on paper. After a few decades of life, imagination has been reinforced with a myriad of experiences. I love to ponder motivation and the infernal WHY?
It's 2013 and a lot of things have changed. Lately I've been considering what this blog is all about. What the hell is my point day in and day out? Yeah, still working on that. But as a fiercely independent woman married to a man with two children, chasing my dreams and finding a voice in my own home, I have a few things to say to the following people:
1) Writers - Let's Talk. On this blog, I will share my journey, plead my trials, and cry in my margarita. But get this - I'll happily share your journeys, too! Let's commiserate and then hoist each other up. All of our mad methods work and you never know when that pinch of winging-it will make the difference for someone else as well. I've written a few "how to" posts and they've done well (two really have because I inadvertently titled them with major double entendres - no seriously, it was accidental). But there are better blogs dedicated to that niche of "how to." So here we'll talk shop like we're friends. We'll share our pain and success. Others will find inspiration in those moments that is meaningful for them. Think of my blog as a really comfy couch .... ooooo, I feel a movie quote coming on. If you can name this movie, you're my new best friend. "I'd like to ger her in therapy, fuck her up real good."
2) New Step-Parent - Drinks, Anyone? They say that children don't come with manuals. Unfortunately, children of divorce kinda do--it's called "my mom/dad doesn't do it that way." Parents already know their childrens' ticks and tricks. Step-parents have to learn these traits as they deal with the obvious shenanigans the parent-from-birth no longer sees. All this, while being staunchly resisted out of loyalty to the 'real' parents. However, we former bachelor/ettes have something to contribute! True, we have more to learn, but don't disregard us all together. There was a reason our beloveds picked us to join their family. Remember that. Being a step-parent is like crossing a tight-rope suspended in the stratosphere with a tiny bucket of water to aim for in a fall. For a while, I've been scooching along with my legs draped over the rope, clinging on for dear life. But thankfully, the kids have lowered the tight-rope. Now I'll be identifiable when I splat.
3) Readers - Have You Heard? I love to talk with other readers about books, authors, characters, music etc. So please share with me things you think are interesting and I'll do the same. Don't worry, I'll take on the lion share, but I encourage you to contact me. This won't be a review space, though. It takes a special person to do that job. I'll just write and read, k? IF I feel compelled to write a review, I will do so. But I have novels to write and reviewing is a full-time job with no rest for the weary. 'Sides, I have movies to watch so I can insert quotes and giggle maniacally.
As my blog has evolved, I've traded in Daisy for Budah (butter), and I no longer want to be Loralie Gilmore. I'd like to be her friend, though. I'll be the quirky character who talks shop in the dining room of the Dragonfly with the likes of Norman Mailer. I'll be the friend who never got pregnant and has to figure out how to be a parent after years of worrying stictly about my wants. Tune in.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Vacay
Hullo Blogworld, readers, reviewers, writers, and voyeurs! It's nice to be back.
I spent nine glorious days with family. Some of it was stressful (stupid directions). Some of it involved anger and snapping tongues (small space filled with strong personalities). But most of it was wonderful. We paddled in kayaks and a canoe, boiled lobster and grilled shrimp, got the boat working and ate ice cream at Draw Bridge Ice Cream Shoppe in Mystic. At the heart of all that loveliness, I got to enjoy watching my step children as they experienced Stonington, CT for the first time. See, I brought my new family together with my childhood. There was an assortment of cousins and sisters, an aunt and uncle, a niece and nephew all descending upon my new family.
I took time to savor the joining of my two worlds. Past, present, and future dug their toes into the sand and laughed together. So while I let go of my daily duties and just enjoyed being, a funny thing happened. I enjoyed my life and it, in turn, refreshed my daily goals and dreams.
See, I let my blog, writing, and networking all float for a while. They had their own rafts to ride while I sprawled without aid in the buoyant Long Island sound. As the sun baked my skin (and I refused to care beyond the application of sunscreen), my brand browned, too, like a friend on an adjoining towel.
The night I returned home, I regrouped with my consultant, Jarika Johnson of Will Write for Love, and wrote "I plugged into my life and now I can use that to remodel my brand." That expression pleased me, capturing the nature of a subtle transformation. Jarika highlighted the same phrase. Vacation wasn't an escape from hard work. It was a time to let things float on their own terms for a moment instead of poking at them with a stick and yelling, "PERFORM!"
The rest of July will be spent in hardcore writing as I get my lazy butt kicked around at writer's boot camp. I can't wait. How much will I blog this month? I'm not sure. I'll be around but I'm not going to sweat the numbers (my obsession the last few months). Of course, certain featires about songs will be regularly posted, but more importantly, while I'm writing my next novel (SO EXCITED FOR BOOT CAMP with Ranee and Rebecca), I'll also be remodeling my blog. I could take it down and then reveal it later. I could do that.
But the process is part of what I want to share.
I'm all about process. So as I play with the blog, if you see something you like, let me know! And vice versa. I'm not looking only for compliments. Whatever you have to say, tell me with respect and I'll hear you.
It's time to pry this clam shell open and examine the pearl.
I'm a writer. I'm a step-mom. I'm a wife. Get ready for me.
I spent nine glorious days with family. Some of it was stressful (stupid directions). Some of it involved anger and snapping tongues (small space filled with strong personalities). But most of it was wonderful. We paddled in kayaks and a canoe, boiled lobster and grilled shrimp, got the boat working and ate ice cream at Draw Bridge Ice Cream Shoppe in Mystic. At the heart of all that loveliness, I got to enjoy watching my step children as they experienced Stonington, CT for the first time. See, I brought my new family together with my childhood. There was an assortment of cousins and sisters, an aunt and uncle, a niece and nephew all descending upon my new family.
We had a blast.
I took time to savor the joining of my two worlds. Past, present, and future dug their toes into the sand and laughed together. So while I let go of my daily duties and just enjoyed being, a funny thing happened. I enjoyed my life and it, in turn, refreshed my daily goals and dreams.
See, I let my blog, writing, and networking all float for a while. They had their own rafts to ride while I sprawled without aid in the buoyant Long Island sound. As the sun baked my skin (and I refused to care beyond the application of sunscreen), my brand browned, too, like a friend on an adjoining towel.
The night I returned home, I regrouped with my consultant, Jarika Johnson of Will Write for Love, and wrote "I plugged into my life and now I can use that to remodel my brand." That expression pleased me, capturing the nature of a subtle transformation. Jarika highlighted the same phrase. Vacation wasn't an escape from hard work. It was a time to let things float on their own terms for a moment instead of poking at them with a stick and yelling, "PERFORM!"
The rest of July will be spent in hardcore writing as I get my lazy butt kicked around at writer's boot camp. I can't wait. How much will I blog this month? I'm not sure. I'll be around but I'm not going to sweat the numbers (my obsession the last few months). Of course, certain featires about songs will be regularly posted, but more importantly, while I'm writing my next novel (SO EXCITED FOR BOOT CAMP with Ranee and Rebecca), I'll also be remodeling my blog. I could take it down and then reveal it later. I could do that.
But the process is part of what I want to share.
I'm all about process. So as I play with the blog, if you see something you like, let me know! And vice versa. I'm not looking only for compliments. Whatever you have to say, tell me with respect and I'll hear you.
It's time to pry this clam shell open and examine the pearl.
I'm a writer. I'm a step-mom. I'm a wife. Get ready for me.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
In Lieu of Music
Today there is no music for yesterday a Poodle left us in silence.
She was regal, incapable of slouching. In relaxation, she posed with all the Frenchiness of Marie Antionette.
Long gone are the days of speed and grace. The buffa-deer no longer prances in our presence with her proud head high.
Mischievous was she, smart enough to sleep upon formal furniture when there was no human to witness her disobedience. You could see it in the slant of her head, "Did you catch me? Then it didn't happen. Circumstantial evidence, you say? I say, my curly black poof tail. Vegas, baby."
Our Mandy was tall, with a deep booming bark. Intelligent and unwilling to lower her standards as a Poodle, she never yielded to petty tricks for treats. Well, except when we pointed at her muzzle, said, "Smile!" and all those pearly whites showed in an impressive grin.
She loved to run--a pure expression of joy--with a you can't catch me taunt sparkling in her eyes. At the beach one year, after a good long chase she galavanted into the ocean, always just out of reach, loving life and freedom. My niece was so young, she rode in her stroller and hollered, "Manny!"
At that time, there was no tiring the Poodle. At that time, the Poodle let a toddler collapse upon her, willing to catch that baby body with her strong frame. With gentle pressure, Mandy led her charge around by an arm, a watchful glint in those wise black eyes.
Lately, we were the ones guiding Mandy--up cumbersome stairs, onto papasans, and into cars. Her eyes still lit to the call of "Walk! Wanna go for a walk?" But the distance to the end of the street and back was nearly too much. Surprising her was no feat at all and then she flailed like a new born colt, long legs flying before bracing to press herself upright, shaking with the effort.
Where once upon a time, if you said "Rea" she rocked back before jetting off, dragging the foolish speaker behind her. Lately, you could say "Ready, set, go" and sadness filled those black eyes. She knew she couldn't go, no mo'. The soul was willing but the body could not.
Out of love and respect, we let her go last night. With dignity befitting her years of grace, we released her spirit to race across the Rainbow Bridge, no longer in pain or hampered by nearly 15 years of age.
She's running now, the wind pulling back her ears. Her legs stretching and lengthening, over and over. Leaps and turns, barks and grins.
Today there is no music on my blog. But there is love in my heart.
She was regal, incapable of slouching. In relaxation, she posed with all the Frenchiness of Marie Antionette.
Long gone are the days of speed and grace. The buffa-deer no longer prances in our presence with her proud head high.
Mischievous was she, smart enough to sleep upon formal furniture when there was no human to witness her disobedience. You could see it in the slant of her head, "Did you catch me? Then it didn't happen. Circumstantial evidence, you say? I say, my curly black poof tail. Vegas, baby."
Our Mandy was tall, with a deep booming bark. Intelligent and unwilling to lower her standards as a Poodle, she never yielded to petty tricks for treats. Well, except when we pointed at her muzzle, said, "Smile!" and all those pearly whites showed in an impressive grin.
She loved to run--a pure expression of joy--with a you can't catch me taunt sparkling in her eyes. At the beach one year, after a good long chase she galavanted into the ocean, always just out of reach, loving life and freedom. My niece was so young, she rode in her stroller and hollered, "Manny!"
At that time, there was no tiring the Poodle. At that time, the Poodle let a toddler collapse upon her, willing to catch that baby body with her strong frame. With gentle pressure, Mandy led her charge around by an arm, a watchful glint in those wise black eyes.
Lately, we were the ones guiding Mandy--up cumbersome stairs, onto papasans, and into cars. Her eyes still lit to the call of "Walk! Wanna go for a walk?" But the distance to the end of the street and back was nearly too much. Surprising her was no feat at all and then she flailed like a new born colt, long legs flying before bracing to press herself upright, shaking with the effort.
Where once upon a time, if you said "Rea" she rocked back before jetting off, dragging the foolish speaker behind her. Lately, you could say "Ready, set, go" and sadness filled those black eyes. She knew she couldn't go, no mo'. The soul was willing but the body could not.
Out of love and respect, we let her go last night. With dignity befitting her years of grace, we released her spirit to race across the Rainbow Bridge, no longer in pain or hampered by nearly 15 years of age.
She's running now, the wind pulling back her ears. Her legs stretching and lengthening, over and over. Leaps and turns, barks and grins.
Today there is no music on my blog. But there is love in my heart.
 |
| Oy, with the Poodles, already! Is that a beer? |
Friday, March 29, 2013
A Perfect Day
So a challenge was issued in the post What Do You Really, Really Want? by Molly Greene on her blog: "Begin to imagine your perfect life, your perfect day. What would you be doing? Who would you be with? What would your workday look like?"
This post came just when I needed to remember such things. It rejuventated me and my husband because sometimes, when desiring something different (better), we pine and whine rather than making it happen. I've definitely ramped up my efforts to make the below true, but as with taking on anything new (marketing/promotion), I've hit an exhaustion point pretty quickly. This exercise really helped me to re-focus on what I want so I can focus on how to get it.
Often we think of big-picture ideals--a successful author! The next novel finished! But how do I get there? What's it like as I make progress? Visualization is a great way to help keep the juices pumping.
Both my husband and I work 9-5 jobs that are far from our perfect days. They are necessary and we're grateful for them (especially in this economy), but sometimes the blahs of those jobs drag us down and we don't use our evenings as well as we ought. My husband is a morning person, so he suffers more than I do under this arrangement but I suffer from a general discipline problem--I'm good in short bursts.
We both want to work from home again (we've each had a taste of our ideal days but for differing reasons, had to return to the rat race), so I've included him in my daydream. I haven't talked about income here but just replacing our current income would allow us to do the below and that's not a big number! So below illustrates progression toward total world domination.
An Ideal 9-5 Day
My husband likes to rise early and get straight to it. He's best in the morning so he'll leave me to snuggle the dogs for some extra zzzzzzzzs. I must force myself from bed because hubby is so engrossed in his work.
At 8 am I'll drag my NOT-A -MORNING-PERSON butt from bed, dress, let the dogs out, and then feed them and me. No special breakfast plans with the hubby because this is a work day and we don't need the distraction. I'll have my fruit, yogurt, and granola combination and take it to my desk. The dogs will join me immediately so I may have to bring their carrots and kibble to the office so we can eat together (they must be where I am--they are the moons that orbit me).
I'll open email and my blog first to answer comments or messages. Pandora will be playing because iTunes distracts me. If I began with iTunes, I'd suddenly need to re-organize all my playlists or make new ones. Then I'd end up purging and shopping. Suddenly two hours would disappear! No iTunes. Next I'll open other sites relevant to my writing and take care of networking and marketing. My published list includes "Strong Enough," "The Anonymous Blog of Mrs. Jones," and "Oak Land" so I check on their rankings and focus energy toward their continued success.
Around 11 am, everyone in the house will break for exercise. Since this is ideal, I'll do yoga. During deadman pose, the dogs will investigate my face and I'll have to move their stinky butts from my mat several times. Husband and I will eat sandwiches together but under the tick-tock of a timer because this is just a break. We'll return to our respective holes before 1 pm. I'll change from Pandora to iTunes now and wear my headphones as I spend the next several hours writing on my current projects "Wanderlust" and a YA plot that JUST jumped into my head. It's untitled.
I'll break for a dog walk--a brisk 20 minute tour of the neighborhood. Husband does not like to walk so that means the girls and I can visit some of our favorite furry friends for an extra ten minutes. When I return, I'll check in on hubby for dinner plans. He'll shrug or have his recording light on so I'll return to my desk and prepare for a scheduled event (in town, out of town, who cares!). I'll also check email again and try to wrap up any open networking. Sales reports will be solid but push me to work harder to finish my next novel and keep my brand fresh.
Eventually, we'll leave our caves and husband will convince me to get take-out so we don't have to deal with dishes. We'll watch bad TV and husband will struggle to stay awake past 10 pm. I'll read for an hour before crashing to sleep surrounded by snoring loved ones.
If 60% of my days could be like this, then I'll happily take the other 40% split between dressed up and schlepping, to cleaning and gardening.
I've asked hubby to describe his ideal day in the life of PixelTwister Studio. Hopefully he'll let me share.
This post came just when I needed to remember such things. It rejuventated me and my husband because sometimes, when desiring something different (better), we pine and whine rather than making it happen. I've definitely ramped up my efforts to make the below true, but as with taking on anything new (marketing/promotion), I've hit an exhaustion point pretty quickly. This exercise really helped me to re-focus on what I want so I can focus on how to get it.
Often we think of big-picture ideals--a successful author! The next novel finished! But how do I get there? What's it like as I make progress? Visualization is a great way to help keep the juices pumping.
Both my husband and I work 9-5 jobs that are far from our perfect days. They are necessary and we're grateful for them (especially in this economy), but sometimes the blahs of those jobs drag us down and we don't use our evenings as well as we ought. My husband is a morning person, so he suffers more than I do under this arrangement but I suffer from a general discipline problem--I'm good in short bursts.
We both want to work from home again (we've each had a taste of our ideal days but for differing reasons, had to return to the rat race), so I've included him in my daydream. I haven't talked about income here but just replacing our current income would allow us to do the below and that's not a big number! So below illustrates progression toward total world domination.
An Ideal 9-5 Day
My husband likes to rise early and get straight to it. He's best in the morning so he'll leave me to snuggle the dogs for some extra zzzzzzzzs. I must force myself from bed because hubby is so engrossed in his work.
At 8 am I'll drag my NOT-A -MORNING-PERSON butt from bed, dress, let the dogs out, and then feed them and me. No special breakfast plans with the hubby because this is a work day and we don't need the distraction. I'll have my fruit, yogurt, and granola combination and take it to my desk. The dogs will join me immediately so I may have to bring their carrots and kibble to the office so we can eat together (they must be where I am--they are the moons that orbit me).
I'll open email and my blog first to answer comments or messages. Pandora will be playing because iTunes distracts me. If I began with iTunes, I'd suddenly need to re-organize all my playlists or make new ones. Then I'd end up purging and shopping. Suddenly two hours would disappear! No iTunes. Next I'll open other sites relevant to my writing and take care of networking and marketing. My published list includes "Strong Enough," "The Anonymous Blog of Mrs. Jones," and "Oak Land" so I check on their rankings and focus energy toward their continued success.
Around 11 am, everyone in the house will break for exercise. Since this is ideal, I'll do yoga. During deadman pose, the dogs will investigate my face and I'll have to move their stinky butts from my mat several times. Husband and I will eat sandwiches together but under the tick-tock of a timer because this is just a break. We'll return to our respective holes before 1 pm. I'll change from Pandora to iTunes now and wear my headphones as I spend the next several hours writing on my current projects "Wanderlust" and a YA plot that JUST jumped into my head. It's untitled.
I'll break for a dog walk--a brisk 20 minute tour of the neighborhood. Husband does not like to walk so that means the girls and I can visit some of our favorite furry friends for an extra ten minutes. When I return, I'll check in on hubby for dinner plans. He'll shrug or have his recording light on so I'll return to my desk and prepare for a scheduled event (in town, out of town, who cares!). I'll also check email again and try to wrap up any open networking. Sales reports will be solid but push me to work harder to finish my next novel and keep my brand fresh.
Eventually, we'll leave our caves and husband will convince me to get take-out so we don't have to deal with dishes. We'll watch bad TV and husband will struggle to stay awake past 10 pm. I'll read for an hour before crashing to sleep surrounded by snoring loved ones.
If 60% of my days could be like this, then I'll happily take the other 40% split between dressed up and schlepping, to cleaning and gardening.
I've asked hubby to describe his ideal day in the life of PixelTwister Studio. Hopefully he'll let me share.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Why I Don't Write Reviews
It's only partly because it would interfer with my own writing, but the fact is, I'd be a really tough reviewer. On my Goodreads account, I have 11 reviews--so few because it takes time to write exactly what I want to say, or I feel foolish reviewing classics and bestsellers. For books that are popular but I don't share the popular view, I have less of a problem. However, I only bother when I feel passionately that the book isn't as great as proclaimed. Then I'm reaching out to others who, I'm sure, wonder if they're the only ones not loving this obviously "perfect" book.
I am a HUGE supporter of Indie authors but I am more tolerant as a reader than a reviewer. If I am critical of the craftmanship, my intention isn't to say, "I'm right, you're wrong" but to contribute to the dialogue. Unfortunately, opinions are often highly emotionally charged. Ultimately, the most important thing to me is that a reader enjoys a book. Maybe I can't understand why they are so enthusiastic (and I'm not talking about paid reviews). Just because I believe a novel is merely a good draft doesn't mean that the enjoyment of others is, somehow, lessened. But I don't want to cheapen my reviews to pure support, either.
This is why I admire reviewers so much--the ones who do this regularly and aren't just fans of an author. At this moment, I'm sluggishly reading a book that has received 4 or 5 stars from 68% of readers. While they gush, I see so many issues with character development, structure, and failed opportunities that I must conclude this was rushed to be released. Its potential is a distraction to me and so I read out of loyalty, not enjoyment.
I remind myself, often, that I've LOVED books that weren't perfect examples of craftsmanship. I've endured peers who derided a beloved book because of textbook issues I didn't notice, too transported was I to bother with such trifles. I'd think to myself, "Snob" and continued loving the books (think Harry Potter).
What I've discovered is that there are readers, reviewers, and practioners.
Readers of the craft aren't wrong. If they love a book, that's simply fact.
Reviewers of the craft, ideally, see more than just their personal pleasure.
Practitioners of the craft demand more from an author than just pleasure. They demand art.
Each of these are important and should be celebrated. It's why I don't fear a good, rigourous review. I, personally, would rather improve. But I hope no author ever dismisses a connection with a reader. That is magic, no matter how well the spell is spun.
I am a HUGE supporter of Indie authors but I am more tolerant as a reader than a reviewer. If I am critical of the craftmanship, my intention isn't to say, "I'm right, you're wrong" but to contribute to the dialogue. Unfortunately, opinions are often highly emotionally charged. Ultimately, the most important thing to me is that a reader enjoys a book. Maybe I can't understand why they are so enthusiastic (and I'm not talking about paid reviews). Just because I believe a novel is merely a good draft doesn't mean that the enjoyment of others is, somehow, lessened. But I don't want to cheapen my reviews to pure support, either.
This is why I admire reviewers so much--the ones who do this regularly and aren't just fans of an author. At this moment, I'm sluggishly reading a book that has received 4 or 5 stars from 68% of readers. While they gush, I see so many issues with character development, structure, and failed opportunities that I must conclude this was rushed to be released. Its potential is a distraction to me and so I read out of loyalty, not enjoyment.
I remind myself, often, that I've LOVED books that weren't perfect examples of craftsmanship. I've endured peers who derided a beloved book because of textbook issues I didn't notice, too transported was I to bother with such trifles. I'd think to myself, "Snob" and continued loving the books (think Harry Potter).
What I've discovered is that there are readers, reviewers, and practioners.
Readers of the craft aren't wrong. If they love a book, that's simply fact.
Reviewers of the craft, ideally, see more than just their personal pleasure.
Practitioners of the craft demand more from an author than just pleasure. They demand art.
Each of these are important and should be celebrated. It's why I don't fear a good, rigourous review. I, personally, would rather improve. But I hope no author ever dismisses a connection with a reader. That is magic, no matter how well the spell is spun.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Out of the Blue Past
I just answered an email from an acquaintance. I met him years ago in Boston and he found my blog and contacted me. Our common ground is writing--his is poetry and mine, supposedly, is writing novels and blogs. Eh hem.
While writing my "hey" back, I thought about my own bit of poetry. I have two poems of which I am sincerely proud. I've written few poems, if any, since college. How would I describe my poetry? To my acquaintance I wrote that it was a mass of maudlin free-verse too narcissistic to share. I checked--that's the definition of high school poetry. I can't share any embarrassing bits, though, because it was all lost in the fire.
When I say lost, I don't mean totally burned. That would have been better.
I still feel an echo of the sharp scent that burned my sinus passages when we entered the blackened remains of our apartment. There was a blue tarp over the roof of the living room and kitchen, casting an odd glow while sealing out the sunshine. The blackness of the rooms swallowed any stray light into its inky nothingness. We borrowed work lamps that we might dig through the debris of charred drywall, broken mirrors, and a carpet of ruined books.
There was so little left of the living room that we didn't linger except to attempt to identify a few remaining bits. The kitchen we did not enter. It was beyond curiosity.
The bedroom and the office had piles of burnt objects taunting us with the possibility of being saved. In the office five or six bookcases worth of sopping wet books, twelve ruined computers, and melted plastic bins with precious papers oozed all over the floor. It was necessary to tread on our belongings. The effort of digging through was too much. Very little escaped that room.
Beside my bed, in a small bookshelf/nightstand, my poetry journals stood. I recall grasping a few precious objects to my chest as I dismissed those scraps of silly sentiments. So heartbroken and overwhelmed were we by the devastation, that I didn't even pull the wet, ashy journals from their cubby hole. I saved my paintings, miraculously intact though damaged. I saved many photographs, fairly safe on the floor in the linen closet. Little else was pulled from the acrid smelling cave of blackened, melted memories.
I did not anticipate being haunted by my teenage pathos. But the numbness has worn away as time has healed my wounds. Questions like "Why didn't I look further? Why didn't I save more?" plague me. Facts are hollow details absent pungent pain. After so many years I know, as I know about December 7, 1941, that I was emotionally exhausted. Now, in the absence of the physical ache, awareness pokes through that those pages were special snapshots in my development as a writer. And I just left them there.
While writing my "hey" back, I thought about my own bit of poetry. I have two poems of which I am sincerely proud. I've written few poems, if any, since college. How would I describe my poetry? To my acquaintance I wrote that it was a mass of maudlin free-verse too narcissistic to share. I checked--that's the definition of high school poetry. I can't share any embarrassing bits, though, because it was all lost in the fire.
When I say lost, I don't mean totally burned. That would have been better.
I still feel an echo of the sharp scent that burned my sinus passages when we entered the blackened remains of our apartment. There was a blue tarp over the roof of the living room and kitchen, casting an odd glow while sealing out the sunshine. The blackness of the rooms swallowed any stray light into its inky nothingness. We borrowed work lamps that we might dig through the debris of charred drywall, broken mirrors, and a carpet of ruined books.
 |
| Melted TV |
 |
| Kitchen from Living Room |
The bedroom and the office had piles of burnt objects taunting us with the possibility of being saved. In the office five or six bookcases worth of sopping wet books, twelve ruined computers, and melted plastic bins with precious papers oozed all over the floor. It was necessary to tread on our belongings. The effort of digging through was too much. Very little escaped that room.
 |
| Nightstand with poetry |
 |
| Closet that housed photos. |
Friday, October 21, 2011
A Double Magnum Night
You never can tell what will inspire you. This summer, an ad for ice cream made me think of an special time nearly twenty years ago, and resulted in my own book-rating system.
In 2011 Magnum Ice Cream finally made it over the big, bad Atlantic. I saw this commercial and was instantly transported to a summer I spent in Florence, Italy. It wasn't the commercial that did it, though. It was Magnum.
It was an amazing summer. So perfect, I don't need to travel back-in-time to tell my college self to enjoy it more. Even now, I could find my front door. The experience was as exquisite as Italy, itself.
In the evenings, after classes and dinner, we used to walk to the Arno. Our apartment was south of the river in a neighborhood filled with many wonderful stores. We visited the same tabaccheria to buy our ritual Magnum ice cream.
We'd take our luscious chocolate decadence to the Ponte Santa Trinita (Holy Trinity Bridge) and watch the sunset.
The Ponte Vecchio is best known, but I have great affinity for Ponte Santa Trinita. I jumped down onto one of her wings and came within several feet of the edge (because I'm OH so brave). We painted down there while pedestrians waved to us.
One evening, we bought our Magnums, watched the sunset, and it was such a glorious sunset closing a wonderful day, that we each bought a second Magnum on our way home. After that, a really great anything was christened a "Double Magnum Night."
When I saw the commercial, I'd just finished reading "Water For Elephants." I adored the book and suddenly my thoughts were swirling like chocolate and caramel. What's worthy of the "Double Magnum Night" award? A great bottle of wine. A day so well spent that you are utterly sated and content. A really great book.
A Double Magnum Night - "Water for Elephants"
A Magnum - "Good In Bed"
A Ben and Jerry's Phish Food - "Audrey, Wait!"
Vanilla is for 'predictable but still enjoyable' - Nora Roberts, et al
A Cardboard IceCream Sandwich means STOP EATING (I mean) READING, NOW! - "Starring Sally J. Freeman as Herself."
I'm about to read "Atlas Shrugged" and am tempted to buy the double chocolate Magnum. Will it inspire a second double chocolate Magnum?
Listening to The Dandy Warhols "We Used To Be Friends"
Yes, Veronica Mars was a "Double Magnum Night."
In 2011 Magnum Ice Cream finally made it over the big, bad Atlantic. I saw this commercial and was instantly transported to a summer I spent in Florence, Italy. It wasn't the commercial that did it, though. It was Magnum.
 |
| Door to my home |
It was an amazing summer. So perfect, I don't need to travel back-in-time to tell my college self to enjoy it more. Even now, I could find my front door. The experience was as exquisite as Italy, itself.
In the evenings, after classes and dinner, we used to walk to the Arno. Our apartment was south of the river in a neighborhood filled with many wonderful stores. We visited the same tabaccheria to buy our ritual Magnum ice cream.We'd take our luscious chocolate decadence to the Ponte Santa Trinita (Holy Trinity Bridge) and watch the sunset.
 |
| Exhibit A - painting done from ledge |
One evening, we bought our Magnums, watched the sunset, and it was such a glorious sunset closing a wonderful day, that we each bought a second Magnum on our way home. After that, a really great anything was christened a "Double Magnum Night."
When I saw the commercial, I'd just finished reading "Water For Elephants." I adored the book and suddenly my thoughts were swirling like chocolate and caramel. What's worthy of the "Double Magnum Night" award? A great bottle of wine. A day so well spent that you are utterly sated and content. A really great book.
A Double Magnum Night - "Water for Elephants"
A Magnum - "Good In Bed"
A Ben and Jerry's Phish Food - "Audrey, Wait!"
Vanilla is for 'predictable but still enjoyable' - Nora Roberts, et al
A Cardboard IceCream Sandwich means STOP EATING (I mean) READING, NOW! - "Starring Sally J. Freeman as Herself."
I'm about to read "Atlas Shrugged" and am tempted to buy the double chocolate Magnum. Will it inspire a second double chocolate Magnum?
Listening to The Dandy Warhols "We Used To Be Friends"
Yes, Veronica Mars was a "Double Magnum Night."
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