writing

Into Africa

Writing is like flying standby.

My good friend Michele, just days away from making the journey to a Third World country this way, was a bit too frazzled about it to make the correlation, but I bet my fellow writers will get it.

Since a round trip ticket can often be close to two grand, Michele was relying on a “buddy pass” from a pilot friend to fly from Jacksonville to Atlanta, Atlanta to Johannesberg, South Africa. From there, she would need to find and board an unknown bus for the several hour ride to Lesotho, a separate, landlocked country within South Africa. All this traveling — by herself. She would then meet her daughter, Annie, and some of Annie’s fellow Peace Corps volunteers at the border for the drive to Laribe, the small village where Michele would spend the next 20 days.

I get nervous for an overnight trip to Tallahassee. I plan out what to wear each day. I pack and repack a week in advance. I leave instructions the length of small novels for pet sitters, and I rise at 2:00 a.m. the morning of. That’s if I fall asleep in the first place.

But, if you find yourself unable to plan, like Michele’s on a wing and a prayer type journey, the rule is: you gotta have faith. And this is kind of like writing.

Time and time again, my “just okay” plans are laid to rest by some much better inspiration that hits me in the final hour. Sometimes, I don’t even have a so-so idea and I’m staring at an empty screen on the Saturday night before a new blog post. And any writer will tell you, it’s waiting for the inspiration to hit, much like waiting to be told to board, that can be sheer agony.

This is not to say you writers out there should wait till you have a brilliant thought before sitting down to write. You’ve got to face the empty screen, like Michele had to show up at the airport, if there’s to be any hope of getting off the ground. I’d never write anything great, if I didn’t force myself to focus on churning out something just okay. And it’s not just writing, but life, that works this way.

I got a text from Michele on her way to Johannesberg as she took off. It was a picture of her holding up a champagne glass with the words “Yeah, baby. First class!” Things are often the scariest just before turning out wonderful. Face your fears.

July 21, 2013 5

In the Flow

My writing group had our end of the year celebration this past Friday. We read our stories aloud to friends and family. My aunt and 94 year-old grandma were there. And my mother, of course.

I am a big fan of the writers group, but particularly this group. Not only is there real talent, but support, encouragement and friendship. So much of what writers do is in solitude, it’s great to come together — to celebrate our achievements and share our stories with a room full of loved ones. Writers need an audience. For what’s the value in a story not shared?

There is only one real deprivation. I decided this morning, and that is not to be able to give one’s gift to those one loves most. The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.

~May Sarton (from For Writers Only by Sophy Burnham)

June 2, 2013 4

Cruel and Unusual

Frankie had surgery last week. I realize other dog owners are used to these strange instruments of torture, but the cone is new to me.

He had a minor skin growth that the vet wanted to biopsy (it was benign), and as a result he had three itty bitty little stitches. All this resulted, of course, in his having to wear the cone contraption for ten days. Ten days. Doesn’t that seem excessive? In this day and age of dissolving stitches?

What can I say? I feel bad for the guy. On the annoying scale, the human equivalent is probably something akin to having your jaw wired shut. Except with a person, you can say, “Hey Joe, we’re fixing your jaw.” I can’t imagine what Frankie thinks is going on. Or why the hell this has been done to him.

Although maybe he’s been clued in by the neighbor’s dog, Boris, in that non-verbal way dogs have. The neighbor tells me Boris has worn the cone twice before. It just looked like a lot of sniffing to me, but I can imagine the conversation:

Boris: Oh, man! You’re in the cone!

Frankie: What is this crazy thing? I can’t scratch. I can’t lick. I get kibble all stuck to it. What did I do to deserve this?

Boris: Dude, been there, done that. I feel your pain, brother.

Mom’s been taking care of him, which involves giving him pain pills in peanut butter and making sure he doesn’t get his head stuck anywhere. At my house, halls and doorways are no longer wide enough for both of us. He stays beside me as usual, and I hear his cone scraping the drywall. He scrapes the street, too, on walks. He likes to trot alongside me sniffing the ground. Now you can hear us coming.

After battling the cone the first day, he seems resigned to it now. He’s adjusted. I, on the other hand, am still getting used to it. I can’t wait till it comes off. I think I’m depressed for him. My next book will be Doggy Dependent: You’re Not Okay, I’m Not Okay.

With limited access to his mouth, he gets in a lot less trouble. No rooting through the garbage or the kitty box. No running across the apartment with the toilet paper in his mouth. No destroying cardboard boxes. I even think he barks less. Maybe he doesn’t like the noise reverberating around in there. I never thought I’d say it, but I can’t wait to have my little misbehaver back. Until then, try not to laugh if you see us. I don’t want him getting a complex.

March 24, 2013 9

My Valentine

Another excerpt from my book:

Walgreens was its own corny planet this time of year, oozing sentimentality all over the place. I combed the aisles in my power chair, looking for the less mushy cards, wondering how the employees stood it. It started right after New Years. Red and pink banners swirled from the ceiling. Rows of cellophane hearts from miniature to jumbo lined the shelves. A stuffed lion held out a cushy pillow that read I’m wild about you. I rolled my eyes at all the commercial fanfare and steadfastly refused to go out to dinner that one night a year, but secretly I used to have high hopes.

When I worked, I’d sit at my desk like every other woman there, and pretend it was a day like any other. You could feel us holding our collective breath when the bells tinkled announcing an entry, and hear it released in disappointment when the spring water guy filled up the water cooler.

Some lucky women already had their declarations of love displayed proudly in their cubicles. I viewed these bouquets like diamonds on a ring finger. They were affirmations. Someone finds me lovable. I have been chosen.

Many years, not dating anyone, I contemplated sending flowers to myself just to avoid the empty desk.

Though not dating someone was certainly preferable to dating He Who Does Nothing. I never understood this. It’s so simple. It requires virtually no thought. And, I never, not once, met a woman who didn’t like flowers. Still, it happens. I know because I have dated several Mr. Do Nothings.

One claimed he forgot, which we all know is impossible if you live in the United States of America and didn’t just wake up from a long coma. Another said he was taking a stand against profit-making corporate giants and didn’t need a holiday to tell him when to express his love. Unfortunately, he didn’t express it any of the other 364 days of the year either.

I broke up with another man on Valentine’s Day itself after eight months of dating and receiving nothing from him but a card with a fart joke on it. I didn’t think they even made valentines with fart jokes, but apparently no holiday is too classy. I’m sure even one of the three wise men is letting one rip in a manger somewhere. Continue reading “My Valentine” →

February 17, 2013 5

Chain of Bloggers

I feel a bit like I just received one of those chain letters. You know the kind — if you break the chain something bad will happen to you? The Versatile Blogger is an award given to people who blog about a variety of topics. And please don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to be noticed at all. But the idea is to pass it on. To recognize someone else.

15 someone elses to be exact. I’ll be honest here. I don’t even know 15 bloggers. Let alone have time to read the few I do know to make sure they’re versatile (unfocused) enough. A fellow writer, Sarah (Full-Time Writer Mom) gave me the title and only awarded it to two others. I’m going to flout the rules even more than she did and award it to just one person. But don’t worry! Before the versatile blogging police deem me unfit and take away my keyboard, they should know: it’s a highly qualified and worthy recepient.

Meet Mary Ellington. Mary writes the blog, Random Thoughts, which is, by very definition, a blog without aim. She’s alternately pee-in-your-pants funny and guaranteed to make you mist up. And best of all she writes willy-nilly like me, scribbling away about whatever topic catches her attention that day. (Mary and I prefer to think of it as inspired writing.) And here’s a nice bonus: she reads a lot of other blogs so she’s bound to have some interesting recommendations. (No pressure, Mary.)

Some other blogs that are way too on-topic to be considered for this award, but that I’ll shamelessly plug here are writer and author Carol O’Dell’s blog, Risk Play Create,… and Life’s A Bumpy Road by writing pal and retired clinical psycotherapist, Marilyn Fowler. Also, writers should check out my writer’s group new blog, Chat Noir Writers Circle Blog.

Finally, the folks on the Versatile Blogger Award Committee required me to divulge seven interesting tidbits about myself that readers may not already know. And so, I give you the following ridiculous facts:

I once owned a powder-blue Dodge Aries K car.
I used to play the theme from Ice Castles by heart on the piano.
I modeled as a teenager until various agencies suggested I get a nose job.
I was a member of Toastmasters International.
I could climb on a roof, measure it and write an estimate for any damage.
I was a paid extra (hotel employee) in Revenge of the Nerds II: Nerds in Paradise.
I pulled the ol’ “change a D to a B” trick on my report card in high school and got busted.

Now, get to work and pass it on, Mary. Should you choose to ignore this mission you will have three years bad luck and never write in this town again. (Just kidding.)

February 10, 2013 6

Blocked!

Writing is hard. If there’s any doubt about that — consider this: the title and first three-word sentence of this post took me over an hour. No lie.

I usually cruise along, feeling inspired, laughing at my own clever wit or admiring a certain turn of phrase. Not today. It’s been another half-hour since I typed the words “no lie.” No lie.

Other than dribbling out words at the rate of two an hour, I’ve been sitting here, munching on a bag of baby carrots, sighing and staring at the screen. I think this is what they call a serious case of writer’s block. Okay, not a serious case. I’ve heard of some writers that can’t write for years. Now that’s serious. But I don’t get that. How can you call yourself a writer if you don’t write?

More likely, I’m suffering from a temporary inability to deal with the task at hand. And I’m in good company. While most writers usually experience being blocked at one point or other, even famous folks like F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Virginia Woolf were known to have felt their genius run dry at times. (Of course, they were also alcoholic, depressed or suicidal, but that often comes with the territory. I’m probably way too happy to be truly great.)

Although it’s a little insulting, the following advice by author Phillip Pullman made me laugh and rang true. I’m going to start thinking of writing as my full-time job. And since I’m having a hard time thinking of my own words, his will have to do. Besides, it’s the weekend. And I don’t work weekends.

“Writer’s block…a lot of howling nonsense would be avoided if, in every sentence containing the word WRITER, that word was taken out and the word PLUMBER substituted; and the result examined for the sense it makes. Do plumbers get plumber’s block? What would you think of a plumber who used that as an excuse not to do any work that day?

The fact is that writing is hard work, and sometimes you don’t want to do it, and you can’t think of what to write next, and you’re fed up with the whole damn business. Do you think plumbers don’t feel like that about their work from time to time? Of course there will be days when the stuff is not flowing freely. What you do then is MAKE IT UP.

Writer’s block is a condition that affects amateurs and people who aren’t serious about writing (ouch.) So is the opposite, namely inspiration, which amateurs are also very fond of. Putting it another way: a professional writer is someone who writes just as well when they’re not inspired as when they are.”

~Phillip Pullman

January 27, 2013 4

Since When?

I’ve run into a bit of a snafu while editing my book. It seems that somewhere along the way in writing it, I wizened up to the fact that the rule had changed from two spaces after a period or end of a sentence to just one. As a result, about half of my book is written one way, half the other.

I dropped an email to my writing coach asking her if I could let this slide, fully expecting her to say ‘yes.’ She said ‘no.’ I have to change it. And if that weren’t bad enough, I didn’t know where the handy ‘Find and Replace’ feature was on my Mac. I wasted an entire week trying to change every single sentence in my book until a certain writer/editor I know clued me in.

I was lamenting about all this to a friend when she asked, “When did that change?” Good question. I looked into it and found out — years ago! The Internet is full of discrepancies, of course, but one source says it changed with the dawn of the personal computer! Good grief! Talk about feeling stupid. And I call myself a writer.

But apparently, I wasn’t the only one in the dark. Some friends (writers and non-writers alike) didn’t know either. If, like me, you learned to type on a manual typewriter (all you youngins — see photo above,) then you’re familar with the two space rule. See, typewriter fonts are monospaced. Each letter takes up the same amount of space. The logic goes that the extra space was needed between sentences to improve readability. Now that most of us are typing on a computer keyboard with its proportional font (i.e. an “m” takes up more space than an “i,”) we no longer need the extra space. Supposedly, with improved technology, came better readability. Maybe it’s my double vision or failing eyesight, but I found it easier to read before. But no one asked me.

I want to scream at the injustice of it all. Can they do that? But I know the answer. Rules change all the time. Of course they can. I don’t even know who “they” are, except maybe the powers that be at the three most widely accepted authorities on the subject, The Chicago Manual of Style, the AP Stylebook and the Modern Language Association. Personally, as I get into the nitty gritty of grammar, I like the Grammar Girl site so much it made my list of favorite places (see sidebar.)

But, don’t sweat it. The average person receiving your emails isn’t likely to start counting spaces. Especially, in a world where “ur” and “nite” have become acceptable. If you’re a student, a writer or just a person priding yourself on your grammatical correctness, then by all means, get with the program! Hey, I don’t make the rules, I just pass them on. Even if I am years late.

December 9, 2012 12

Letting Go

I’ll assume from your lack of commentary, that you weren’t sure what to make of my “reblogging” last week. That or you were busy shopping. Or you were lulled into a post-turkey eating stupor by the holiday. Most likely, no one commented because one of my most loyal commenters wrote the thing — and she couldn’t very well comment on her own blog, now could she?

After all, there’ve been plenty of times when she’s been the only voice out there to let me know I did, in fact, hit ‘publish’. But the point is, I spent enough time fretting over this whole reblogging thing to make the entire experiment in time saving null and void. I need to learn to let go.

I am plagued by a severe case of perfectionism. First, I worried over publishing someone else’s words. Then, I wasted time figuring out exactly how to do it. And finally, I spent at least an hour obsessing over the fact that the two sentences I did write kept popping up at the bottom of the post and not the top. Sometimes you just have to stop.

I have no problem knowing when to quit in other situations. For example, I have another writer friend who marvels at my succinct blogs. What she doesn’t know is, I actually forget half the things I planned to say in the first place. And by the time I remember them, usually during a proofread, I realize it sounds pretty good without them and it’s too much work to figure out where to fit them in anyway. Writing secrets of the senile.

I also have no problem letting go of my book. I’m done (yes, that’s right, finished!) and you always hear about authors missing the process or their characters. I don’t. Maybe, that’s cause I wrote a memoir. My main character is me and it’s pretty hard to miss yourself. My other characters are my mom and Frankie and hey, they’re right here. As for missing the process, well, I’ll just start another book. I’m looking forward to trying my hand at fiction. My next character will be the opposite of me. Maybe, a marathon runner. Who’s scared of dogs.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep working on this idea of letting go. It would be nice to have a messy house once in awhile and focus on the things that really matter. Or to not spend half the morning making my bed, rolling back and forth, back and forth, straightening the covers. But, say what you will, I’m never giving up my alphabetized CD’s. That’s just plain sense.

By letting it go it all gets done. The world is won by those who let it go. But when you try and try, the world is beyond the winning.

~Lao Tzu

December 2, 2012 7

On The Farm

Since I’m loathe to simply slap up the “Writer At Work” sign and leave my poor readers with only the Sunday paper or less worthy blogs (blogs of dear friends excluded, of course,) I’m doing the next easiest thing: posting something I’ve already written. Frankie got a lot of love last week, so for all you Frankie fans out there — enjoy this excerpt from my book. And don’t hold it against me if the sign’s there next week.

Arguments with my mother can sound like Abbott and Costello routines. We are parked in the car and my mom is taking Frankie out to do his business.

“When we get back, we can eat!” she tells him.

“I thought you said you didn’t bring any cookies,” I say.

“I didn’t. You said you brought grapes.”

“I did. But those are for lunch.”

“But we always have a snack at the park.”

“Yes. We always have cookies. You’re welcome to the grapes. But they were for lunch.”

“Well, I didn’t bring cookies. I thought we could eat your grapes.”

“Again. We can. I’m just saying, they were for lunch.”

Frankie whimpers to remind us he needs to go out or this could go on forever. As the door shuts, she shoots me a look that says I’m a spoiled child, unwilling to share.

Continue reading “On The Farm” →

November 11, 2012 5

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