Why Is This Night…

A lifetime ago, this would have been a day when we were either helping with, hindering, heading up or bitching about (perhaps all of the above) preparations for the evening’s Passover Seder. Since moving to Georgia, however, we’ve all but ignored the holiday.

Not so this year, but barely. Yesterday on our way to buy some groceries, MathMan asked if we should actually hold a sort of Seder today. I concurred, but that was before I knew that a trip to the grocery store would invite my fever to come back and knock me on my ass again.

So we have our brisket (I’ll be using this recipe), makings for matzo ball soup, matzo crackers, parsley, horseradish and MathMan even made the Charoset, but we won’t hold our Seder tonight after all. Ah well. It gives me more time to print off a Hagaddah since the only one I could find in our local library was one that was written from a Mystic slant. And (bonus), Chloe is coming home on Friday so she can join us when we sit down and retell the story of the Jews’ release from slavery on Friday.

For those of you celebrating properly, may you enjoy a Pesach full of family, friends and tender brisket. May no one spill their wine when their not supposed to, may Elijah close the door behind him, and last but certainly not least, may you run over the six year old to find the Afikomen and collect a fiver from your cheap Uncle Morty.

L’chaim.

Without Poise

Not really me. I don’t look this great.

Still sick.  Cute Dr. Jayson said I have the flu and he sent me on my way with a pinch on my bottom (I wish) and a prescription.  Now he’s got me huffing this relenza stuff.  I’ve never used an inhaler before and I’m a bit shilly shally with it.  I suspect the darned flu will have run its course by the time I’ve figured out how to use the inhaler properly.  Oh well.

In the meantime I tested the waters to see if I’m ready to be back at it.  Clearly, I’m not up to the task.  I vacuumed the living room and became winded.  Yeah, that was pretty stupid, but it’s a good test to see how “well” I am.  Well being such a subjective word.  The truth is, and the female among us will agree, I don’t really know how to be sick.  I’d have to be heavily sedated before actually taking to my sick bed and staying there. Sadly, it is how I’m wired.

Just this morning, I would have been quite happy to just lay about in bed, but my own body seems opposed to this idea.  Sophia needed a note for school and as I sat on my bed writing it, the sneezing started.  You guys know about that “issue” I have, right?  Well, I was mid-sentence when I sneezed in rapid succession.  Once, twice, three times.  I was holding tight and hoping.  I felt trapped.  The pen went skittering across the page and then it happened.  Sneeze number four.  I wasn’t able to get up in time and I was so worried about not spraying the note with my toxic sneeze as I tried to bury my nose in my elbow and well, my grip loosened.  What’s that you say?  Yes, I leaked.

Well, there’s something to be said for useful items like Poise pads or the like, but I’ll be damned if I’m willing to go that route yet.  And so my wimpy little Always thin absorbed as much as it could but not quite enough.  I finished Sophia’s note, made the necessary adjustments to my personal concerns and stripped the damned bed.  The horror of it is that I had to remake it with un-ironed sheets.  Could things get any worse?

That’s never a good question to ask, is it?

The phone rang at 10:28a.m.  I looked at the caller i.d.  The orthodontist’s office! Oh no! Nate had a 9:30 a.m. appointment.  I coughed my way through telling the staffer that I’d gotten sick and completely forgotten even though I pressed #1 to confirm just the day before.  She graciously made another appointment.

“You wouldn’t want me there today anyway,” I wheezed.

She laughed politely.  “From the sounds of it, no.”

And now I’m watching the clock because I’m to pick Sophia up at 3:15 from honor chorus.  If I don’t keep reminding myself of that, I’m afraid that I’ll be getting a call from the school at 4:00 wondering where in the heck I am.

Update:  I made it on time to pick up Sophia.  I drove halfway home with the parking brake still on.

It’s not everything I’ve ever wanted from life, but at least I didn’t pee myself.  That may be my new motto……

Dear Mr. Echo

Click the picture for more TMI.

I am officially too sick to write. My brain has taken leave, my typing fingers are in some kind of labor dispute involving Kleenex and hazardous nose waste. In case you’ll be requiring a doctor’s note, I have an afternoon appointment with cute Dr. Jayson that won’t involved showing him my newly vajazzled nether regions. Unless, of course, he thinks that might help me recover from this horrendous crud. Who am I to question “alternative treatments?”

There is a bright side however. This presents a perfect opportunity to trot out this oldie, but goody….

http://www.youtube.com/v/2Mf_oX69FYs&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1

Someone fetch me a petrol bomb, okay?

Until I’m more coherent and full of oxygen,

Bogey Bum

She Walked Through the Corn Leading Down to The River

When I saw the movie Strictly Ballroom for the first time, I was pinned down in my seat by one line. This line, the key line of the movie, was so familiar to me and yet no one had ever actually uttered those words.

I realized this weekend why those words held such meaning for me.

http://www.youtube.com/get_player

But let me back up. The trip to my hometown was fun. Nate decided to join Sophie and me. He reminded me that we had to listen to XM Bluegrass Junction as we drove through Tennessee and Kentucky. And so we did. Did I ever tell you that my maternal great grandad was a fiddler? That music is part of my heritage so it was not only geographically appropriate, it was also a great segue for talking about my family to Nate while Sophia slept in the backseat. And if we hadn’t tuned in, I might never have known that there’s a bluegrass version of Fox on the Run.

It was great to see family and friends of my parents who I’d not seen since 1997 or before. I saw my first grade teacher Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Curry who used to babysit me and let me play with her fireplace tools in her pristine living room as long as I promised to leave the poker alone. I saw cousins I hadn’t seen in ages and gave unsolicited advice about how to get labor started to the girlfriend of one of them. Come to think of it, I spent a week in Cincinnati in 1982 babysitting that father to be…..

Anyway, the anniversary party was very nice, just as I expected. Quiet, dignified, and a little self-conscious. I come from people who like to have a little fun. Not a whooping loud lot of fun. A little fun. They’re skittish about letting people see them cut loose. And by cut loose, I mean drink soda pop, eat a good country buffet meal and sit around a pole shed catching up, telling stories, and laughing. These are not nor have they ever been cocktail partiers or chandelier swingers. They’re just regular folks with no pretensions and don’t accuse them otherwise. And as per usual, there was no alcohol served. And that’s okay. They have their reasons.

My mother is the daughter of an alcoholic who died young. My father claims to have never liked alcohol, but the bigger reason, I suspect, is that he saw drinking and smoking as complete wastes of money and impediments to climbing the socio-economic ladder to the safe middle class.

So I had a root beer with my barbecue, cole slaw and delicious potato casserole. It didn’t kill me.

On the way home, Nate and I chatted about what a nice weekend it had been. Now, Nathan was always an observant kid. Even when he was young, he’d pick up on my moods and ask “What’s wrong?” So it was no surprise when he noticed the frequent use of a certain phrase during our short stay with my parents.

“Mom, have you noticed that they say ‘I would have, but I was afraid’ alot?”

I had noticed.

“What are they afraid of?”

It’s a good question. I know that I’m more a risk taker than my parents are. Sometimes it works out well, sometimes it’s a disaster. Most times it’s just another moment in my life to be cataloged, categorized, dissected and done with. I can’t say for sure what they were afraid of, but I could guess…Fear of failure? Fear of being judged?

It got me to thinking about how we kind of cover our mouths when we laugh. How we worry so damn much what people might think, or worse what people might say about us. That’s part of life in a small town, of course, so I don’t blame them. They sought and achieved security. They met their goal and they’ve had a pretty pleasant life. They probably look at MathMan and me and wonder how we manage with the constant uncertainty that underscores our lives. Knowing that family is far away from any potential embarrassment is a large factor in how I manage living in a small town these days. No one really knows us enough to care or gossip about us. And I like it that way.

I thought about that while I drove. Finally I said, “I hate to think about how much of their lives they didn’t live because they were afraid.”

Nate nodded. “I guess they’re happy enough.”

It’s something I am learning to appreciate, but I wonder….was it best to always hold back? What might life have been like if they laughed out loud more, if they didn’t worry so much about what people might think, if they stopped comparing themselves and simply just did what they wanted sometimes.

And you? Do you hold back? Take risks? Somewhere in the middle?

There Will Be No Parking in the Rear

Friday, March 19, 2010
Travel log: Trip to Rising Sun, Indiana

Special note: No computer will be available. Any updates will be issued via Facebook and Twitter
Can you believe it – my parents don’t have a computer? Thank goodness, otherwise I’d have to stop blogging.
http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=42+Stonebrook+Drive,+30120&daddr=901+North+Avenue+47040&hl=en&geocode=Fd70CAIdNBPw-il1gN0jpkz1iDHjZBWGGDivsA%3BFZR3UgId1ybx-inJgeUeVdlBiDG_ZcK0PgR41w&mra=ls&sll=34.141406,-84.92974&sspn=0.008027,0.014956&ie=UTF8&ll=36.633465,-84.585035&spn=4.98411,1.25223&output=embed
View Larger Map

Sophia and I are making this drive on Friday. You can track us via the wonders of GPS and some left over vajazzling rhinestones that we’ve attached to Roxanne’s roof. The sun is supposed to be out so that little white car should be easy to pick out as it sparkles its way up I75.

The drive should be fine, but I hope that Sophia sleeps some because if I have to listen to 20 on 20 on XM, I may stroke out. I mean, I love Lady Gaga, but after hearing Bad Romance for the sixth or seventh time, even I will need a shot of Led Zeppelin as an antidote.

Anyway, the trip should take us about seven hours, half of which we will probably spend talking about the food we’ll eat when we get there (Hello, Skyline Chili!). Before we go to Rising Sun, we’re going to make a little side trip to Corydon, Indiana for some Butt Drugs.

http://www.youtube.com/v/oYYdF0zcuSI&border=1&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1

Since Sophie has never seen a real soda fountain/lunch counter before, I thought this would make a great bit of Americana to show her. Even after all these years, I can remember drinking Sprite through a paper straw at the little drugstore on Main Street.

On Saturday, I’ll be getting sloppy drunk with my family. Okay, that’s a lie. I’ll be getting sloppy drunk and falling down and embarrassing my parents. They’ll be standing around trying not to notice. Their folded arms and red faces will be a dead giveaway, though.

More lies. My parents are teetotalers of the highest order. There won’t be a drop of the good stuff within a mile of the community center where this gala is being held. Well, except for the trailer park that sits about two hundred yards from the fairgrounds where all this celebratin’ is taking place. Even now, I remember drinking Jack Daniels straight from a bottle at a New Year’s Eve Party 1980 at that trailer park….

But enough about my distant and whiskey-soaked memories. I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be back on Monday or so. Depending on what goes on at this shindig, you know how it is. Once the Rook cards come out and everyone is lit up on lime sherbet punch, you never know what kind of crazy might happen.

Have a great weekend,

Lisa

Celebrating Merrrily

Tomorrow Sophia and I will be driving to Indiana to attend my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary party. When I’ve mentioned this to anyone, each has offered words of congratulations and a bit of wonder, too…..fifty years. Wow!

I must say I share this attitude. Knowing what I do about my own marriage, I find it amazing that anyone stays together through who knows what kind of drama, upsets and ennui over the course of fifty years? I don’t really know what my parent’s marriage has been like – not that I really want to know. But I assume it has suffered and enjoyed the same kinds of highs and lows any marriage does. I’m also sure it’s been unique, as well, and those are probably the things I want to know about the least.

I wonder if it’s true that people follow their parents’ examples in marriage? Of course there are statistical outliers. Of my siblings, I’m the only one not divorced, but that’s not for a lack of trying. For those who haven’t been around this blog and my others, MathMan and I have been separated, lived apart and have filed for a divorce that never happened. Hello, Deputy Sheriff. Sign that paper? Okay. And a couple of years ago, I ran away from home briefly.

Some days I think it’s because we are such innate contrarians that MathMan and I have stayed together. That’s just a fancy way of saying no one else would have us. And by us, I mean me.

I don’t think it’s any surprise that MathMan’s parents stayed together, too. Sadly, they both died in their fifties so we never got to see what their marriage would look like when they didn’t have kids at home. MathMan was only a freshman in college when his father died suddenly. I never met his father, but the stories I’ve heard about him and about his relationship with my mother-in-law lead me to assume that they would have had a grand time as they aged together. Not perfect, but definitely worth the wait through raising six kids.

MathMan and I were lucky to have the examples we did. There may not have been many or any examples of open affection (something that I’ve gone to great lengths to overcompensate for) or anything even close, but our parents clearly loved (I guess?) and liked (very important) each other enough to last.

In the era we grew up in, it would have been at least easier than in the past for our parents to have split up when things got difficult or boring or complicated. The fact that they didn’t probably says more about their relationships than memories of flashy gifts or loud declarations of love and passion ever could.

Wishing my parents all the best on their 50th……

http://www.youtube.com/v/DINuAWoxy4Q&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1

Sing it with me, People of the Internets….

I’ve Got a Secret….Or At Least I HAD One.

Oh my.

I am sooo embarrassed to tell you how I just spent the last ten minutes. As if embarrassment ever stopped me from blogging about anything. I’ve been googling and learning just how behind the times I am. Come to find out, I am two trends behind. I’d hang my head in shame if I had any left.

Frankly, as a middle aged mother of eight (the cats count, right?), it’s probably bad form for me to write about this because it calls attention to the fact that I have a, um…..what’s that word that makes some people cringe…oh yes, I have a vagina, but the reality is that I do and I know how to use it. The sad part is that I’ve been using it without flair.

I’m so embarrassed. Really I am. But there must be some reason that I noticed today that my maybe cousin Jennifer Love Hewitt is out promoting the latest in personal beauty products. By personal, I mean more or less between one’s legs. Let me tell you, if I can find the glue stick that’s always lost and that sheet of stick-on nail jewelry that Sophia got for Hanukkah, I’m going to have a personal beauty story to tell, too. Last time I saw that nail jewelry, it was collecting dust and cat fur wedged between Sophie’s bed and the wall, but could I be bothered to retrieve it then? Of course not. I was too busy compulsively? obsessively? refolding the six throws she keeps as a backup nest at the foot of her bed. I mean, they have to be shaken out and refolded, otherwise, who knows what might be hiding there.

But, maybe I should forget the glue stick that I can never find. Where’s the hot glue gun? Last time I saw it, I think Chloe was using it on some pointe shoes…., but where was I? Oh yes, telling you how embarrassed I am about how thoroughly unstylish my vagina is. If you must know, I am not one to shave down to nothing. Mostly because the growing in part is so dang itchy. Yes, I’ve tried it. Listen, people, do you think there’s much I haven’t tried? So anyway, at the moment, I’m sporting a rather run-of-the-mill tidy undercoif that stays neatly in its place, but doesn’t cause too much afterburn.

I’ve never been waxed. I know people who have been and that’s all well and good, but seriously, after I pushed Sophia into this world, I pretty much decided that I was done having my vagina messed with by professional types unless absolutely necessary. There’s also the fact that I’m a giggler. It would be misery for both me and the person yanking my pubic hairs loose from their loving follicles to have me yelping and laughing and probably leaving a puddle. It would be too unfair to subject myself or anyone else to that indignity. Add to that the fact that having a wax costs money and, well….I just don’t see it – “Hey, kids! It’s mac and cheese and peanut butter crackers all week because on Saturday Mama goes for her poon wax.” Yeah, I don’t see it.

So now, on top of the personal affront I commit to humanity by leaving my house with a small, neatly hedged bush under my panties, I am now being frightfully unstylish and frumpy by not having it adorned with some precious design. I apologize. I truly do.

So now I give in. I will comply. But we’re going to have to do it my way – on a budget. I can’t afford the home vajazzling kit at the moment, so I’m going to have to make do with the items I can find around here. I have a mirror. I can do this. And it’s not like I’m doing this unscientifically.

For practice, I shaved one of the cats, finally found the hot glue gun and that old film canister of buttons to use instead of crystals. The cat’s not happy, but I think I did a pretty good job. The heart with the arrow going through it came out pretty symmetrically. The cat will get over it once the others stop pointing and laughing the way cats do.

Now it’s time for me to go to work on my own Golden Palace of the Himalayas. I tested the hot glue on my arm. This is going to hurt. But if can survive a complete deforestation using a razor that I haven’t changed out in oh…..I don’t even know, well, I should be okay. I’ve had three babies without any pain medication. How bad can this be? I never did find that fugitive sticky nail jewelry, but I picked the rhinestones out of some earrings I never wear anymore because it’s not 1985. They should do nicely.

I’m thinking of something simple yet clever. Maybe Pi? Should I draw it on with some eyeliner first to make sure I have it right? I mean, I’m going to working upside down and backward…….

MathMan won’t be home until late tonight so I won’t be able to gauge his reaction to my little vadge surprise until much later, but I can tell you, when I go to town to drop off the dvds, I’ll be swanning about the library like a new woman because even if no one else knows that my mons pubis is glittering like all get out, I’ll know. Oh yes, I’ll know….

Adventures in Real Parenting: Awkward

One of the many things I’m learning through this household financial shift (I can’t think of a pretty term for it) is that the basic middle class assumptions are blown full of holes. To wit:

As mentioned in an earlier post, Sophie was awarded at the county level for a story she’d written. On Monday, we attended the school board meeting where she received a certificate and had her picture taken. It was very nice and the woman who organizes the Young Authors program for the county was brimming over with enthusiasm for it. I loved to see that.

Sophie and I got into the car to go home and someone rapped on the car window. It was Sophie’s principal. I took a deep breath as Soph cranked down the window. (I’m borrowing Chloe’s ’95 Celica since my car was repo’d last spring.) Sophie’s principal makes me tense. I don’t know what it is about her – her condescension, her fake sing-songy way of speaking, but something about this woman puts me on edge.

She very nicely congratulated Sophie for her award winning story and said again how proud she was to have had a second Golden win this title. (Nate won when he was in the fifth grade, too.) I smiled and waited for Sophia to thank her, which she did, but with the same kind of tight-lipped smile that reflected the growing tension in my own chest.

“So, Mom, where are you taking our girl to celebrate?” Principal leaned down to address me through the window.

That deer caught in headlights cliche? Sometimes it is perfectly apt. I know that I hesitated, unable to speak. Sophia was staring at me, her eyes huge. Principal waited.

“I, uh…. I….” shit! I had exactly $3.58. That wouldn’t even buy a Happy Meal, would it?

The Principal blinked her large brown eyes at me and her smile was clearly frozen. The image of a marionette flashed before me and then was gone.

“I, um…well….”

Sophia cleared her throat. I glanced at her. She was looking ahead.

“You see, I’m not sure about a celebration tonight. I, um, I was laid off a couple of months ago and money is kind of tight.” Well now, it was done. Sophie looked at me and I gave her a weak smile and a shrug.

Principal’s smiled disappeared. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize….”

We spent some time backtracking on that conversation and all I wanted to do was get the hell out of there so I could talk to Sophie and gauge her reaction. Principal said something like “Well, then, I’m sure you’re going to take her home and make her her favorite meal.” Without pausing she asked, “What is her favorite thing that you make?”

Did I mention that contact with this woman makes me a little crazy? I squeaked out something about how Soph’s favorite thing to do lately is come home, make herself a hot dog and then crash on the sofa. I ask you, is it any wonder I’m not this Principal’s favorite example of Mamahood?

“A hot dog? Oh.” This is the part where I think crestfallen or maybe stunned is the best adjective to describe how Principal looked.

“Hit it, Mom,” Sophia yelled and I threw the little white car into reverse and squealed tires getting out of there.

We drove for a few moments in silence. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. “I’m sorry, baby. I totally botched that conversation. I don’t know what it is about her, but Principal makes me nervous. I never know what to say.”

Sophia laughed and rifled through my purse. “Don’t worry. She makes me nervous, too. I don’t understand what she’s saying half the time in that baby voice of hers. I just smile and nod.” She waved the stick of Teaberry gum she’d found in its secret hiding place. “Want half?”

I thanked her for the gum and chewed for a moment while I thought about what had just happened. I felt like a jerk for having put Principal on the spot for assuming that we’d be doing something to celebrate, but I was also annoyed to have been placed in such an awkward situation to begin with.

“Phia, I’m sorry that I don’t have money to take you out.”

“It’s okay. “

“What is it that I cook that you like?” I’ve been cooking more than I did when I worked outside the home, but I hadn’t really thought about favorite dishes. Crazy kids all have different things they like. I’m supposed to keep track?

“I like your cheesy chicken. And the beef stew. And your lentil soup with rice. And pretty much anything you make.” Okay, I take back calling her crazy. She’s brilliant and wonderful. So what if she puts barbecue sauce on everything?

“Thanks. And I am sorry. I’m an adult. I should be able to talk to your principal without peeing my pants.”

“You peed your pants?”

“Almost.”

“Crazy lady. Can we stop for a Frosty? I already had something real to eat anyway. I’m not that hungry.”

“A Frosty? I can manage that….”

So all those old assumptions about what it means to be what we appear to be are gone. I hope that in the future, I’ll be more careful, too, not to assume that everyone is in a position to go out to dinner whenever they feel like it or have money to go to Hobby Lobby and buy things for school projects or have fundraising money or class picture money…..you get the idea. I’ve mentioned that I’m going to write a piece about how schools don’t make it easy to pinch pennies for those of us in the New Poor category. I’m still turning it over in my mind, but this tiny incident reminded me that it’s those assumptions that some (not all) of us either grew up with or developed that make it just a little harder to fully embrace this new place on the socio-economic spectrum.

Amateur Writer

At Saturday’s writing seminar, The Cracker Queen suggested I tie some of my blog’s content to my manuscript. While this idea thrills me and makes it all seem so much more real, I’m a bit flummoxed as to where to start. I mean, will it be the fast cars, the loose men or the espionage? There’s so much to choose from! Kinky sex, recipes for fabric softener, ritual burnings or the random dream sequence….

You’re just dying to know more about this story, aren’t you?

To be honest with you, this first book may never have its moment with the printing press. It might be the one I write and put away without ever having issued a single query to potential agents. Okay, I lie. I’m going to query the stink off this thing and then? Well, I have a box to keep it in, if necessary.

One of the story’s underlying themes is coincidence. For a skeptic like me, the very idea is a conundrum. To even consider the notion feels hypocritical. That broad cliche that things happen for a reason, the concept of destiny or an invisible guide positioning us to be in the right place at the right time? They all seem absurd. And still….

I finished Chabon’s book yesterday and it was that which got me to thinking again about coincidence. In one of his last chapters titled Amateur Family, Chabon, a self-proclaimed sci-fi fan(atic), touches on a segment of cultural geekdom that I know a few of you share. It involves Daleks and Cybermen and the planet Gallifrey. Chabon was writing about Dr. Who! And wouldn’t you know it? After not having seen it for a couple of months, I just happened to have watched a couple of episodes on BBC America on Monday evening. Coincidence?

Of course, not, right? Completely random.

Anyway, there I was watching Dr. Who and thinking about character development. While movies, plays and television have the advantage of an actor to bring a character to life, it’s my job as a writer to create characters that live multi-dimensionally in the reader’s head. The idea of what makes a character “good” has as much to do with the reader as it does with the character development. Whether readers take to your characters has as much to do with their value systems and secret desires as it does with your character’s background, habits and human frailties.

Of course there are mechanics to character development and all kinds of webpages and books devoted to telling writers how to do so, but it would be far too much trouble for me to actually google them. Google is for finding things like Dave Grohl’s birthday so I can settle a bet with Nathan.

When I think about the Dr. Who characters, it’s hard to separate them from the actors who play them, but actually, Dr. Who is a perfect example of a character who has outlasted, by design, the actors in the role. And I love him. I love him when he’s Jon Pertwee with his lisp or when he’s Tom Baker with his scarf or Peter Davison with his leading actor good looks. I was crazy for Dr. Who as played by Christopher Eccleston. I am crazy mad gaga for him in his David Tennant incarnation. Each actor makes him his own, and yet, there are many qualities to the character that thread through each casting.

I mean, I love The Doctor because he does the right thing because it’s the right thing to do. He isn’t motivated by reward and punishment. He’s a Time Lord, for goodness sake. His planet has been destroyed and there is no one else like him (except The Master) and still he carries on, saving planets and sometimes the universe. I love how The Doctor loves we silly humans, even though we are so terribly unlovable at times. I love his inquisitiveness, his way with words and the fact that he seems to enjoy life, even as he carries the weight of all knowledge on his (currently) skinny shoulders. No matter who plays The Doctor, those traits remain constant.

Notice that I’m not inviting too much debate here. I’m going to stay away from the discussion of The Doctor’s companions. I mean I like Martha, adore and still miss Rose Tyler, but I L*O*V*E Donna Noble. And her grandad. But I know that passions can ignite when discussing those companions so I’m moving on.

So the challenge for me is to write people without the help of the David Tennants or the Catherine Tates to make them real. My current manuscript is a bit like cheating. Some of the characters in it will be immediately recognized by anyone who has read this blog or my earlier blogs. There’s a challenge there, too, in making sure that I’m giving these characters enough life to make them real. Just because I know them, doesn’t mean that anyone else will know them if I don’t do a good job with my writing.

Which brings me back to my original thought – this book may or may not ever be published. I’m working on it under the assumption that it will. (I have to assume or else why bother?) But it’s important for me to recognize that I had to get through this story before I could write any other. I had to address some of my dreams and nightmares so that I can (hopefully) leave them behind and move on to some of the other stories I’m itching to write.

In fact, it might be safe to say that in writing this story of coincidence or random encounters, I’m writing the story of how I finally learned to call myself a writer. Maybe it wasn’t an accident that brought me to this place in my life where I would finally cry uncle and admit that I write not for fun or for release or maybe it’s for both those things? But ultimately, I write because I have to. It’s what I do.

And as if that wasn’t all just enough to twist my knickers into confused knots, I sit down at my computer to check my email and a song from the Rushmore Soundtrack comes up on my itunes shuffle. In one of his last chapters, Chabon mentioned the movie Rushmore.

Coincidence?

Word by Word

Part 1
We have another writer in our midst. Sophia recently won first place for the county for her grade in the Georgia Young Authors contest. Tonight we attended the school board meeting where she received her certificate. She’s entered in the district contest and we’re anxiously awaiting news about that. When it’s all done, perhaps she’ll let me post her story here. She wrote it all on her own, allowing me only to proof it for spelling and punctuation. I am so incredibly proud of her.

Part 2
I used my new writing schedule today, but I can see modification is needed. Waking up on time would be a good start, but perhaps I ought not go crazy.

I did do my morning pages, even if it was in a helter skelter fashion. I wrote about one third of a page then switched to capturing a dream I had. (Nan, you were in the dream). I could not escape my usual morning duties. I retrieved the brown bag lunch items from their super secret hiding place, managed the feline input and output, tossed in a load of laundry and made coffee. I went back to writing morning pages as soon as everyone left. Once complete, I worked out, drank a protein shake (blech!) and had a shower. Finally, nearing 9:30 a.m., I sat down to actually work on my manuscript. Right now, that consists of reading it aloud to myself and editing it.

It’s closer, but it ain’t no cee-gar. As much as I hate to do it, I’m moving my workout to later in the day. That helps me to write when my mind is less cluttered. A stringent limit on my online activities will be a major factor in getting work done. I’m moving my online allowance back to 1 p.m. or even 2 p.m. The time not spent checking Facebook, refreshing my twitter page (are you happy now, Utah?) and opening window after window of authors and agents blogs is the best gift I can give myself. Of course, things will get tricky when I start to research agents, which is done mostly online. I’ll fret about that later. For now, I’m busy being sick of this story and the sound of my own voice.

Part 3
A couple of weeks ago, my friend Craig posted videos of Lev Yilmaz’s work on his Facebook page. To illustrate their quality, I can tell you that they inspired Sophia who has been off and on cartooning. Nathan laughed out loud at them (a rare thing for a 14 year old boy when his mother is in the room). They cracked me up, too and there wasn’t any potty humor involved. That is a mark of true genius.

In a lovely bit of life symmetry or as an example of how our world continues to shrink, Nathan Bransford, a literary agent whose blog I read, posted a Lev video over the weekend. After having to own up to my own procrastination, I found it both amusing and, well, honest……

http://www.youtube.com/v/8Fsa2ePqeJM&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&fs=1

Now I have to go drink a couple of shots of tequila to get inspired.