Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride,

Nobody's gonna slow me down...Oh no, I've got to keep on mooovin'.

That's a great song, and an even better sentiment. One I've only begun to tap into now that I'm solidly in my 40's.

I grew up being a bit, let's say 'morose' to be kind to my younger self, and didn't really even see the glass much less be able to tell if it was half full or empty. I didn't spend a lot of time thinking 'happy' thoughts. My father was an alcoholic with pedophile tendencies, my mother tepid in her demonstrations of love, and my younger brother a complete pain in the (bleep). Your basic garden-variety late '70's family dysfunction.

In recent years, however, I've allowed my husband to rub off on me in some very good ways. (stop it... I'm not being dirty) He's a gem, and like I said in my last post usually a very positive person. When he gets down in the dumps, I feel my duty to be the lifter upper. Back in the day -- when we were just starting out together -- it was exclusively the province of my guy to lift me out of the dumpster emotionally. I feel the sting of those years -- all that hefting with very little reciprocal effort on my part -- and thus feel compelled to 'make up for it' in redoubled efforts now.

So, I've noticed -- and happily, so have close friends -- that the doldrums don't hold me under water quite so long as they used. That's the way with bullies: their power over you decreases in direct proportion to your increasing confidence in triumphing over them. And the moroseness or depression or the doldrums or the blues -- whatever you want to call it -- is one big, bad bully. But then, the ones generated from inside usually are.

Of course the way to invite a bully to another attempt at domination is to announce on the bullhorn that you've bested him.

In a sense, with winning the NaNoWriMo challenge, getting a much needed new car, finding out that the damage done to our bank account was only in the amount of three dollars -- (yes I went yesterday, found out it was an organized effort by someone(s) in Florida just systematically hitting a series of bin numbers) ** I had started to feel ... shall we say a little smug? Yeah, that's a good word. I was letting down my guard, opening my arms wide, picking up that bullhorn and shouting "Look at ME! I'm able to stay 'up' all by myself! The Bully has LOST!"

(**Okay, so I'm naive -- it was more like over $150.00...but still. It could have been worse. Way worse.)

Heheheh. Someone much more eloquent than I once wrote "Pride goes before a fall." Lucifer knows that one by heart... and so. do. I.

Oh, yeah, I'm a good one for getting lazy when I've hit a high spot. If anyone can coast on past accomplishments, I can. If anyone can diet to the right size and then think "My work here is done," as they rub their hands together in anticipation before diving into the bin of unlimited Oreos, I'm your gal. Matter of fact, I've done it every year for the past six. If there's EVER been a soul who thought, "I've achieved (__________) now I get to fall back and watch the motes floating lazily in the sunbeams," I am that soul.

But that's not the way it works, is it? Those of us who struggle -- be it with our weight, or depression, or addiction -- must always be vigilant. Always on the lookout for that little chink in the armor or crack in the fortified wall or hole in the dam.

As devotees of (insert your passion here) like to say, "It's not__________, it's a way of life," so too must the strugglers, the battle-scarred worriers, the bullied, the sullied, those pilloried by real or phobic or outright imagined fears.

For me, I think I can identify with all of those bondages in one way or another. And so... I soldier on, trying to remain vigilant, on the look-out for any sign of vulnerability...never really awake, and only occasionally very well rested. My armor is lightweight, though, and the weapons are deadly accurate, sharpened as much by intent as by daily use. When I do fall asleep on the job, the quicker I can wake and fight, the better the outcome.

Because I've been without the armor before. And it's a defeated end to a fight that is never really begun.

It's always somethin'

Looking out the window which frames the tree that flips me off, I can see blue sky bright with sunshine wherein puffy clouds drift lazily. I think, "It's December," with no little amount of astonishment. The odds of the contracted roofers replacing our worn patchwork quilt of protection before the winter snow arrives grow shorter by the hour. "It's coming, it's coming," my mind whispers, lest the snow gods hear me and come bearing gifts of enchantment and treachery.

It all started several months ago, actually in early June, when around these parts the late spring gives into summer's insistence and the tornadoes threaten wide swathes of retribution on the evil and the good alike. We aren't particularly evil...but then we aren't exceptionally good, either. So, it all comes out a wash, I guess. Anyway, our proverbial number was up.

Some background, first. We had endured many a season here ensconced in a snug if sprawling house with good bones but a terrible, old, worn out flat roof. Alas, fixing a flat roof is a crap shoot and the patch job performed before we finalized the purchase of the house lasted approximately 6 months. Coincidentally (or was it?) at the first rain, we had three separate leaks inside. Fun. Ah well, at least we had enough buckets.

My husband being an enterprising young man rigged syphons in the low spots - first using left over evaporative air conditioning tubing (did I mention that up until about a month ago we haven't had central air for about four years? Ah-- yes, well, I digress) and later, after the cooler tubing wore out, some fresh poly tubing. Easy peasy -- if you don't mind going out in every snow and rainstorm and sucking on the tubing to get the water flowing. (and yes, we've both done it, though to be fair, he's done it much more than I)

We knew it would be a loooong time till we could afford to have the roof redone, so we reconciled ourselves to the 'sucking'. (metaphorical usage intended)

Then came last June, and the tornadic weather which brought us - our whole town, really - a blessing disguised as a curse: the worst hail storm anyone can remember -- and we've got some folks around here who are in their 90's and still sharp as a tack. So, yeah. Looong time. Not a skylight emerged intact from the wrath of that storm, unleashing it's fury in the form of softball sized (yes, really) stones.

We called our insurance peeps a week later -- after someone advised us we should. What did we know? We thought, "Flat Roof -- no one's gonna touch it," so we didn't call at first. The adjuster came out and totaled the roof, though.

And we've been waiting ever since to get it fixed. (There was the little matter of the heating and air conditioning guy who stopped up the progress by 'intending' to do this or that, showing up without calling, doing about an hour and a half worth of work every sixth day and letting new leaks rain water down the new holes he sawed into our already overtaxed roof...But I digress again.)

Yeah... But we do have our dining room finished -- except for six pieces of trim that we cannot match (still looking) -- but then we did that job 100% on our own, too.

Last night my husband said, "I'm through depending on other people. They always let you down." Aw! That is sad. This man is not that kind of man. He's always hoped for the best, prepared for the worst...but kept on believing the best -- of everyone. That he said something like that? Is not a good sign.

And now... just got a call from the bank -- at 5:02 pm (riiight) telling us our debit cards have been turned off due to some "suspected fraudulent activity". When I asked the bank rep "how much we talking about here" she said, "I can't tell you anything about it, I'm only calling you (at 5:02 pm, when you have to sit and STEW all night long worrying about it but be unable to DO anything because the bank hours are set to 'closed') to let you know why your card wouldn't work should you try and use it..." Great. Hope we don't bounce any outstanding checks while we work this little snafu out.

Our life is full of many blessings that cannot be measured in dollars and cents... but when it comes to dollars and cents...

It's always somethin', idn't it?

Confetti and Cocktails Time!

I did it. That's what I can say, now, to the question "Have you written a novel?" Why yes, yes I did. As in past tense, as in already accomplished.

I've just submitted and been approved by the NaNoBot Overlords 52,541 words, topped off with "the end" and everything and I've now got the purple bar with the white lettering that says, "winner" on it displayed under my user name. I've printed out my pretty certificate with my name and my novel's name on it that has "Winner" emblazoned across it, and I'm gonna figure out how to put the winner badges on this here blog.

(the number of times I can use the word "winner" let me show you it)

I feel...Like I can accomplish anything, now.

So, I'm going to celebrate, kick back, enjoy the holiday...and plot my Script, for the upcoming Office of Letters and Light challenge, "Script Frenzy".... heheheheh... I'm addicted.

Some Random Thoughts...

I just distilled my writing Mission Statement in one sentence in an email to a friend:

"...I want to write trashy, gossipy, messy, escapist mainstream fiction which gets consumed in mass quantities. -- A lot of it. "

He implored me not to sacrifice my art for filthy lucre... And I had to ask, "Have you read my stuff?" I'm just sayin'...

Now, I'm not meaning to imply that I've never had more literary, lofty goals -- I am known to spew good intentioned -- but still rather bad -- poetry on occasion... But my writing desire is more satisfyingly filled when I'm spinning an entertaining story. Full of quirky yet believable characters. Who get thrown into believably simple yet frustrating situations. Who maybe find a little redemption along the way.

I wish I had the capabilities of a Jane Austen or -- shoot, I can't stand 'em, but they've definitely stood the test of time -- even the Bronte sisters to tell stories so full of scope and timelessness that they become classics read the world over. It's probably not gonna happen... and even if it does? I'll likely be dead, so I won't know anyway.

At the end of the day, I just want to look over a chapter I've cranked out, and smile a little in recognition, wince a little in shared pain, thrill in anticipation, and finally sigh with a little release... I want to...transport, and entertain, and maybe lift up a little... bring a smile... occasionally a tear... maybe just a tiny dash of conviction...?

So, yeah. I wanna tell great stories...but like the kind you tell after a glass of wine, sitting around in front of the fire with a group of friends, just enjoying each other's company. The kind you repeat to other groups of friends because you know they'll bring a smile. The kind of seemingly insignificant event which ends up becoming the gold thread weaving in and out of the tapestry of your days. (What did I tell you about the bad poetry...? See?)

So, yeah. It's not lofty...or significant...and probably won't be a blip on the radar in fifty years...but that's my writing life, in a nutshell.



Here's a quote, from my quietly BRILLIANT husband on writing, and more specifically, editing when you're supposed to be getting the story on paper. He said, "Honey, trimming an overgrown hedge into a topiary shape is much easier than growing a hedge into a topiary shape."

I love it -- I've quoted it to everyone who will listen.

So, yeah: Rule 1# - Get the words down while the muse is dictating in your ear like a chipmunk on an amphetimine high -- you can cut, edit, shape, style and beautify after she crashes into a post-rush dream state.

Looky!

I just made a banner:




Preeeety -- go there, it's fun.

I, For One, Welcome Our New NaNoBot Overlords...

I plugged my manuscript in the 'tester' run of the NaNoWriMo Official Counter...and actually GAINED about 700 words! Woot!

NaNoWriMo has been such a huge educational journey this year. I'm hooked. I'm now officially part of the NaNoBorg and want to assimilate as many closeted writers as I can.

I feel the overarching message in the whole is that I can write every day -- and it can be a raucous, wild, free-wheeling, creative ride, instead of a drudge that I have to do.

Oh, and a side message: Housework is NOT essential. (except for laundry and toilets -- those kiiinda need cleaning on a regular basis.)

Given the choice between scrubbing the tub and writing a chapter...?



Well.... just guess which I will pick? heheheheh.

BLAVIN!

I did it. I signed up for NaNoWriMo. Late -- four days behind, to be exact (that's 6,668 words behind) but am now at 11,956 words. I've closed the gap, all I need to be caught up is a little over 3,000 words. I should be able to accomplish that on a Sunday afternoon.

I put the NaNo participant badges on my page here, proudly, and am trying to figure out how to put a little widget word counter on too. Anyone know how to do that? Anyone, Anyone... Beuller...Beuller...Beull - okay, I'll stop. (Figured it out ;-)

I'm writing a kooky story that I'm making up as I go along -- the characters have already taken on some recognizable signs of life, and I'm surviving and continuing to slap words on the virtual page by completely ignoring my internal editor -- and not being afraid to record the suckiest writing that sucks in order to reach the goal of 50,000 words by midnight, November 30.

It's... exhilarating! It is amazing how much output you can achieve if you simply speed write. And it is all practice -- no pressure...just writing like a kid does, for the pure fun of it!

If you haven't checked it out, and you kind of aspire to writing that novel that you just know exists deep inside your brain, check out the NaNoWriMo -- challenge yourself. You never know what you can do, till you sign up for a contest run on the honor system, with no judges, no monitoring and no monetary prize. It's GREAT!

...Here be Monsters.

I love that line from Pirates of the Caribbean: "We're off the edge of the map we've made; here be monsters." (and yeah, I know it isn't original to the movie -- it was written on the unexplored margins of most maps back in the day)

I'm still reading this marvelous, humble little book called "Page after Page" and I'm in the home stretch but I've reached the absolute end of my inter-library loan abuse. The marker has been called, and I've got to return it today. So close! (Ah, well, the copy I ordered should be in the mail sometime this week.)

The last section is some good stuff, brother. I just had to come and post -- nay, I was compelled to post!

My thoughts, let me show you them.

God! Heather Sellers is so... good. That tells you nothing! -- let me dig deeper and get into some of my compost, tell you how I really feel. I have to quote from the book, directly. (Disclaimer Ahead!!) These are Ms. Sellers words, not mine:

Some writers, who work very hard, every day, make money off of their writing. Most, like painters and puppeteers and pianists, have other sources of income: lessons, shows, community performances. Most writers are less master and more jack-of-all-trades. It can be frustrating, but I think we like it that way. Most writers aren't terribly obnoxious or stuck-up or greedy for chic sunglasses and fancy cars. They like nice paper. Beautiful pencils. Maybe a particularly fine desk lamp or a gift certificate from a locally owned bookstore. I might be wrong, but I think most writers are going to do the work, anyway, for some other reason than fame or fortune. We are people of letters, as Janet Burroway says. We have to record what we see and what we know, in our towns and on our streets, in our families and in our daily lives. In this way, we are the opposite of fame and fortune.

The thing is, for me, writing is like giving birth. I've only ever attempted it once (hah! birth, not writing) -- despite having two children (first one a scheduled C-Section, the second one an emergency C-Section after being in labor for 24 hours) -- but I remember it vividly. It was hard. And it hurt like the fires of Hell. And it made me SICK and so, so tired. But I didn't even once imagine quitting. I wanted to push that baby OUT -- I wanted to break that tape as I crossed the finish line!! It was the most profound thing I've ever attempted, the pushing. As the doctors and nurses tried to pull this vital thing out of me, I vomited and peed and yes, I shat. It was ...excruciating -- the embarrassment.

Writing *is* pulling something vital from the deepest part of you with all the attendant gore -- there's sweat and blood and urine and feces and vomit and placenta and (finally) tiny, helpless, perfect (even in "imperfection") HUMAN. A whole.other.person.

Writing is swarming in all sorts of life-force vibrancy. It's also a mash of disgusting explicitness. It's... if it is anything *real*-- like LIFE itself. Life is full of dark places that we don't want to go... much less show anyone else because -- God forbid! -- they'd know we were HUMAN. And frail. And disgusting. And struggling. And noble -- sometimes. And ...worth every effort.

*THAT'S* how I see writing. It's, like my friend Robin says, really very easy. But it's also the hardest thing to make yourself do, every day -- day in and day out.

But like birthing a human... it's worth every effort.

Cheri Block Sabraw - Notes from Around the Block: Father Knows Best

This beautiful 'Happy Birthday' to her father is bittersweet, lovely and exactly how I feel about our current political climate. Take a moment, if you are stopping by here, and read this lovely, heartfelt post.

Cheri Block Sabraw - Notes from Around the Block: Father Knows Best

New Phones and Old Phobias

I've been using a trac fone for a while now, and I've never, ever been happy with the company -- mostly due to customer service (customer disservice) over one issue: I never, in about four years of paid service, had a voice mail...or for that matter caller i.d.

I spent two separate very long sessions with the outsourced (and undertrained) customer service people -- all very nice, very polite folk -- who had absolutely no idea how to actually resolve my missing voice mail problem. Finally, after the second lengthy attempt, I just gave up, and had a phone with no voice mail, no caller i.d., and no way to know from where the untold number of calls I missed came.

My guy and I have discussed getting new cell phones since he graduated and agreed that once he was settled into his full-time job, we'd begin looking in earnest. We've shopped around, compared companies and plans, asked around our collective pool of friends and family and let it all stew for a bit. For about 5 months, actually. That's a pretty tasty stew.

Well, this past week, we finally made our decision, signed on for a family share cell plan and bought three phones. (My youngest gets one when she enters Jr. High, just like big sis. A fact, I might add, that is causing a little bit of drama around the house right now.) My husband got a mac-daddy, tricked out SmartPhone, chock full of high tech goodness and my oldest and I each got LG Scoops -- hers is turquoise and mine is orange.

My guy gets his phone out and starts off with a bang, making calls, zipping around checking out his new toy, and I'm kind of timidly poking and prodding mine a little bit and my oldest thoroughly has hers mastered in about 20 minutes. The only thing I was really concerned about was getting my (finally!) voice mail set up. After I saw, or rather heard, my oldest speak her greeting into her phone, I think, "Oh, yeah -- I wanna get that up and running." So I grab my phone and start hunting and pecking around to find how to get my greeting on mine.

Guess what? My new phone...the one I was waiting for so I could finally have voice mail... Doesn't have voice mail.

You know... I don't care for the bells and whistles. I mean, I don't want a JitterBug, or anything but, criminy -- Just let me place phone calls, and in turn, have some way to freaking identify the callers I miss!!!! I don't need live streaming video feed with an mp3 player and games and whatever else the "latest" cool phones have!!! Just give me my dang VOICE MAIL, please. (Although...my new phone is mp3-ready...and I'm kind of excited about that!)

Grrrr. I was burning, man. My husband -- who is my a-number-one, go-to guy -- starts messing with my phone, and when he can get no further on his own, starts scouting the internet for solutions. He exhausts that avenue, and then spends about 40 minutes on online tech support, chatting with someone about my problem...then he calls a number the chat tech gives him and spends another like, 45 minutes on the phone with that tech person and after about two-and-a-half hours Voila! I have my voice mail!!! (He's the BEST!)

So... now I want ringtones, dude. And like, mp3's... and maybe a couple of kewl games; like can you get Halo on your cell? And how about web browsing... because I need to surf at all possible times...

Oi. Maybe it isn't too late to check out one of those JitterBugs....

Get Back, filthy Muggles!

Harry Potter Personality Quiz by Pirate Monkeys Inc.

You saw it here, I Am Lord Voldemort!!!! Bwahahahahahah! but really I just need a hug *wibble*.

Go and take the test, Death Eaters!

November approaches...

...and I am chickening out about the whole NaNoWriMo thing. My guy asked me in the car yesterday where (and when) I was planning to take my 'writing sabbatical' this year. And I had no reply. I knew it was coming... I thought I'd like nothing more than another mini-retreat to just marinate in aloneness to prepare for the Month of Speed Novel Writing.

Last year, in the final weekend of October, in preparation for the NaNo, I went and stayed in a little cabin in Ruidoso, NM. It was a productive two days... I made little meals for myself, walked freely around in the (at that time of year) mostly deserted resort town and wrote, wrote, wrote.

But...the thing is, one of my favorite things in trying to cultivate a writing life, is that I like to sabotage myself. (Oh, yes -- right after the 'brown paper packages tied up with string,' is the 'self-sabotage' verse of that song.)

I'm struggling just to get stuff into this blog...to get through a book I'm reading with writing exercises in it...to finish a longer-than-War-and-Peace fic that's been going on since '06... and to try and write something, you know... original... Plus, guitar practice every day, and keeping up with the ever present housework.

Writing, unfortunately, takes a back seat to all the housework. Because housework is unrelenting; because if I don't sit on that proverbial lid and try to at least keep it level it topples over and takes over; because a clean house makes me feel useful; because I want to run away from writing so I won't fail... (oh, hay thar, real excuse!)

Plus, you know, there is a lot of stuff to watch on youtube.

Here's the thing. This book I'm reading, it's called Page after Page [not to be confused with that book by that perky chick who hosted (hosts? I heard she's back...) Trading Spaces] and that book -- if you're prone to self-sabotage or writer's block or any of the myriad of psychic afflictions to which writers are susceptible -- is painful. The author, Heather Sellers, asks incredibly thought-provoking questions (read: self-inflicted mental colonoscopy) of the Writer Inside You. She makes you, in short, examine whether or not you truly, deeply, madly want to write.

And I'm not sure my answer is ...yes. Because if I truly, deeply, madly wanted it, wouldn't I be doing it?

So, yeah... November fast approaches, and I'm running for my life.

Hymn

I'm over 40 and I found something that I like...but I'm not sure if I'm "allowed".

I've stumbled upon a band that was unfamiliar to me. I always get a little obsessive every time I discover new music, and I listen repeatedly to the newly discovered stuff -- you know just to make sure, heh. Normally I'm not too uptight about genres and styles; I can find something I like on almost any station on the radio dial. Even with the stuff I don't care for I can usually manage to find something noteworthy or valid about it that I can, at the very least, appreciate.
My first love is Rock and Roll and I thoroughly enjoy Classical; I relax to modern orchestral arrangements (like soundtracks for movies) and even like some Rap. The toughest field for me to mine is Country...but Sugarland kind of helps with that.

I never felt the constraint of propriety on my musical tastes .... Until today.

Following a thread completely unrelated to what I was doing (there was a little reference in someone's icon) I hit youtube and played several selections of music by a band called H.I.M. Anyone under the age of 21 knew (probably -- what do I know?) about this band five years ago, but being that I'm ancient I don't have the same leisure time to scout out the good music -- I just wait until the whipper-snappers mention it in their lj's.

Anyway... this band is usually categorized as .... goth. Oi. I can't even say it any "louder" than that! I'm ...embarrassed. I think...?

The lead singer/songwriter is young enough to be my son... (Okay -- if I gave birth at 12! Let's say...my S.O. if I was Demi Moore! Sounds cooler.)

The members of the band sport multiple tattoos, they cultivate a nappy, I-haven't-showered-or-shaved-in-three-days-and-just-stumbled-off-the-bus-drunk-to-play-this-gig look and did I mention that they are goth? But still -- good music is good music.

I sat down every time I took a little break between projects today, and listened to a different song. I can honestly say that while some of it didn't just whallup me in the solar plexis, a majority of it did.

If you're over 40, and like fresh music... check 'em out. Might I recommend "Love Said No" or "Killing Loneliness" or the acoustic version of "Funeral of Hearts"...?

Space Invaders

I have tried to write this post several times, but that thing...you know that thing that sits somewhere in the back of your mind, or the bottom of your gut, or in the pit of your emotions? -- that thing keeps me from posting.

It's not like it's a big deal -- I was going to riff about how as a wife and mother, your time is eaten up by "space invaders." (Sorry to any retro-gamers who happened upon this post by mistake, but it's not about a video game.)

See the trouble is, the post kept going in this whiny direction aimed at a person who whines a lot about not getting any time to themselves, in spite of the fact that this person has more time to themselves than I do simply because they play (unfairly, IMO) on the sympathy of those around them.

And then I remembered, heh, I don't have a job anymore...so, yeah. Loooootsa time on my hands, now -- and in the two weeks that my offspring have been back in school? I've managed to fritter away about 2/3'ds of that time on ...nothing.

I think I'm feeling crabby and out-of-sorts at myself, for taking all this glorious time that I've gained by giving up my "real" job for volunteer work and housework. So I transfer all my anger to this person -- for something I guess I'm jealous of? 'Cause, honestly...they get more done with their free-time than I do -- when the person I'm really angry at is...Me.

Now that I'm not employed (and turned down a full-time job that -- five years ago -- I'd have really wanted) I think I'm having trouble figuring out how to arrange my time. I've always had an impossible to surmount list of To-Do's that I knew I'd never have the time to accomplish... and that excuse was perfect for not accomplishing anything. Heh, now that I've the time... what excuse do I use for not getting any of those things done!?!

I didn't think I'd have this hard a time prioritizing my time. I thought I'd shout "W00-H00!" and finish a bunch of UFO quilts, and the mending; paint the kitchen; color my hair; obsessively pursue sudoku excellence; rearrange the furniture, and then have it all reupholstered and arrange it back; learn to make tatted lace, Scandinavian embroidery, and crocheted dish rags; repaint the office so that my youngest can have her own room; sew new curtains; redo my two hideous bathrooms; clean the closets; get rid of all the electronic equipment that doesn't work or only works sometimes and have a huge "as-is" garage sale; and, and, and...?

Whew. That list makes me tired.... think I'm gonna go take a nap.

Creative Juicers...

That phrase "Get the creative juices flowing" made me think of just how those juices would start flowing... And the unsavory thought struck me, "Hmmm, probably the same way we get juice from other things... by wrenching and squeezing the dang thing till we've purged it of it's last 'gettable' drop."

Sitting down to write is the precise time one would like to have those creative liquids seeping copiously and -- very often -- that's just when the mental electricity goes out and the infernal machine won't operate and the juices, alas, remain unsquozed. (it's a word, 'cause I said it is.) Of course...that's when you knuckle down and do it like Grandma did before household electricity was a given. You grab that fruit and you slice it open, and you mash it down on that weird thing that looks like a deformed, ridgy boob, and Voila! You got your juice!

Come to think of it... that pretty much nutshells the writing process in all it gory glory.

Before I put my big girl panties on and actually told people that I was a writer, and swallowed my fear and joined a Writer's group, I wrote with abandon... I wrote like it was my job. I wrote without even thinking about it. As soon as I told someone, "Why yes, I am a Writer," it appeared the well pretty much ran dry.

It reminds me of a story about faith I came across once. Here it is:

The following letter was found in a baking-powder can wired to the handle of an old pump that offered the only hope of drinking water on a very long and seldom-used trail across Nevada’s Amargosa Desert:

“This pump is all right as of June 1932. I put a new sucker washer into it and it ought to last five years. But the washer dries out and the pump has got to be primed. Under the white rock I buried a bottle of water, out of the sun and cork end up. There’s enough water in it to prime the pump, but not if you drink some first. Pour about one-fourth and let her soak to wet the leather. Then pour in the rest medium fast and pump like crazy. You’ll git water. The well has never run dry. Have faith. When you git watered up, fill the bottle and put it back like you found it for the next feller.
(signed) Desert Pete.
P.S. Don’t go drinking the water first. Prime the pump with it and you’ll git all you can hold

(Keith Miller and Bruce Larson, The Edge of Adventure)

That little buried bottle is to the pump what 'creative juicers' are to writing... My friend Diane calls them 'prompts'.

During one of our meetings, someone -- in the LIBRARY, no less (tell me, when did libraries lose that 'shhhh, please be quiet' thing? Why was I never told?) -- starts blabbing rather loudly on her cell phone during one of our 10 minute writing exercises. In the library. Where it's supposed to be a safe haven for studying. I got rather irate, "OH! the nerve --" when Diane shhsh'd me and said, "Use it: it's a prompt!" Aside from giving me a "harrunh?" moment... I actually learned something.

Everything -- every piece of stimuli our senses take in -- can be used as flint to start the fire; the creative juicer that extracts those creative juices. Every experience we have, every person we know is an opportunity to exercise that squeezing hand and extract a little prose.

Bernie Mac, Isaac Hayes, and...?

My husband has a good friend, also an alumnus from the acting pool at Disney's Epcot, with whom he shares a limited but spirited email correspondence. The subjects of these emails usually include a 'what I'm up to now' catch-up, a list of some haunted places the friend has researched and the 'Celebrity Triumvirate Deaths' that seem to happen with more regularity the older I get. (or maybe it's just that all my childhood celebs and heros are aging with me...?)

First, Bernie Mac passed on Saturday from complications of pneumonia and left me and I'm sure many of his other fans completely stunned. He was so ...young.

Then tonight, I sit down to the laptop and see that Isaac Hayes was pronounced today at 2:08 pm.

I read Bernie Mac's bio yesterday, and mourned a little. (I can't truly mourn, as I didn't know the man personally. But I always appreciated his 'observation on life' comedy style...and his appreciation for our Libraries. My heart goes out to his family, nonetheless. Read on, Bernie Mac man. Read on.)

It wasn't until tonight, as I was reading some bios and articles about Isaac Hayes that I started getting a little freaked out. In one of the articles, the reporter commented that Mr. Hayes had recently completed a role in a film called Soul Men (scheduled for release in November) with Samuel L. Jackson and... "comedian Bernie Mac who died on Saturday..."

Whoa. Look... I'm kind of -- in spite of my usually no-nonsense, practical faith, and due in large part to a complex mixture of Southern Baptist religion and deeply-entrenched southern spiritualism -- superstitious. A black cat crosses in front of my car? I pull a u-turn. I know it's crazy, but man, it's deep-seated!

My only thought on reading the Soul Men cast list is... Samuel L...Watch your BACK! It's completely irrational, but I'm actually worried about the man! Too many motherf*&%ing deaths in the motherf*&%ing news!

TWO cast members passed away in one weekend. What went on on that set? Was it under a curse? Remember when the little girl from Poltergeist died in that heli- accident? There were rumblings of a 'cursed' set over that incident...

I'm confronted with death in my little, aging small town all the time; I accept it as a natural course of life. But celebrity deaths? They freak me out. They seem so sudden. And they truly seem to happen in threes.

And that? Is just spooky.

Yellow-bellied sidewinder...

From as early as I can remember I wanted to be a writer. Specifically, a reporter for the Washington Post. When I "grew up" after realizing that the guv'ment would give me this thing called a Pell Grant to go to college, I took my first couple a years at a Community College.

I chose Journalism as my major. (natch) Fueled by the vision of field assignments in exotic locations, I pursued my courses with a vengeance. I was a late-starter (at 25) -- I had to make up for lost time. No assignment was too small -- if it happened on campus, I could find an angle and fill a spot in the student paper with a story. My ability to write catchy headlines became a minor (very minor) legend in the news room. I won second place in a national collegiate contest for one of my features the head of the journalism department submitted on my behalf. Not too shabby for a first year. I was on my way...I could feel it.

Until I hit the mid-point of the first semester of my second year (technically my last year, as it was Junior college) approaching grade time and I had... about 13 "inches" and needed about 32. Staring down the deadline with a keen sense of impending failure, and against all my advisers advice...

I punked out and switched my major at the last possible moment, dropped the offending class and became the newest guppy in the casting pool of the Department of Speech and Theatre. I had taken just enough theatre hours to make the switch possible and began a 10-year odyssey as a second-rate actress.

Heartbreaking, I know. Gag; don't break out the violins, yet.

I can't regret the chequered theatre past -- however indirectly, it led me to my husband... And he ain't too shabby, either.

Those dreams of being a reporter for the Washington Post were shelved, a long time ago. The 'writer's block' that seized my lapels back in my second year of Journalism shook me to my core, and I never gave a passing thought to writing again. It wasn't until I got involved in the online world of 'ER' fandom and encountered this strange thing called fan fiction that I began to wonder if I could put pen to paper and crank out something interesting to read again.

Let me 'splain... No, too long; let me sum up: I started writing again. Fan fiction mostly, but some poems again, too... A few headlines, short stories... Readers seemed...kind of pleasantly entertained...a little. I started to think...hey, maybe. Maybe I can...oh, I dunno, write again. Like, maybe even ...try...to, uh, be published. The hope that I could was like a tight knot in my gut -- I couldn't really distinguish the features of the feeling enough to even describe it as hope -- but it was there. A little glimmer, anyway.

And then this really neat thing happened, like most neat things -- I wasn't looking for it, didn't even know I needed it, until it was there and then, of course, it was indispensable; my husband (the one I met -- indirectly -- through acting) said, "I think this is the next phase for you; I think this is what you're supposed to do." That hope that was a tight knot burst in my gut... and I wasn't sure if it was a completely pleasurable sensation because I cried and it sort of hurt, too... maybe like the first stages of appendicitis.

It was profound, because I couldn't remember my mother, my father -- anyone other than my fifth grade social studies teacher Stephen P. Liles -- telling me: Hey, you have the right stuff, girl! Go get your dream!

And it would be all good, except for the crippling realization that I've written NOTHING for months...and every time I've attempted it, I walk away. I'm scared, scared, scared to really go for it. To go balls out and be consistent. I'm like PeeWee and the snakes; every time I pass my laptop I think for a moment and then shudder and slink away. Writing -- or rather, FAILING at being an accomplished professional writer SCARES HELL out of me and ironically...makes me NOT write. Tell me to speak in front of a room full of people about a topic you just handed me, shove me out onto the stage with little to no prep and I will do some fancy verbal footwork and -- at least -- bullsh-- my way through it, oh yeah. But ask me to simply sit down and write -- something, ANYthing -- once every day?

Well... see the title of this post.

Let's get ready to BLOGROLL....

Hee. I'm imagining the title shouted out in that WWF announcers voice.

A bit of background:

I'm an inveterate magazine subscriptionolic (Hello, my name is...) always in search of the better mag. I've swashbuckled through subscriptions to House Beautiful (too 'foo-foo'); flirted with Southern Living (too 'Feeoo- feeoo'); had an on-again-off-again relationship with Better Homes and Gardens (come on: Upscale and out of my league / or Homey and Familiar; pick one, please?); picked up an occasional Family Circle, Redbook, and Ladies Home Journal -- I've had a LOT of one-night (magazine) stands... (blush)

Currently I'm brushing off the advances of a BH&G subscrip renewal and letting it run out, am happily nesting with Real Simple, and have just let Good Housekeeping back into my life. (I know, I know -- Three Main Mags? -- but the BH&G will run out eventually...won't it?)

So, I crack open my brand new Good Housekeeping August issue, and start thumbing through it. I'm enjoying the pictures of clothes I could actually, maybe afford without a major credit check, recipes for which I might actually be able to find the ingredients in my small town grocery, and pretty, pretty landscaping ideas I will dream about but never do (although I could, as GH is very true to the middling classes who can't afford a landscaper ...on retainer.)

Then I flip a page and a picture of a man from my past is looking penetratingly back at me... And all of a sudden, it's ten years ago, and I'm just getting my husband hooked on the show to end all shows...and the Major Motion Picture is about to debut...and I'm so EXCITED!

That's right. Duchovny is BACK, baby. X-Files: I Want to Believe is scheduled for a July 25th release, and I'm SO THERE!

Anyone in my company longer than 10 minutes KNOWS that I'm an X-Files nutjob. And although, for me, the show ended at the final episode of season 7 when Scully said, "I'm ...pregnant." and I've been telling my husband "Aggh. It's no big deal..." about the new movie? Secretly, I am a big, quivering mass of icannotWAIT! to see it.

But I digress. I'm happily reading along...happy to see that DD seems to have gotten a little ...ahem... humbler in recent years (yeah, I thought he became an arrogant ass at the tail end of the X-Files' run, So?), happy that he and Tea Leoni are still (seemingly) happily married(why? I dunno... just am.) when I stumble upon an innocent looking little digit next to his name that was just sort of unobtrusively slipped in there: his age; given as 43.

"Harrunh?" Scooby said in my head. I could have sworn (on a stack o Bibles) that he was older than me. Like....big-brother-older. Like 4 or 5 years... which would put him (Sooorry, DD's publicist-who-probably-wants-him-to-appear-to-be-younger-and-hotter-now-that-he-has-a-new-movie-that-they-hope-turns-into-a-franchise coming out) at 48 or 49 years old.

Look, I know it's a Hollywood disease the symptoms of which cause stars to undergo the knife, lie like rugs about 'extended vacations' to cover surgically-induced absenses and become drug addicts to try to keep up with the Jones for youth and beauty...

But seriously. I -- and any X-Filian worth their salt KNOWS DD was born in 1960. And any Truly FoxMad fan knows his b-day is coming up very soon. (August 7th, she said smugly.)

Okay. I'll come clean. I ran to my laptop (because the battery -- it's second one -- is shot and I can't actually use it on my lap) and looked him up on imdb...and WHEW. His correct birth year was there in his bio, plain as day.

I'm pleased. Because I always liked ol' Spooky Mulder (and the guy who played him) and the thought that the character who's Holy Grail is The Truth, lies about his age...?

to quote a dear voice in my head, "Harrunh?"

I'm in DisneyChannel Heck...

So...when did Disney start manufacturing Animatronic Children for their sit-com line-up.

Gah... I have two daughters in the Tweener age group, so Disney runs like a CNN crawl in my house, and I'm just... Blech. All the kids look

Plastic.

Sad; we're infecting them with our Celebrity-Worshipping Cult at younger and younger years.

Don't drink the Kool-Aid, kids.

I thought this was entertaining, if juvenile...and very intuitive of my deeply repressed secret dreamworld life. It picked Alex Krycek out of five choices.

Smart M.A.S.H. game. Heh.

		I will marry Alex Krycek.
		After a wild honeymoon, We will settle down in Sydney in our fabulous Shack.
		We will have 15 kid(s) together.
		Our family will zoom around in a Red Viper.
		I will spend my days as a Ad Executive, and live happily ever after.

Lame Duck

For almost five years, I’ve been the preacher at the church my husband grew up in. I’m not ordained; don’t even have a degree, but the denomination is one in which the congregation can vote on a lay-person to fill the pulpit while searching for a ‘real’ Pastor. They voted me in unanimously, and I’ve doubted the wisdom of that corporate decision almost every day! But I regret not one day of it. I grew more in the last five years than I did in the last 15.

I’ve stated to them from the start that I knew I wasn’t what the congregation needed but that I could fill the hole for four or five years until we found someone who was. I never made any promises…like that I could be their pastor, but I did often feel the compassion to step up to the plate and be more than I ever thought I could. Even though I tried to be honest with them, and tell them that my first priority was to my children, I still felt (feel?) that some of them were always very unhappy with me…that I could do better if I just put forth a tiny bit more effort.

Like I’m compulsively late – always have been, and, likely, always will be – but that as much as I’ve tried to be on time, and keep regular office hours…I just…can’t. I cannot make myself get in there on time – I’m always late.

[I’m suspect it’s one of those self-defeating tendencies that perfectionist-underachievers display, because to succeed tends to scare the hell out of (us).] But I was thinking about it today – I called in sick, even though technically I don’t guess I’m really sick… I just am exhausted – and I realized, after one of the parishioners called and offered to be of any kind of help – even to picking up my kids from school and keeping them for a little while! – that maybe…they wanted me to reach out to them a little more often, ask for help from them, lean back on them just a little…if it meant they’d get me to the office on time!

I don’t ask for help…unless I really, really, really need it. (Maybe that’s why I’m so tired?) And maybe they kind of wish I had, more often. Instead of just asking when it was basically an emergency.

Well, we found and voted for, and hired a ‘real’ pastor. I’m very happy. I look forward to becoming a better mother, wife and writer with a bit more time in which to wallow around in it all.

But I cannot help thinking…or wishing that I’d figured this whole thing out before now, when I’m on my way out the door.

My husband went to pharmacy school and all I got was this lousy t-shirt

There was a dearth of pharmacists in this country roughly six years ago; an alarming trend that the industry sought to change through heavy recruitment of new pharmacy students. My husband was one of them who, in mid-life, discovered a job change would do him good...and six looooong years later, he's (we're) almost there.

He graduates in May (god-willing-and-the-crick-don't-rise, knock on wood, turn around clock-wise three times and then spit over your left shoulder as you say 'shelaleigh' real loud*) and he doesn't really want to walk the stage to get his diploma. I told him he must walk... for me, so I can take his picture. He's acquiesced to my request, but not real enthusiastically. To him it's all cake at this point -- useless and filled with a bunch of empty calories. He's jumped through hoops for that school...and he's done.

I know it seems easy for me to say, but I've gone through it with him. He did the studying and the testing and the projects and the butt kissing, yes. But I endured as well. I endured being a de facto single mom for all the many weeks he's stayed at school to save on gas. I've endured long nights alone in our bed, sleepless and lonely. The severe weather warnings, and worry -- no, not for us, here -- for him up there, in that tiny little camper probably being buffeted about by the golf-ball sized hail.

Yep. I've gone through it, too. He's got the knowledge, tucked safely in his brain; the credentials are his, and his alone...But I walked that path with him and dreamt of seeing him at the finish line triumphant. And I want to take that picture that simply wouldn't be the same if staged after the fact.

So, yeah. He's gonna walk, and he'll do it with a smile on his face. Because for him, it'll be all about the pride he sees in my eyes when he catches me looking at him; all about the many times that he thought he might not make it, but I knew he could. I'm his biggest fan, and he knows it. He would blow it off if it was just for him.

But it's not. It's for me, and he knows giving me that gift is way better than a t-shirt.

*I made that one up.

The tree outside my office window has a hand that flips me off

No -- really, it does.

Where I live, the trees are in full bud-mode, but there's this one that is still winter-bare, and on the west side of the tree there's this bony hand flipping me the bird. Considering my vantage point for this treehicular insult is the spot where I attempt my writing...well, it's just not a very good omen, I don't think...

I'm in a writer's group now; a local group of women, young and old, bonded together by the nebulous desire 'to write'. Some want financial success, some desire personal success and, for most of us, the goal is simply 'to have a goal'.

I have a goal. Oh, yes. I've always simply worded it 'to be published'. It's always been enough, because, see, I'm a procrastinating perfectionist (re: evidence: this blog's dearth of posts) -- I don't need a goal more specific than that because then I'd actually have to back it with action.

And that is where the real fun begins.

I've got this guitar -- It's a travel-size Oscar Schmidt Washburn acoustic steel -- that I saved up for over many, many months. I put aside every little bit of spare cash I had -- birthday money, Christmas money and lint-furred spare pocket change -- in the hopes that I could afford a guitar on which to learn.

Being 43 years old, and having already taken up the guitar in my late-teens for a couple of years, I didn't walk into this blind; I knew of the blinding neuro-pain I'd have to endure in the fingertips of my left hand... (although I wasn't fully aware of the mid-to-severe arthritic complaints of my left shoulder and elbow that would accompany this journey at an older age, but that's another story)

I knew practice would be hard, and finding time for it even harder. I knew to expect slow progress because, let's face it, the 43-year-old brain doesn't catch on as fast as the nineteen-year-old one. (come to think of it, neither do the 43 year old fingers...) I knew I'd probably never be Eddie Van Halen, but I'd hoped I'd be the best Solard.

And yet... I walk into that office (the same one that I avoid writing in. Coincidence? I think not.) and stare at that guitar and --? Turn around and walk out. That's exactly what I do. I get all gut-twisted, and I walk away. Because...?

Same thing with the writing. Someone in my writer's group said, "Tell people you are a writer when they ask what you do... that way you'll be too embarrassed not to write." Good advice, yes. The problem is, when I'm sitting in front of the laptop in that office with that bird waving at me from the tree outside that office window... I get the familiar gut-twisty feeling and I walk away. Because...?

Fear...maybe. Who wants to fail at something they want so badly? Not me. Who wants to spend hard-saved money on something you've anticipated for years only to discover it's actual use is as a really unwieldy door stop? Not me. Who wants to spend months churning out 150,000 words only to realize it would make a great Bezoar*? Not me. Who wants to stare at the bony hand on that tree outside that office window waving the Finger of Epic Fail?

...................................... ''/

Who thinks that you have to be under 20 years of age to be a whining emo brat-tard? not me...

*Ep 2.13 Grey's Anatomy. Also...a pretty darn funny word.

I’ve been seeing a lot of “news” updates – constant and detailed – of the travails of… ahem, …troubled young starlets like Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Amy Winehouse, (insert King of Siam “etcetera, etcetera” here) in my internet surfing of various popular internet sites. The volume of words wasted…er, uh… devoted to these train wrecks of narcissism and unlimited income poor, struggling victims of addiction is disturbing.

Are we – you know, the people not hunting and gathering these sometimes hourly reports and spamming the world with them – really that interested in the every minute, whimsical turn of these screwed up individual’s lives?

I’m going to go out on a limb, here, and posit that most of the people in the world have their own small dramas to play out every day and have too little time to devote to the manufactured, self-induced chaos of some spoiled, impulsive AdultChild.

These people are just grown up unruly children who’ve never had anyone say an honest “Get OVER yourself and go clean your room” to them. What is so newsworthy about a marginally talented wastoid falling apart?

They are like trolls on a message board: “Hear ME, look at ME, pay attention to MEEEEEEE!” They’re in a vicious circle of courting the press and bemoaning their lack of a Private Life, trotting out their fugly, dirty laundry for anyone and everyone to see – no matter if they want to or not - because it’s EVERYWHERE.

The first rule of dealing with trolls is don’t feed them. What is the press doing by documenting in excruciating hourly detail the wild vicissitudes of these individuals? Giving them the exact dosage of the drug they need to continue on in their headlong plunge over the edge.

How.in.the.world. did this stuff become news? I don’t get it. It’s only interesting to teen-agers blessed with so much free time on their – uh, wait. I think I got it. EVERYONE markets to teen-agers, because they whine and stamp their feet at their mommy’s and daddy’s to get their fast personal computers, televisions, x-box’s and wii’s in their rooms so they can spend allll (eleventy!) their time isolated from ANYthing that is real and worthy in life and immerse themselves in the bad examples of their ill-chosen “heros”.

Okay. Makes sense now.

I just wanna throw something out there, though. I don’t admire the people I mentioned at the beginning of this post (or any of the several others similar in circumstance and behavior – they just happen to be the most “in the news” right now) – I feel sorry for them. I pity them.

Whether they have problems because they were mothered by someone who desired fame themselves which compelled them to disregard even the most basic of parenting wisdom, or they have a propensity toward addiction behaviors and fame exacerbates that tendency or they have a diagnosable psychological disorder (although I’m beginning to think the Psychoanalysis community would have EVERYONE be in the throes of some psychological disorder or another – but that’s another rant) it’s the same. I pity them, because they’ve been encouraged in their dysfunction rather than compassionately and firmly led away from their self-destructive bent.

That, at bottom, is what bothers me about the pop “journalists” who are documenting the minutiae of a person falling apart at the seams; it doesn’t help anyone – not the consumer of the trash journalism OR the sufferer of the break-down – it only fans the flame.

I’ll tell you who I admire am intrigued by right now; Angelina Jolie. Here is a woman who, in the span of a very.short.time transformed herself from a person who seemed to be teetering right on the edge of LiLo and Brit-Brit level shenanigans (hello? Vial of blood around your neck?) into a U.N. ambassador and global philanthropist, who’s (seemingly) selfless desire to mother a child who needed it inspired the current trend of Third World Designer Babies (Yes, I’m talking to “your majesty”, you trend-whore).

Here’s a woman under an incredible amount of scrutiny who could have imploded and become just another statistic. Yet she managed to PR her way into near-beatification and actually managed to do some good …all while having to play down that whole weird escapade with the vials of blood and theTMI/ PDA. Not to mention the very public snagging of the husband of America’s Sweetheart.

You don’t come back from that s**t without some real grit, determination and (most importantly) perspective, folks.

So… if you really feel for these screwed up young women in the news… turn off the tv, don’t buy the rag, and look around for someone nearer to you who might be in the same boat, and try, instead, to help them save themselves.