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.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
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 Iadmire 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.
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
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.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
On Goldberg's Pwnd
Some people (like some guy named Lee Goldberg) think that fanfic writers are deluded, moronic idiots with seventeen cats all named some precious, goopy name, huge fat rolls hanging off the sides of their broken down office chairs and basically nothing in their life worth living for so they seek out emotional fulfillment by STEALING SOMEONE ELSE’S BABEEEE!!!! While Mr. Goldberg and his ilk are certainly entitled to their opinion, I think t/he/y weaken their position by resorting to schoolyard tactics such as bullying and name calling.
How... precious.
Anyway... I hate cats, am out of shape but not FAAAAAAT!11! (Hello, Mr. Goldberg – Glass house and all?) I’m happy to say that my life actually is kinda good; so busy and fulfilling, in fact, that in the four years I've been "actively" writing fanfiction... I've managed to hammer out only a little over 100,000 words.... And dudes, that's like only ONE Michael Connelly book, right?
So, yeah, I write fanfic. I do it as a writing exercise... to work on the mechanics of the craft of writing, without the pressure of "Oh-my-god-I-have-to-try-and-get-this-thing-published-or-I'll-be-a-failure-GAH!!1!!!1" In other words, it relieves the competitive struggle from my brain – ie, I CAN’T have it published – and frees me to be able to simply concentrate on a specific skill set during the exercise.
My question, and it's NOT "Why is Lee Goldberg picking on me and my ficcing brethren?" Rather, it's simply "Why does he care?" What punches his buttons so furiously that he continues to flog a horse that is so dead it’s a Frenchman’s dinner? Why does he get so hot under the collar about it?
I have a theory… and it’s by no means original – I think Freud might have come up with it first, and it’s trotted out on every media fan board argument at some point – I think Mr. Goldberg reacts so viciously because he sees a little of himself in what he attacks. It’s sound psychology – we usually are harshest with the people who most remind us – subconsciously – of ourselves.
The guy writes tie-ins. So he gets paid to steal someone else’s baby. Is that like kidnapping, kinda? Oh, wait – it’s sanctioned by the creator, right? I guess it’s alright to be a hack and come up with alternate scenarios for someone else’s creation if yousell your soul to them first sign a deal with them to shill their product.
Whatever; like I said, I’m supportive of his right to have an opinion. The button-pushing that drove me to rant about it, is that Mr. Goldberg is the beneficiary of some old-school nepotism and the people – like Naomi Novik, a ‘lowly’ ficcer who “Made It” – whom he attacks so vehemently, AFAIK, specifically aren’t. He and his compadres “Made It” through connections (read: relationships) to those already there. Ms. Novik made it…uh, because some power broker…uh… liked her writing…? Is it because Ms. Novik created an entire universe out of her imagination and, uh, is actually successful at it, while Goldberg (mostly) writes tie-ins for…uhm… teevee shows? Ahem. I’m sorry. I can’t resist laughing …just a little.
So, yeah… rant on, Mr. Goldberg and friends. We all know what you look like – being the beneficiary of some blood-line connections in the writing world – attacking a woman who successfully took her hobby and made something original.
Here’s another psychological principle for you, Mr. Goldberg. Most people when threatened by something they perceive as better than they will react one of two ways: they will either attack it (so, so tacky)…or they will compensate by substituting something for their own inadequacies.
Oh-oh-oh, I know! Why don’t you get a really fast, souped-up sports car?
How... precious.
Anyway... I hate cats, am out of shape but not FAAAAAAT!11! (Hello, Mr. Goldberg – Glass house and all?) I’m happy to say that my life actually is kinda good; so busy and fulfilling, in fact, that in the four years I've been "actively" writing fanfiction... I've managed to hammer out only a little over 100,000 words.... And dudes, that's like only ONE Michael Connelly book, right?
So, yeah, I write fanfic. I do it as a writing exercise... to work on the mechanics of the craft of writing, without the pressure of "Oh-my-god-I-have-to-try-and-get-this-thing-published-or-I'll-be-a-failure-GAH!!1!!!1" In other words, it relieves the competitive struggle from my brain – ie, I CAN’T have it published – and frees me to be able to simply concentrate on a specific skill set during the exercise.
My question, and it's NOT "Why is Lee Goldberg picking on me and my ficcing brethren?" Rather, it's simply "Why does he care?" What punches his buttons so furiously that he continues to flog a horse that is so dead it’s a Frenchman’s dinner? Why does he get so hot under the collar about it?
I have a theory… and it’s by no means original – I think Freud might have come up with it first, and it’s trotted out on every media fan board argument at some point – I think Mr. Goldberg reacts so viciously because he sees a little of himself in what he attacks. It’s sound psychology – we usually are harshest with the people who most remind us – subconsciously – of ourselves.
The guy writes tie-ins. So he gets paid to steal someone else’s baby. Is that like kidnapping, kinda? Oh, wait – it’s sanctioned by the creator, right? I guess it’s alright to be a hack and come up with alternate scenarios for someone else’s creation if you
Whatever; like I said, I’m supportive of his right to have an opinion. The button-pushing that drove me to rant about it, is that Mr. Goldberg is the beneficiary of some old-school nepotism and the people – like Naomi Novik, a ‘lowly’ ficcer who “Made It” – whom he attacks so vehemently, AFAIK, specifically aren’t. He and his compadres “Made It” through connections (read: relationships) to those already there. Ms. Novik made it…uh, because some power broker…uh… liked her writing…? Is it because Ms. Novik created an entire universe out of her imagination and, uh, is actually successful at it, while Goldberg (mostly) writes tie-ins for…uhm… teevee shows?
So, yeah… rant on, Mr. Goldberg and friends. We all know what you look like – being the beneficiary of some blood-line connections in the writing world – attacking a woman who successfully took her hobby and made something original.
Here’s another psychological principle for you, Mr. Goldberg. Most people when threatened by something they perceive as better than they will react one of two ways: they will either attack it (so, so tacky)…or they will compensate by substituting something for their own inadequacies.
Oh-oh-oh, I know! Why don’t you get a really fast, souped-up sports car?
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
One person candlelight vigil
Oh, the ups and downs of life.
Right now, I'm thoroughly unhappy with my home life... and that fact has almost NOTHING to do with reality. It's because I'm fighting depression, actually.
Anyone who suffers from depression, knows what I'm talking about. I've tried some traditional avenues of help for the tendency toward depression that I've had since I was very small... including counseling, self-medicating with Alcohol, better living through chemistry, sex, and none of it -- including counseling really did anything to stop the depression. I finally came to the conclusion that you know what? --sometimes I just feel bummed. self-destructive. alienated. hopeless.
And that's okay. I do a mental check of when I start feeling it... and when it passes. And, except for a couple of really extraordinary instances, the feelings pass within about three days. And if I'm unable to endure three or four days of drifting, and treading water with occasional points where I feel lucky just to hold my head above water... well, then I must be made of some really weak stuff.
And I know that I'm not. I am strong.
I am a broadcaster... to an unknown audience (-- maybe to no one --) in the middle of a sea of doubt, and fear, and lonliness... and if someone is reading this, and thinking they can't make it... that they're lost... with no hope...
Don't give up; it will pass. You have people who need you -- believe and hold on for them, if for no other reason.
Right now, I'm thoroughly unhappy with my home life... and that fact has almost NOTHING to do with reality. It's because I'm fighting depression, actually.
Anyone who suffers from depression, knows what I'm talking about. I've tried some traditional avenues of help for the tendency toward depression that I've had since I was very small... including counseling, self-medicating with Alcohol, better living through chemistry, sex, and none of it -- including counseling really did anything to stop the depression. I finally came to the conclusion that you know what? --sometimes I just feel bummed. self-destructive. alienated. hopeless.
And that's okay. I do a mental check of when I start feeling it... and when it passes. And, except for a couple of really extraordinary instances, the feelings pass within about three days. And if I'm unable to endure three or four days of drifting, and treading water with occasional points where I feel lucky just to hold my head above water... well, then I must be made of some really weak stuff.
And I know that I'm not. I am strong.
I am a broadcaster... to an unknown audience (-- maybe to no one --) in the middle of a sea of doubt, and fear, and lonliness... and if someone is reading this, and thinking they can't make it... that they're lost... with no hope...
Don't give up; it will pass. You have people who need you -- believe and hold on for them, if for no other reason.
Friday, March 30, 2007
So... Blogger is Google, now?
My, how things change. Google will one day rule the world... Bwahahahahaha.
Couldn't get into my blog, because I'd forgotten my password. Figures. You try to come up with a password that can't be hacked, and it's so good, you can't remember it yourself. Now, THAT's irony, Alannis.
From now on, I'm going to stop being coy, and just embrace the fact that I'm a writer. I'm not going to go around calling myself a fledgling writer, or a wanna-be writer or an unpublished writer (all of which are true...well, except for the last one, if you consider college publications.) From now on, I'm simply going to say, i am... a WRITER. --period-
Mostly, I'm writing fanfiction (yeah, laff it up) because I'm able to just experiment with an already created universe, concentrating on plot, dialogue and characterization. Right now, I'm in the middle of a WIP of colossal proportions based on the X-Files. It's mostly paralleling canon, but I'm trying to weave a wicked AU relationship between Scully and Krycek. This caught me some flak, at first -- a couple of ugly posts telling me, basically, to SHUT UP! SCULLY LURVES MULDER!!! KRYCEKS A LOSER!1!!!1 (hee) But mostly the reception has been very gracious.
It's funny, I used to be so into Mulder and Scully -- I never thought they should be romantic (their relationship transcended the merely sexual, imo) but I got kind of MAD at Duchovny with all his "I'm staying/ I'm going" bs... and I thought, Go! Don't let the door hit ya, ya ingrate!
And besides... Nick Lea is so beautiful it hurts to look at him.
So, yeah. Obsession + passive aggression = I want to make my Scully and Krycek action figures (snigger) do it. So sue me.
DISCLAIMER!!! I don't own the characters, and am making no (michael) muhney (another minor obsession) on them!!111!!1
Hee -- that always makes me laugh. Like anyone writing fanfiction would ever actually cut into the profit margin of the Big Brother(s). I know the disclaimers are a necessary evil, but they STILL make me laugh.
What? A point? Oh, yeah.
Okay, things I've learned from writing fanfiction:
1) Write something every day. Even if it's a sentance that you backspace through a hundred times. Writing takes metaphorical muscles -- if you don't exercise them, they will atrophy. NO, really. Be Nike. Just do it.
2) Try to write the stuff that pleases YOU -- not your readers. It's not being selfish; you only know your own tastes -- what makes you sit up and take notice -- and, chances are, there are others out there who enjoy the same things you do (otherwise, there'd be no Nielson Ratings) Instead of trying to figure out what will draw readers, write what would draw you. Remember Field of Dreams? If you write it (and you like it) they will come.
3) Have a 'spot' that you write in -- it can literally be the same seat at the dining room table, size doesn't matter. But, it's important to have it, and stake your claim on it: "THIS... is my writing spot!"
4) When you're writing (fiction, especially) get into the head of your primary character. In your mind's eye, take a few moments to visualize the scene you will be writing; see what your POV character sees, and describe it. It's that simple. And that hard. Because the trick is ---
5) ...try to describe it as succinctly as possible. (something that's really hitting home with my current X-Files fic, lemme tell ya... ) The more tight the writing (especially in action-driven fiction) the more the reader is drawn in and will be caught up in the writing.
6) Spell check, spell check, spell check. It should be like a mantra, man. Nothing takes someone out of the moment of your story quicker than baad spillink.
7) Accept constructive criticism gracefully. Let me go further -- encourage it, court it, solicit it. I like strokes... a LOT; who doesn't? But, sadly, strokes don't help me improve my writing. (although... they do inspire more writing...)
8) Read other good writers. Shamelessly copy them. NO -- don't steal their words (plagarism is NEVER cool)... but learn from them, imitate them (it's the best form of flattery) and try out their different styles. Always with the mind toward, finally, finding your own.
9) Try to get an objective person to read it before you post it -- a Beta reader. You are too close to your own writing, and sometimes -- like a doting parent with an unruly child -- can't always see the faults that need correcting which would stare the less-involved Beta in the face. It can only help.
10) Even if you do have a Beta tell you, "Cut this entire paragraph!" and it's something that you feel reeaally needs to be included? Trust your gut. You, after all are the crafter of that little slice of heaven... and if it's something you feel strongly about, keep it.
11) Sometimes, the chapter you're working on just ...isn't happenin'. Don't sweat it. Try writing a future chapter, or reworking an old one, or just go back and read older chapters to get back into the timeline you've established. Or, you know, take your dog for a walk, or shoot baskets with your kid... Don't, absolutely DON'T fear the Writer's Block. It happens, yes. But like with most things -- it, too, shall pass. Don't give up on your passion. If you do? You will live to regret it.
So, that is what I've learned, so far. It's been a wonderful, frustrating, enlightening, frightening thoroughly rapturous journey.
Till next time --
Couldn't get into my blog, because I'd forgotten my password. Figures. You try to come up with a password that can't be hacked, and it's so good, you can't remember it yourself. Now, THAT's irony, Alannis.
From now on, I'm going to stop being coy, and just embrace the fact that I'm a writer. I'm not going to go around calling myself a fledgling writer, or a wanna-be writer or an unpublished writer (all of which are true...well, except for the last one, if you consider college publications.) From now on, I'm simply going to say, i am... a WRITER. --period-
Mostly, I'm writing fanfiction (yeah, laff it up) because I'm able to just experiment with an already created universe, concentrating on plot, dialogue and characterization. Right now, I'm in the middle of a WIP of colossal proportions based on the X-Files. It's mostly paralleling canon, but I'm trying to weave a wicked AU relationship between Scully and Krycek. This caught me some flak, at first -- a couple of ugly posts telling me, basically, to SHUT UP! SCULLY LURVES MULDER!!! KRYCEKS A LOSER!1!!!1 (hee) But mostly the reception has been very gracious.
It's funny, I used to be so into Mulder and Scully -- I never thought they should be romantic (their relationship transcended the merely sexual, imo) but I got kind of MAD at Duchovny with all his "I'm staying/ I'm going" bs... and I thought, Go! Don't let the door hit ya, ya ingrate!
And besides... Nick Lea is so beautiful it hurts to look at him.
So, yeah. Obsession + passive aggression = I want to make my Scully and Krycek action figures (snigger) do it. So sue me.
DISCLAIMER!!! I don't own the characters, and am making no (michael) muhney (another minor obsession) on them!!111!!1
Hee -- that always makes me laugh. Like anyone writing fanfiction would ever actually cut into the profit margin of the Big Brother(s). I know the disclaimers are a necessary evil, but they STILL make me laugh.
What? A point? Oh, yeah.
Okay, things I've learned from writing fanfiction:
1) Write something every day. Even if it's a sentance that you backspace through a hundred times. Writing takes metaphorical muscles -- if you don't exercise them, they will atrophy. NO, really. Be Nike. Just do it.
2) Try to write the stuff that pleases YOU -- not your readers. It's not being selfish; you only know your own tastes -- what makes you sit up and take notice -- and, chances are, there are others out there who enjoy the same things you do (otherwise, there'd be no Nielson Ratings) Instead of trying to figure out what will draw readers, write what would draw you. Remember Field of Dreams? If you write it (and you like it) they will come.
3) Have a 'spot' that you write in -- it can literally be the same seat at the dining room table, size doesn't matter. But, it's important to have it, and stake your claim on it: "THIS... is my writing spot!"
4) When you're writing (fiction, especially) get into the head of your primary character. In your mind's eye, take a few moments to visualize the scene you will be writing; see what your POV character sees, and describe it. It's that simple. And that hard. Because the trick is ---
5) ...try to describe it as succinctly as possible. (something that's really hitting home with my current X-Files fic, lemme tell ya... ) The more tight the writing (especially in action-driven fiction) the more the reader is drawn in and will be caught up in the writing.
6) Spell check, spell check, spell check. It should be like a mantra, man. Nothing takes someone out of the moment of your story quicker than baad spillink.
7) Accept constructive criticism gracefully. Let me go further -- encourage it, court it, solicit it. I like strokes... a LOT; who doesn't? But, sadly, strokes don't help me improve my writing. (although... they do inspire more writing...)
8) Read other good writers. Shamelessly copy them. NO -- don't steal their words (plagarism is NEVER cool)... but learn from them, imitate them (it's the best form of flattery) and try out their different styles. Always with the mind toward, finally, finding your own.
9) Try to get an objective person to read it before you post it -- a Beta reader. You are too close to your own writing, and sometimes -- like a doting parent with an unruly child -- can't always see the faults that need correcting which would stare the less-involved Beta in the face. It can only help.
10) Even if you do have a Beta tell you, "Cut this entire paragraph!" and it's something that you feel reeaally needs to be included? Trust your gut. You, after all are the crafter of that little slice of heaven... and if it's something you feel strongly about, keep it.
11) Sometimes, the chapter you're working on just ...isn't happenin'. Don't sweat it. Try writing a future chapter, or reworking an old one, or just go back and read older chapters to get back into the timeline you've established. Or, you know, take your dog for a walk, or shoot baskets with your kid... Don't, absolutely DON'T fear the Writer's Block. It happens, yes. But like with most things -- it, too, shall pass. Don't give up on your passion. If you do? You will live to regret it.
So, that is what I've learned, so far. It's been a wonderful, frustrating, enlightening, frightening thoroughly rapturous journey.
Till next time --
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Trivial Pursuits
I mentioned fanfiction before, and there is an author that I'm really into right now. She writes simply the best, true-to-series X-Files fanfiction I've ever read. Her name is Joann Humby and she has a lot of stuff archived at Gossamer. Two serial fic's of hers that I highly recommend are Consequential Loss and Disconnected. I'm making my way through all of her stuff in my off hours ;-) Her Mulder and Scully are lovely, and her Skinner is tortured and her Krycek is ...well, let's just say he's fleshed out the way I always wished they'd have fleshed him out in the series. If you're looking for fic that is imaginative, original and plays like a really tight, excellant X-Files episode (or movie) in your mind, you should give her a look.
Good stuff.
Good stuff.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
On Fanfic
Oy.
First of all, I'm just going to say that I write what is in my head. I'm not a great writer, but that's good; I've got a goal that way, see?
Secondly, I get bored easily by the same old, same old, and my mind wanders to the different avenues, the little back streets, the messy little greasy spoons, precisely because they are the road less traveled.
When you're writing in a forum which is open to eeeevvvverrrryyybody and their brother, you are gonna get all kinds of stuff -- or you should, anyway. And all I was seeing was the same stuff over, and over, and over. I envision something...else.
My name at the forum is the same as here. And I'm not that prolific -- I've only got two stories -- one that is basically abandoned, and one that I just started. Both were based on popular shows... One, a dinosaur that's still limping along on the N_ _ network, and one that put Fox (both of them) on the collective consciousness's map. I cherish my stories, y'all, because writing is a dream that detoured in my life, and something that I am compelled to do... like breathing, right?
If I think the former nurse turned doctor and the rich boy doc who feels called to Africa really, truly belong together... and I write it in my little fanfic and that bugs.. well, you're entitled to be bugged, but get over it. I watched it faithfully, and that is what I thought should happen. If the powers didn't exactly agree with me, so what. Their's is a money game, so I understand. Gotta squeeze that teet as long as the cow is still standing, right?
If I think the dirty double agent who doesn't like to be discarded like somebody's bad prom date (and -- what a shame -- lost one of those enormously attractive arms) and the inscrutible doc from Quantico with the creamy skin turned alien chaser make for more interesting possibilities in my little passion play, who CARES? The show has been in the can for FOUR YEARS. The double agent doesn't even talk about his time shillin' for the mytharc anymore and the inscrutible, beautiful doc with the delicate skin is busy setting up housekeeping in London and doing stage plays. Meanwhile the Favored One, the Agent everyone loves best, the one everyone thinks the lady doc should have ended up with is busy parody-ing Agent Fox, painting charity pictures with his butt aided by his very, very funny wife and enjoying being a dad.
I don't think my doofy little fanfic is bothering any of them, really.
So every.single.person.writing.x-f fanfic thinks MSR is a religion... I don't. Never did. Can't make me see it that way... (oh, yeah -- here's more treachery: it ended for me at the foxy one's disappearance. The truth wasn't out there after Season 7)
Besides, it's so much more fun when there's lots of variety.
So, as far as my stress-busting creative pursuits are concerned, Bad boy double agent? you go for it, boy -- enough skulls, get you some skully in your closet.
And Doctor Former Nurse, if you're going to stay with the Croatian, get him to lighten up.
First of all, I'm just going to say that I write what is in my head. I'm not a great writer, but that's good; I've got a goal that way, see?
Secondly, I get bored easily by the same old, same old, and my mind wanders to the different avenues, the little back streets, the messy little greasy spoons, precisely because they are the road less traveled.
When you're writing in a forum which is open to eeeevvvverrrryyybody and their brother, you are gonna get all kinds of stuff -- or you should, anyway. And all I was seeing was the same stuff over, and over, and over. I envision something...else.
My name at the forum is the same as here. And I'm not that prolific -- I've only got two stories -- one that is basically abandoned, and one that I just started. Both were based on popular shows... One, a dinosaur that's still limping along on the N_ _ network, and one that put Fox (both of them) on the collective consciousness's map. I cherish my stories, y'all, because writing is a dream that detoured in my life, and something that I am compelled to do... like breathing, right?
If I think the former nurse turned doctor and the rich boy doc who feels called to Africa really, truly belong together... and I write it in my little fanfic and that bugs.. well, you're entitled to be bugged, but get over it. I watched it faithfully, and that is what I thought should happen. If the powers didn't exactly agree with me, so what. Their's is a money game, so I understand. Gotta squeeze that teet as long as the cow is still standing, right?
If I think the dirty double agent who doesn't like to be discarded like somebody's bad prom date (and -- what a shame -- lost one of those enormously attractive arms) and the inscrutible doc from Quantico with the creamy skin turned alien chaser make for more interesting possibilities in my little passion play, who CARES? The show has been in the can for FOUR YEARS. The double agent doesn't even talk about his time shillin' for the mytharc anymore and the inscrutible, beautiful doc with the delicate skin is busy setting up housekeeping in London and doing stage plays. Meanwhile the Favored One, the Agent everyone loves best, the one everyone thinks the lady doc should have ended up with is busy parody-ing Agent Fox, painting charity pictures with his butt aided by his very, very funny wife and enjoying being a dad.
I don't think my doofy little fanfic is bothering any of them, really.
So every.single.person.writing.x-f fanfic thinks MSR is a religion... I don't. Never did. Can't make me see it that way... (oh, yeah -- here's more treachery: it ended for me at the foxy one's disappearance. The truth wasn't out there after Season 7)
Besides, it's so much more fun when there's lots of variety.
So, as far as my stress-busting creative pursuits are concerned, Bad boy double agent? you go for it, boy -- enough skulls, get you some skully in your closet.
And Doctor Former Nurse, if you're going to stay with the Croatian, get him to lighten up.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
I'm cozy in the rocket
When my head begins to get too big, full of notions that I'm a true individual, that I listen to all sides of an argument before making an informed, personal decision... That I'm not a follower of the crowd, that I trail-blaze my own path, that I don't acquiesce to the press of popular opinion...
Something comes along to knock that self-satisfied impression right out of my head.
The feeling that we are individual, and special is a not-uncommon feeling; everyone wants to feel that way, a few of us actually do... Most of us, though, are shocked to find out just how like we are to our neighbor.
Usually this feeling is brought about by some life-event, like marriage or a very first job search or, going back even further, getting that first car. Invariably, if the money issues forth from the pocket of the parents, the car will be a sensible one with good gas mileage and absolutely zero cool factor.
But if we've saved up our own money, we are as likely to pick a car low on internal advantages, and high on looks as we are to hate our parents with a seething passion at the ripe age of 15. But then, "cool" is a priviledge of the teen years, and the desire for it outgrown as surely as the ignorance of the importance of good gas mileage evaporates, upon footing the cost for the first month's supply of that hungry machine.
It's usually the detritus of life that sways upon the cool factor -- the stuff that won't make a bit of difference when life begins that steep slope toward the inevitable-- the stuff that is engineered to be hot right now, and passe 15 minutes hence. Cars, clothes, shoes... the term "planned obsolescence" comes to mind. "Style" is perpetuated by it, spring, winter, fall and summer clothes lines thrive on it, and where would Bill Gates be without it?
There are some things, though, that even within the confines of planned obsolescence, transcend the bounds and appeal to a wide swathe of people and have some staying power... Jeans, for instance. Hi-rise, boot-cut, low-riders, ripped, patched, bleached, scorched and yes, even the whole-heartedly despised mom jeans-- despised even by the very moms encased uncomfortably within them-- there are as many styles as there are bodies to fit into them... One positive, universal appeal of jeans, though, is the fabric from which they are crafted... If there is anything better than cotton denim I haven't experienced it yet... and, interestingly, the very thing that makes jeans so wide-spread in their appeal also ensures the extremely slim possibility of their ever being "planned" into "obsolescence."
Jeans are to the clothing world what the humble potato peeler is to the kitchen gadget industry; it's just not possible to "build a better mouse trap" in either instance.
Television shows, however, are in another realm altogether... Other than the ridiculously ever changing clothing lines that the fashion industry foists upon the hapless, vapid fashionista, they are far and away the most lacking in any crumb of longevity. Once the industry discovered that syndication produces Midas-ian wealth, the aim switched from crafting an entertaining show as long as it appeals to the public, to "keep it on air and wring every last drop of creativity, freshness, intventiveness, and plausibility until it remains a mere shell of what it was at it's inception. I have more gripes than I care to recount in detail, so I will just toss out some "knee-jerk" words -- XFiles, Seinfeld, ER (a pox on you, tptb), Alley McBeal... all shows which became colossal disappointments in their endgame.
Also, it has nothing to do with my point, but I would feel remiss if I didn't mention, briefly, at the extreme opposite end of the wading pool -- the shows which were cut off before they should have been -- Sports Night (what the heck happened there?), Once and Again, Flying Blind (hello. did "Dharma" first. and did it BETTER), Futurama (come on; for a sophomore effort it beats the hell out of American Dad, any day. And while I'm on the subject -Seth, be careful, your crappy Dad, is killing the creativity of your far superior Guy.)
The disillusion abounds. You get to where you numb yourself to the gi-normous dearth of quality, creativity and innovation, until one day, you take a page from your husband's play book, and start channel surfing... and lo and behold you come across... blue jeans. Not just any old k-mart version, either...but real 501, button fly, gently used in the seat and knees, washed to softly perfect...perfection. The kind of jeans that, from all evidence, just sputtered right out of the factory, like, yesterday, but have the unmistakeably old soul of a pair of Miner 49ers.
Before you know it, you're hooked. Bad. You can't wait for Sunday nights at 10 (9 central, ABC) when you can get your weekly fix of this very good thing. You're cruising along, enjoying the sheer pleasure of having discovered something rare -- something actually creative, and fun, as well as moving (gag) ... but then you discover that the whole world (all six and a half BILLION people) are watching, and appreciating, and digging what you're digging.... And you don't feel quite so special anymore... but you know what? You don't care.
Because it's JEANS man.
Something comes along to knock that self-satisfied impression right out of my head.
The feeling that we are individual, and special is a not-uncommon feeling; everyone wants to feel that way, a few of us actually do... Most of us, though, are shocked to find out just how like we are to our neighbor.
Usually this feeling is brought about by some life-event, like marriage or a very first job search or, going back even further, getting that first car. Invariably, if the money issues forth from the pocket of the parents, the car will be a sensible one with good gas mileage and absolutely zero cool factor.
But if we've saved up our own money, we are as likely to pick a car low on internal advantages, and high on looks as we are to hate our parents with a seething passion at the ripe age of 15. But then, "cool" is a priviledge of the teen years, and the desire for it outgrown as surely as the ignorance of the importance of good gas mileage evaporates, upon footing the cost for the first month's supply of that hungry machine.
It's usually the detritus of life that sways upon the cool factor -- the stuff that won't make a bit of difference when life begins that steep slope toward the inevitable-- the stuff that is engineered to be hot right now, and passe 15 minutes hence. Cars, clothes, shoes... the term "planned obsolescence" comes to mind. "Style" is perpetuated by it, spring, winter, fall and summer clothes lines thrive on it, and where would Bill Gates be without it?
There are some things, though, that even within the confines of planned obsolescence, transcend the bounds and appeal to a wide swathe of people and have some staying power... Jeans, for instance. Hi-rise, boot-cut, low-riders, ripped, patched, bleached, scorched and yes, even the whole-heartedly despised mom jeans-- despised even by the very moms encased uncomfortably within them-- there are as many styles as there are bodies to fit into them... One positive, universal appeal of jeans, though, is the fabric from which they are crafted... If there is anything better than cotton denim I haven't experienced it yet... and, interestingly, the very thing that makes jeans so wide-spread in their appeal also ensures the extremely slim possibility of their ever being "planned" into "obsolescence."
Jeans are to the clothing world what the humble potato peeler is to the kitchen gadget industry; it's just not possible to "build a better mouse trap" in either instance.
Television shows, however, are in another realm altogether... Other than the ridiculously ever changing clothing lines that the fashion industry foists upon the hapless, vapid fashionista, they are far and away the most lacking in any crumb of longevity. Once the industry discovered that syndication produces Midas-ian wealth, the aim switched from crafting an entertaining show as long as it appeals to the public, to "keep it on air and wring every last drop of creativity, freshness, intventiveness, and plausibility until it remains a mere shell of what it was at it's inception. I have more gripes than I care to recount in detail, so I will just toss out some "knee-jerk" words -- XFiles, Seinfeld, ER (a pox on you, tptb), Alley McBeal... all shows which became colossal disappointments in their endgame.
Also, it has nothing to do with my point, but I would feel remiss if I didn't mention, briefly, at the extreme opposite end of the wading pool -- the shows which were cut off before they should have been -- Sports Night (what the heck happened there?), Once and Again, Flying Blind (hello. did "Dharma" first. and did it BETTER), Futurama (come on; for a sophomore effort it beats the hell out of American Dad, any day. And while I'm on the subject -Seth, be careful, your crappy Dad, is killing the creativity of your far superior Guy.)
The disillusion abounds. You get to where you numb yourself to the gi-normous dearth of quality, creativity and innovation, until one day, you take a page from your husband's play book, and start channel surfing... and lo and behold you come across... blue jeans. Not just any old k-mart version, either...but real 501, button fly, gently used in the seat and knees, washed to softly perfect...perfection. The kind of jeans that, from all evidence, just sputtered right out of the factory, like, yesterday, but have the unmistakeably old soul of a pair of Miner 49ers.
Before you know it, you're hooked. Bad. You can't wait for Sunday nights at 10 (9 central, ABC) when you can get your weekly fix of this very good thing. You're cruising along, enjoying the sheer pleasure of having discovered something rare -- something actually creative, and fun, as well as moving (gag) ... but then you discover that the whole world (all six and a half BILLION people) are watching, and appreciating, and digging what you're digging.... And you don't feel quite so special anymore... but you know what? You don't care.
Because it's JEANS man.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
O brother, where art thou?
He's my brother. And I haven't heard from him in a long, long while. We used to be close; I would listen to his girl woes, and he would listen to my advice. Somewhere along the way, though, he didn't like who I'd chosen to become, and he cut himself out of my life.
For a long time this cut me to the bone; I was proud of him, and worried for him. I wanted all these good things for him --a relationship with a nice girl, a good job which fulfilled him creatively (he's a phenomenal artist) but most of all, I wished him peace. With himself, the world and our past.
Now... I just feel sad that he doesn't know his nieces. He met our oldest, who asks about him every so often, when she was only a year old, and has never met our youngest. She rarely asks about him... but I know she wonders about him. We've built them a life which is full; full enough to compensate for a missing piece which probably doesn't want to be found.
He's a very unique individual... maybe he's even felt pidgeon-holed by people around him... maybe he's struggled with the same fears I've struggled with... I don't like to be put into a box, and labeled neatly. The box may constrict the life right out of me or be too big to fill from one moment to the next - who needs that, right? I don't want to be defined. I just want to be.
But he stuffed me in a box many years ago... I don't know what was happening in his mind, but I think it went something like this: our mother was dead, he had unresolved feelings and thoughts about her, and he transferred them to me.
Eww. I get a little squicked just thinking it -- much less typing it out. But it's my version of what happened. He, no doubt, has his own. Neither is the real truth... but somewhere in the middle, I guess.
He's a non-entity in our lives... he's a persona non-grata (although he extracted himself) he's... he's a phantom. A living dream state... someone I remember... but with soft edges, and dim color -- like an old photograph from the 70's or something. He chose to give me up; not the other way around... and yet, I'm the one who feels the guilt. And the loss.
He's out here, somewhere, in blog-space. Hey, Bro. If you're ever in the dust-bowl, look us up. We've left a candle burning for you. There's a couple of little people here who'd really like to know you.
For a long time this cut me to the bone; I was proud of him, and worried for him. I wanted all these good things for him --a relationship with a nice girl, a good job which fulfilled him creatively (he's a phenomenal artist) but most of all, I wished him peace. With himself, the world and our past.
Now... I just feel sad that he doesn't know his nieces. He met our oldest, who asks about him every so often, when she was only a year old, and has never met our youngest. She rarely asks about him... but I know she wonders about him. We've built them a life which is full; full enough to compensate for a missing piece which probably doesn't want to be found.
He's a very unique individual... maybe he's even felt pidgeon-holed by people around him... maybe he's struggled with the same fears I've struggled with... I don't like to be put into a box, and labeled neatly. The box may constrict the life right out of me or be too big to fill from one moment to the next - who needs that, right? I don't want to be defined. I just want to be.
But he stuffed me in a box many years ago... I don't know what was happening in his mind, but I think it went something like this: our mother was dead, he had unresolved feelings and thoughts about her, and he transferred them to me.
Eww. I get a little squicked just thinking it -- much less typing it out. But it's my version of what happened. He, no doubt, has his own. Neither is the real truth... but somewhere in the middle, I guess.
He's a non-entity in our lives... he's a persona non-grata (although he extracted himself) he's... he's a phantom. A living dream state... someone I remember... but with soft edges, and dim color -- like an old photograph from the 70's or something. He chose to give me up; not the other way around... and yet, I'm the one who feels the guilt. And the loss.
He's out here, somewhere, in blog-space. Hey, Bro. If you're ever in the dust-bowl, look us up. We've left a candle burning for you. There's a couple of little people here who'd really like to know you.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Been a Long Time...
The Holidays were a whirlwind.
They seem to go by faster every year. Is that because I'm getting older... or is time, actually, speeding up? I don't know, but at this rate I'm going to be 110 next year.
I made no New Year's resolutions this year... because last year's was to never make New Year's resolutions. Again. Ever.
It's the first successful New Year's resolution ever I made. Yay! me.
Happy (belated) New Year, everyone.
They seem to go by faster every year. Is that because I'm getting older... or is time, actually, speeding up? I don't know, but at this rate I'm going to be 110 next year.
I made no New Year's resolutions this year... because last year's was to never make New Year's resolutions. Again. Ever.
It's the first successful New Year's resolution ever I made. Yay! me.
Happy (belated) New Year, everyone.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
I wish...
I was nicer
it didn't depend on how others treated me
I felt good enough for that to be enough
my roof didn't leak
my yard never needed mowing
I had unlimited time to show my kids how much I adore them
I exhibited more grace... and less confusion
There was such thing as time travel
And that I wouldn't screw it up, if there were
there was time to sew everyone who was cold a nice, warm quilt
no one was plagued by fear
everyone had enough to eat
shoes were free
shopping for bras didn't cause aneurisms
Mulder and Scully never "hooked up"
there was no such thing as (you fill this one in)
But if wishes were horses... we'd all be knee deep in crap (thank you, Romano)
I'm sitting here at (checks clock) 2:26am, wishing there was no such thing as writer's block coupled with deadlines. Sometimes, the words just won't come. I'm currently in training to write on demand, although it's more speechwriting than actual "writing" writing. Once a week I have to prepare a speech of sorts, and I write the script beforehand. I like the structure of the script, although I really need to get away from that because it's usually so stale by the time it's delivered. And stale don't move people.
I think the difficulty (I use the term loosely -- not many of us truly have "difficult" lives...) of my task is compounded by the recent speed reading I applied to a nifty little book entitled Leadership and Self-Deception Getting out of the Box. What a great book --but it's pretty profound, and it's temporarily vice-gripped my mind. Can't stop thinking about it. I highly recommend it to anyone. Period. Anything you do in life can be positively influenced by the principles contained in this slim yet impactful book. (Yeah, "impactful" doesn't sound like a word to me either but what do you expect --it's after 2am)
That was the end of this evening's PSA
Here's a modern day tale: Once upon a time, there was a person who wanted more than anything to be a writer. But deadlines caused performance anxiety, which led to the crippling fear that nothing would issue forth from the fingertips, which became a self-fulfilling prophecy for the Writer to Be, and the WtB changed courses... embarking on a mad voyage down the paths of least resistance. WtB realized years later what could have been but fought indecision and fear in enbarking on the long forgotten dream of the past. Caught up in the inertia of self-doubt, the WtB felt powerless to change the patterns of the past.
Moral? Don't be like WtB. Wishes may be exercises in futility...or they can be the bridge to something greater than you've ever imagined. Never stop wishing.
Peace; and good night.
it didn't depend on how others treated me
I felt good enough for that to be enough
my roof didn't leak
my yard never needed mowing
I had unlimited time to show my kids how much I adore them
I exhibited more grace... and less confusion
There was such thing as time travel
And that I wouldn't screw it up, if there were
there was time to sew everyone who was cold a nice, warm quilt
no one was plagued by fear
everyone had enough to eat
shoes were free
shopping for bras didn't cause aneurisms
Mulder and Scully never "hooked up"
there was no such thing as (you fill this one in)
But if wishes were horses... we'd all be knee deep in crap (thank you, Romano)
I'm sitting here at (checks clock) 2:26am, wishing there was no such thing as writer's block coupled with deadlines. Sometimes, the words just won't come. I'm currently in training to write on demand, although it's more speechwriting than actual "writing" writing. Once a week I have to prepare a speech of sorts, and I write the script beforehand. I like the structure of the script, although I really need to get away from that because it's usually so stale by the time it's delivered. And stale don't move people.
I think the difficulty (I use the term loosely -- not many of us truly have "difficult" lives...) of my task is compounded by the recent speed reading I applied to a nifty little book entitled Leadership and Self-Deception Getting out of the Box. What a great book --but it's pretty profound, and it's temporarily vice-gripped my mind. Can't stop thinking about it. I highly recommend it to anyone. Period. Anything you do in life can be positively influenced by the principles contained in this slim yet impactful book. (Yeah, "impactful" doesn't sound like a word to me either but what do you expect --it's after 2am)
That was the end of this evening's PSA
Here's a modern day tale: Once upon a time, there was a person who wanted more than anything to be a writer. But deadlines caused performance anxiety, which led to the crippling fear that nothing would issue forth from the fingertips, which became a self-fulfilling prophecy for the Writer to Be, and the WtB changed courses... embarking on a mad voyage down the paths of least resistance. WtB realized years later what could have been but fought indecision and fear in enbarking on the long forgotten dream of the past. Caught up in the inertia of self-doubt, the WtB felt powerless to change the patterns of the past.
Moral? Don't be like WtB. Wishes may be exercises in futility...or they can be the bridge to something greater than you've ever imagined. Never stop wishing.
Peace; and good night.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Time Passages
Every year around the end of October, I get pensive and tend to dwell too much on the past. My mother passed away at the end of October. So every year around that time, I start taking stock of my life...
I think mostly about guys. Yeah, typical. I'm sorry I cannot report a fixation on the more profound topics like politics or religion... Nope; for me it all comes down to the dudes.
Not just any dudes, either. No -- this is the short list of Guys Who've Had Significant Influence On My Life.
Mostly, I remember one guy in particular... but this isn't just one of the guys on the Short List... no this was the Big One. The First Love guy. Every woman's romantic journey starts somewhere, and most of us mark it by the first guy we dated, or the first guy we crushed on. And that's okay. When I compartmentalize them into neat little categories I have to name Patrick Phelan as the Point A on my romantic Odyssey. Even if we were only nine at the time... and he "liked" my friend more than me. Okay, he didn't know I was alive; but let's not split hairs.
And then there was Richard. The first...okay, the ONLY, high school relationship. But that was more an experiment in endurance than anything else; the central theme being who could get out alive, through the haze of smoke (both the legal and the illicit) and the after-effects of ill-gotten beer.
No; for the real Point A in my journey of sexual awakening, I'd have to give that honor to someone I never even kissed. No, really. And I was 17 when I met him, too -- well-past the age when a kiss is any big deal.
This guy towered over me -- I'm pretty short (5'0") and he was easily 6'4. He was a lot older than me ("but well within range," my fevered teen-aged inner romantic always whispered) and he was the counselor at a private school I attended in my last year of High School.
Oh, man I fell so hard for that guy. I would dream up reasons to go and have "office time" with him... which wasn't hard to do, as I was from a pretty unstable background and lived in a youth home at the time I met him. And before I go any further let me clarify: no, "office time" isn't a euphemism for sex. (Hey, man, I'm talking spiritual stuff here...)
He was patient and kind, and listened with longsuffering endurance to my breathless ramblings... and it didn't hurt that he was gorgeous and in a band, and had longish hair, and had biceps that were cut like a lumberjack's (only without all the dirt and grime.)
Long story short, I graduated, and his band hit lean times, so I didn't see too much of him for a while.
Until I went to a small two-year college in a Dallas suburb, and in the middle of my - oh, who am I kidding, I don't remember which semester- Suffice to say, that he ended up on a construction crew on campus, the offices of which were located in a trailer which I could see right out my dorm bedroom window.
Oh, the misty-haloed fantasies the view of that trailer sparked... white steeds, armored Knight -- something along the line of Buttercup's jump from the window at the end of Princess Bride...(only, not into Andre' the Giant's waiting arms...)
I visited him every.single.day. And brought him a loaf of my homemade banana bread with me... because it was his favorite. It didn't hurt that he wore those sleeveless undershirts almost every day (Oh! I got to see so much of his skin!) due to the hot working conditions. And he looked like a bronze god from working in the sun all day... and his brown hair now had natural blonde highlights in it the likes of which would make Bon Jovi fire his hairstylist...
But... it was his soul I was falling for; no, really! It just came in a really. fine. package.
And just when I was at my absolute worst point -- too far gone for any kind of therapy-- his job ended, and he was no longer outside my dorm room window.
But that wasn't the end...
We attended the same stadium-sized church, and he was on the youth staff there. So, yeah. I saw a lot of him still... And the memory is fuzzy, yes, but I recall getting more than one phone call from him at the dorm payphone (we weren't allowed phones in our dorms).
One in particular, I'll never forget. It was when he called to tell me that he was moving on... going back home out west. I was so crushed that he was leaving, and being the stoic that I am, I couldn't let him know I would be hurt by this knowledge, so I basically told him to have a nice life, and hung up on him. Nice, huh?
I went on to dodge a couple more phone calls from him after I'd graduated and gone back to the youth home... including one in which he'd tried to tell me he was getting married. Our mutual friend filled me in, though... letting me know that his intended was the same height...had the same hair color...and even the same first name as mine...
Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe he was just trying to bury the memory of the besotted little teen-aged girl whose attentions made him feel like Superman.
I mean, what guy doesn't want to be Superman, right?
I think mostly about guys. Yeah, typical. I'm sorry I cannot report a fixation on the more profound topics like politics or religion... Nope; for me it all comes down to the dudes.
Not just any dudes, either. No -- this is the short list of Guys Who've Had Significant Influence On My Life.
Mostly, I remember one guy in particular... but this isn't just one of the guys on the Short List... no this was the Big One. The First Love guy. Every woman's romantic journey starts somewhere, and most of us mark it by the first guy we dated, or the first guy we crushed on. And that's okay. When I compartmentalize them into neat little categories I have to name Patrick Phelan as the Point A on my romantic Odyssey. Even if we were only nine at the time... and he "liked" my friend more than me. Okay, he didn't know I was alive; but let's not split hairs.
And then there was Richard. The first...okay, the ONLY, high school relationship. But that was more an experiment in endurance than anything else; the central theme being who could get out alive, through the haze of smoke (both the legal and the illicit) and the after-effects of ill-gotten beer.
No; for the real Point A in my journey of sexual awakening, I'd have to give that honor to someone I never even kissed. No, really. And I was 17 when I met him, too -- well-past the age when a kiss is any big deal.
This guy towered over me -- I'm pretty short (5'0") and he was easily 6'4. He was a lot older than me ("but well within range," my fevered teen-aged inner romantic always whispered) and he was the counselor at a private school I attended in my last year of High School.
Oh, man I fell so hard for that guy. I would dream up reasons to go and have "office time" with him... which wasn't hard to do, as I was from a pretty unstable background and lived in a youth home at the time I met him. And before I go any further let me clarify: no, "office time" isn't a euphemism for sex. (Hey, man, I'm talking spiritual stuff here...)
He was patient and kind, and listened with longsuffering endurance to my breathless ramblings... and it didn't hurt that he was gorgeous and in a band, and had longish hair, and had biceps that were cut like a lumberjack's (only without all the dirt and grime.)
Long story short, I graduated, and his band hit lean times, so I didn't see too much of him for a while.
Until I went to a small two-year college in a Dallas suburb, and in the middle of my - oh, who am I kidding, I don't remember which semester- Suffice to say, that he ended up on a construction crew on campus, the offices of which were located in a trailer which I could see right out my dorm bedroom window.
Oh, the misty-haloed fantasies the view of that trailer sparked... white steeds, armored Knight -- something along the line of Buttercup's jump from the window at the end of Princess Bride...(only, not into Andre' the Giant's waiting arms...)
I visited him every.single.day. And brought him a loaf of my homemade banana bread with me... because it was his favorite. It didn't hurt that he wore those sleeveless undershirts almost every day (Oh! I got to see so much of his skin!) due to the hot working conditions. And he looked like a bronze god from working in the sun all day... and his brown hair now had natural blonde highlights in it the likes of which would make Bon Jovi fire his hairstylist...
But... it was his soul I was falling for; no, really! It just came in a really. fine. package.
And just when I was at my absolute worst point -- too far gone for any kind of therapy-- his job ended, and he was no longer outside my dorm room window.
But that wasn't the end...
We attended the same stadium-sized church, and he was on the youth staff there. So, yeah. I saw a lot of him still... And the memory is fuzzy, yes, but I recall getting more than one phone call from him at the dorm payphone (we weren't allowed phones in our dorms).
One in particular, I'll never forget. It was when he called to tell me that he was moving on... going back home out west. I was so crushed that he was leaving, and being the stoic that I am, I couldn't let him know I would be hurt by this knowledge, so I basically told him to have a nice life, and hung up on him. Nice, huh?
I went on to dodge a couple more phone calls from him after I'd graduated and gone back to the youth home... including one in which he'd tried to tell me he was getting married. Our mutual friend filled me in, though... letting me know that his intended was the same height...had the same hair color...and even the same first name as mine...
Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe he was just trying to bury the memory of the besotted little teen-aged girl whose attentions made him feel like Superman.
I mean, what guy doesn't want to be Superman, right?
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
first days
I've been through this before; I should be jaded and take it in stride this time around. In some ways, I am; the feelings are dulled, a little bit. I've been in the same position before, although with the oldest one, not the youngest. I'm still the same person, repeating half-remembered rituals of pick up and drop off... and yet, this time is so much more poignant. Even though the "shine" may be off the experience, this is the last time I will have this "first."
Today, our baby went to Kindergarten.
(Well... yesterday, actually as I got interrupted while trying to write this.)
She loves it, too. And now that our baby, our youngest, has successfully entered the dawn of her school career, I realize that we are on the downward slope of life -- blink and we'll miss something.
Remember that scene at the end of the movie Parenthood? (love that movie, btw) The scene where Gil and Karen's youngest child has just ruined their daughter's school play? And there is a montage of all the family members enjoying the simulated roller coaster sensation? I never got that. Well, I got it...but with this being the last time I'll send a child off to kindergarten, I finally get a deeper meaning of the whole "roller coaster ride that is life" thing, and it is this:
The slowest part of the ride is also the shortest -- the ascent. When you are up fifteen times a night with a newborn, and bombarded by an endless cascade of diapers and teething, and just get one (reluctantly!) out of diapers when another is on the way... Well, you get the picture; it seems this phase of your life is an eternity, and you wonder if you'll ever get a good night's sleep again... And it does seem like the longest stretch of time in your life... until you get the last one in kindergarten, and before you really clear the sleep (deprivation) from your eyes, you've hit the top of the ascent...
And there is this breathless moment, where time seems to stand still for the tiniest moment... and then WHOOSH! your flinging down the technically longest part of the ride... but it doesn't feel that way because it goes by so damn fast.
I used to shrug off the advice of people who would tell me, "enjoy them while they're little, dear; they will be grown before you know it..." and I'd think, "yeah, yeah; I got it..."
Boy, was I arrogant. Seriously.
Oh, I tried; I did... up until my youngest hit the terrible two's (from which she has yet to emerge, imo.) and from then, everything but this moment has been a blur. I just sent my baby off to kindergarten...
And I feel a... breathless sensation...
Today, our baby went to Kindergarten.
(Well... yesterday, actually as I got interrupted while trying to write this.)
She loves it, too. And now that our baby, our youngest, has successfully entered the dawn of her school career, I realize that we are on the downward slope of life -- blink and we'll miss something.
Remember that scene at the end of the movie Parenthood? (love that movie, btw) The scene where Gil and Karen's youngest child has just ruined their daughter's school play? And there is a montage of all the family members enjoying the simulated roller coaster sensation? I never got that. Well, I got it...but with this being the last time I'll send a child off to kindergarten, I finally get a deeper meaning of the whole "roller coaster ride that is life" thing, and it is this:
The slowest part of the ride is also the shortest -- the ascent. When you are up fifteen times a night with a newborn, and bombarded by an endless cascade of diapers and teething, and just get one (reluctantly!) out of diapers when another is on the way... Well, you get the picture; it seems this phase of your life is an eternity, and you wonder if you'll ever get a good night's sleep again... And it does seem like the longest stretch of time in your life... until you get the last one in kindergarten, and before you really clear the sleep (deprivation) from your eyes, you've hit the top of the ascent...
And there is this breathless moment, where time seems to stand still for the tiniest moment... and then WHOOSH! your flinging down the technically longest part of the ride... but it doesn't feel that way because it goes by so damn fast.
I used to shrug off the advice of people who would tell me, "enjoy them while they're little, dear; they will be grown before you know it..." and I'd think, "yeah, yeah; I got it..."
Boy, was I arrogant. Seriously.
Oh, I tried; I did... up until my youngest hit the terrible two's (from which she has yet to emerge, imo.) and from then, everything but this moment has been a blur. I just sent my baby off to kindergarten...
And I feel a... breathless sensation...
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Maiden voyage
First time blog....and my mind is a blank. Typical. Too many thoughts, usually. Can't get mental peace enough to fall asleep. Hopefully this will change, as I'm usually un-shut-up-able.
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