So, There Was This Girl Who Had A Temper

Co-worker: I read it, but it was crap.

Me: (Silence)

Co-worker: Well, you read quite a bit, right?  You couldn’t have thought it was good…

Me: (Shrug)

Co-worker: Come on, there is so much crap out there.  I could write better than that.

Me: You know, here’s the thing.  It is so easy to cut other people down.  If that energy was used on creating something, anything, rather than destroying, we’d maybe get somewhere.

Co-worker: Yeah, but…

Me: No.  No buts.  It is exhausting listening to people critique just to justify how smart they are.  If you could do better, then do it.  If everyone is so damn creative, sit the fuck down with a piece of paper and write down all the brilliance in your head.  When you do that, let me know how crappy everything else is, and how easy it is.

Co-worker: Maybe you could switch to decaf?

Me: Nobody fucks with my coffee.

To all of those that could do better, do it.  Stop talking about all the crap out there, how Twilight and Harry Potter are stupid, how Middlemarch and Lucky Jim are overwrought and dated, how if it doesn’t get your attention, it’s not worth the paper it’s written on. Learn how to pay better attention.

To all of the writers who try.  Carry on and don’t let the bastards get you down.  Because you know what?  Anyone with half a brain can tear it down.  But we try to build it up, and make it better, make life better.  I raise my glass to all of you.

And to those who are so smart, just stop. And while you’re stopped, kiss my ass.

Pinocchio Pen

One of the first presents my husband got me, was an orange Stipula fountain pen.  Pinocchio, that’s the model.  He has collected them for years, and said everyone needs at least one.  Just one.

It is beautiful, but I thought, what on earth am I going to do with this? Ironic, because it’s the only thing I write with now.  So far, I have written everything by hand, not out of some need to appear something I’m not, but because I think slower when there is no delete button.  I’ve come to like my cross-outs, places where I can reconsider if the second choice was indeed the best.  I’ve been through many ink colors, and I’m hard-pressed to find one more soothing to a 6am mind than sepia.  How I love sepia.

I have always been loathe to admit it though.  I know how contrived it sounds, truly, were the book ever to become what it is in my mind, I don’t know I’d say I wrote it this way.  But for now, just between us friends, I write in a very, specific notebook with my Pinocchio pen hoping my marionettes do become real boys.  It writes so smooth, and I can write for hours without it hurting my hand.  It is weighted to perfection.

Whenever I get depressed about the story going and changing, I take heart in the fact that it’s not done yet.  I cannot imagine the day I have to convert all of these journals onto a Word document.  The typing may kill me.

Go forward on this Thursday and write by any means necessary.

Slippery Fish

Gave my boys a bath tonight, and I’ve heard women talk about how it’s such a wind-down for the evening.  A moment of peace and serenity and…good God, I love them, but they are some slippery fish.

Bathing two boys, five and two, is an exercise in patience and anger management for me.  I’m just not that mom.  I have visions, usually when alone, of how I will now! Starting today! Become the mother I’ve always envisioned, the mother of hippy chickdom, the one who laughs lovingly as her children run through fields of daisies.

I’m trying to wash their hair, amongst cries of “Soap is in my eyes!”, “He hit me!”, “AAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!” The last one was me.  I’ve got one by the arm, as he stands to be lathered up while dancing (yes, dancing), and the other one is seeing if he can blow bubbles, which as history has shown us, he cannot without drowning.  We finish up, the two year old in time out, the five year old victorious, and the mother looking blindly in the mirror at how grey hair cannot properly be covered up with red dye, while wondering when exactly she checked out.

I wrestle them into pajamas, and decide tonight is the night we shall cut the nails.  Oh, yes, why not?  It’s going so well already, now shall be the time, because I am a masochist.  This goes over well.  As you imagine, they line up single file and put their hands out one by one.  Or in this world, I chase them down, yelling threats that they can work out with their therapist down the road.

To the point?  Writing is a slippery fish.  Or two.  No matter how far you may be, you may realize that a main character who clearly was in his 60′s, is younger than your main character in her 20′s.  And just like with children, sometimes when you give up and give in, you are rewarded with the knowledge that who you were trying to make them be, just isn’t who they are. And despite it all, they are damn funny.

It’s all going to be alright, although I’m not Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia!,  I keep trying.

At least I’m not Joan Crawford, or the mother in Lolita.  Ick.

Who is your mother ideal, literary or film?

What Happened to My Blimp?

I have this thing about my book.  I want to talk about it, to get feedback, to share with people who read.  And the second, the second I’ve tried to tell anyone about it, the idea starts deflating before my eyes.  When it’s alone in my head, the ideas grow and mutate (man, do they mutate), one story line becomes three, story line two gets cut, three gets moved…you get the idea.  But then someone will say, “Well, what’s it about?”

Simple enough. But the problem is that by giving it voice, the air that has filled up my balloon, gets a slow leak.  I don’t notice it right away.  The next time I sit down to write, there is nothing there.  My balloon is a small gum-shaped piece of rubber on the floor, and I am left to pick it up before my cat chokes on it.

I don’t think I’m confident enough to share.  I never discuss the whole thing, but just a small part, and I’m watching everything about the person I’m talking to.  What is their body language telling me, how do they look, were they this tired before I started, was that a yawn??  My head plays tricks on me, and before I know it, I stop writing a bit, I don’t know where it’s going.

The fact is that there just isn’t enough space there for more than me.  I can’t handle any feedback at this stage, except from my husband, who handles it with kid gloves. He has essentially two comments.

1) Keep going.

2)You’ve gone off the rails.

And either way, sometimes that’s even too much.  So, I figure it’s my job to protect the story until I get it told in the best way I can tell it.  But because I want to know more about you all, I’ll share a little, just the basics.

My story is fiction, possibly historical, possibly a literary bent. Character driven. And it’s about this woman, and her life, from age 16 to 94. First draft.  Two years and going.  There will be a massive edit after the first draft.  Massive.

And now, what about you?  If you can’t share, I totally get that, don’t deflate any balloons on my account.  But if you can, I’d love to hear what it is you’re working on, and where are you at?

And if you aren’t working on something, what’s holding you back?

 

Where’d My Groove Go?

There was a time that I had no problem being the first one out on the dance floor.  Trust me, I’m not Jennifer Beals.  I could move well enough, and after enough beer, be unselfconscious enough, that being out there by myself would be no problem.

The other day, I was dancing with my two young sons, and it occurred to me that I don’t know how to dance anymore.  There is something so intangibly disconcerting about that.  I want my groove back, thankyouverymuch.

There is nothing like going to a male gay bar, to get better at dancing.  It’s true.  These are men who are competing for each others attention.  The gay men who go to the dance clubs, can dance.  There is an animal energy, a pulse in the air.  None of the circle groups you find in straight clubs.  A bunch of men who are trying to prove to each other how well they know how to use their bodies.  A woman can learn from that.

Then there are the lesbian bars.  Nothing drives me quite as crazy as hearing straight women, discounting why they won’t go to a lesbian bar, the whole I don’t want to get hit on commentary.  May I offer my experience?  Gay women want to be with other gay women.  And for the most part, 99% of the time, these women can pick a straight woman out of the group with her eyes closed.  You will not be harassed, you will more likely be ignored.  On the off-chance, someone asks you to dance and you don’t want to, just say no.  Just like any other bar.  These are women who many times have to play a game all day long, day in and day out.  They get harassed at work, whether most people hear the comments or not.  They hear it all.  And they ignore it.  They have no interest in faking anything, no less trying to “convert” a straight woman. Just to be clear, I know women who fit that 1% who may really like straight women, it’s my point that you aren’t going to meet them, and if you do, well, ask me for advice about that then.

Back to my point.  At those bars, it’s an entirely different scene.  Just like women everywhere, there is far more going on behind the scenes than you would realize.  What you could learn from these bars is how to be confident.  How to own your own space, and how to dance while being ignored.  How to own your body, how to touch somebody, and keep the groove.

So here I am with a full-time career, three kids, and living in the middle of nowhere, Illinois while working on a book intensely for an hour a day.  I won’t be going out to any clubs anytime soon.  I’d look ridiculous, and yes, I’m vain.  I just want to remember what it felt like to go out, and dance for hours, drunk and happy until you left to get greasy food from whatever diner was open.  Feet throbbing, body happy.

What do you miss that makes you feel older than you are?

 

I Write Big

I write big. There I’ve said it.  It should be no surprise if you’re reading my blog.  It’s a tough secret to keep.

And I wonder if there’s a place for that anymore. I wonder if people have the attention span, the interest to let yourself go in a story, to drift and trust in the writer that they have what it takes to carry you along their current, that it is all worth the time. That the build-up is worth the payoff. That it is worth more than 140 characters.

Lives are busy. My day starts at 5:00am. Up, showered, grabbing my coffee from my husband who makes sure it’s there every single day. I’m out the door by six, in the car and then on the train by 6:30.  That’s my writing time, the one hour on the train.  Then I’m at work, and at 4:30pm the whole process repeats in reverse until I’m home at 6:30pm.

The kids own 6:30 to 8:30pm, and ever since the binky fairy came and robbed my youngest of his prize pacifiers, I now am trapped lying in bed with him until he falls asleep.  My alternative is to run up and down the stairs until he stops yelling mommy, either way I’m not done until sometime around 9:45.  Then I do some blogging, catch up with other blogs and have a glass of wine.

And I wish I could write small.  Some people do it so well, a well-placed noun and verb, said just so, and an entire thought is made and is beautiful.  And then there is me…I’m lucky to get to the point eventually, but certainly not without the help of many nouns, many verbs, and god help us all, an adverb or two.

My book just keeps getting bigger.  And bigger.  It trails and circles, I think a character is done, and they come back at a different time in their life. I’m afraid to type it, partly because I’m aware of the massive edits that will be required to weed out the people and plots I’ve discarded/added/changed along the way.  But also because I’ll see how much there really is, and that will make me wonder if people read large books anymore. George Eliot wrote big.  I am no George Eliot. Franzen? Nope. I should be medicated.

When talking about books, or reading blogs about books, which is more common for me these days, and reading the commentary, there is a current of make it catchy, keep my interest, you’re competing for my time with jobs, kids, reality shows, dinner, laundry…the list is too much, you get it.  Many agents write about how the pages have to keep turning, they may be reading a submission while the tv is on, and that’s their way to judge whether or not to take it on.  Does it grab their interest enough?  Enough…can a quiet book do that?

I’d like to write small.  And snappy.  With a hook.  But as Betsy Lerner mentioned on her blog recently, people write what they can.

And I write big.

Are you a big writer?  Do you read quiet books anymore?  Has your style of writing dictated what you’re writing?

 

 

Who Me?

I have this painting hanging on the wall over my desk.  The wall is pretty crowded. The pictures have to fight for the priority placement of my desk wall.

This photo.  Wow.  Here’s the story.  My husband read about this painter in New York.  You take a photo of your books on the shelf, e-mail it to her, and she turns it into this beautiful tiny painting.  The book height is about 4 inches to give you an idea.

I believe it was for my birthday, but what he did was pick out a few of my favorites, and then send it in to be painted.  I was so touched not only that he hand-picked these books, but that he was right on the money.  I love, love, love every one of these books.

When he gave it to me, I thought it the prettiest thing I had ever seen. Most people don’t feel that way about book spines, but if you’re reading this, I think you get me. Then I noticed the book all the way to right.  See it?  The all black one leaning?

“What book is that?”  He looked at me puzzled but smiling.

“Well that’s yours.”

That’s my journal, the fourth identical one of my novel in progress.  And he included it with all of these amazing writers.

I’ve already won the prize.

What’s the best writing gift you’ve ever gotten?

Damn Right

Christmas Eve three years ago, I got the call at work from the nurse about my test results.  We weren’t trying to get pregnant.  I’m one of those very fertile people.  They had me come in early because I was over 35. And I was happy as could be about our oops baby.

We were working with a skeleton crew, so there were only 5 of us left on the desk.  I called the nurse back, and after checking my file and announced that it was “not a viable pregnancy”.

“Sorry?” I was confused.  Her tone was nonchalant, perhaps already running late for her holiday plans.  I didn’t think I understood her, because what she said didn’t register with the tone she used to say it.

“You’ll need to come in for an ultrasound, but with your levels of…” and I tuned out for a moment trying to connect the dots, my throat burning, tears running down my cheeks, not knowing until that moment how much I loved that baby.  I had known for less than two weeks. I heard the last bit, “It is consistent with an ectopic pregnancy.”

“But you won’t know for certain until I get the ultrasound, right?” My voice became high-pitched something I have always hated and had no control over. I choked back the news, and my homicidal thoughts toward this woman who must have told one too many women this for her to be so casual about it.

“There is no way that this is a viable pregnancy. Your levels are too high.”

“None.”

“No.”

“Can I come in now for an ultrasound?” She then explained to me that there was no one around but her, that there was no clinic, nowhere on Christmas eve that I could get an ultrasound. I begged her to just do it herself.  She could not, something about liability. I called the hospital and made an appointment the day after Christmas. I asked her if I should take the Progesterone just in case.  My levels are so low that it is a certain miscarriage if I don’t take it for the first three months.

“If it makes you feel better.”

I picked it up at the pharmacist, crying while I stood in line.  I had to ask him if it would be a problem, being that this was an ectopic, and not viable.  I said it, not viable.  I wasn’t making much sense, but neither did this. He tapped my hand uncomfortably with his index finger and said that would be fine.  Go ahead and take it.

I got home that night, and we played Merry Christmas trying to be present for our two kids and not think about it.  I had two glasses of wine and a couple of cigarettes after the kids went to bed.  They each made me sick, an indecent joke.

The day after Christmas, my stepdaughter was with her mom, and my husband and I had no one to watch my two and a half year old.  The three of us trudged off to the appointment.

They stayed in the room with me, as a tech at the hospital, cheery with the Christmas spirit who didn’t fully get why I was there, did the exam.

“There’s the baby.” She said it like the captain of the cheerleading squad.  I hated her.

I said nothing, I didn’t cry, I couldn’t speak.  How could she be so cavalier.

“Do you want to see the new baby?” she said to my small son.  Something clicked in my head.  I looked at my husband, afraid to breathe.

“The baby?  The baby is in the right place?” I said it, afraid to ask, afraid to hope, afraid to have my son see me get as angry as I felt I’d get.  More afraid to let him see me cry.

“Right there.  See?”  She was confused, and remained so as my husband and I both started to laugh, and cry.  My son frantically asking my husband why mommy was crying so hard.

Eight months later, I had a healthy nine pound seven ounce boy.

How does this relate to writing?  Don’t let anyone tell you what is viable.  Write your story just try to get it down  the best way you can, but don’t be defeated just because of what someone who knows better thinks.  There will always be better writers than you, but maybe not better ones to write your story. I’m not saying be oblivious, but why not keep hope alive that you have something amazing. Maybe somehow it’s going to work out.

Just maybe everyone else is wrong.  Ever have a moment when it all clicked, and for once you were just so damn right?  I hope so.

 

Driven to Write

My grandmother and I used to talk every Saturday.  She lived on her own, in her own house until she was 94 years old.  She was a feisty old broad, and the impetus for my book.

We would often talk about books, but our tastes were different, so I would sometimes buy a cozy mystery just so I could send it to her and we could discuss it.  She lived during the Great Depression and thought it wasteful if a book wasn’t passed around.  I sent her Harry Potter, thinking maybe something about that would catch her interest, but found out she passed it along to my cousin.  I sent her a well-worn and well-loved copy of Love in the Time of Cholera but the time for that type of reading was past.  Her eyes were going after a couple of strokes, she was losing the center vision although she could read the periphery if the print wasn’t too small.  I couldn’t imagine a fate such as that for a reader like her and sent her a magnifying glass.  She turned her interest to another of her loves, old movies.

As her memory was going, and our mode of communication, that of books, dwindling I started an idea for a book, one that I had, one that had something.  I started to write.  One Saturday, shortly before she was moved to a nursing home, I told her I was writing a book.  I waited for something, a faint encouragement, a belief that she knew I could do it all along.  I’m uncertain what family I thought I belonged to, but thinking back on that is comical.  My family is a family who loves each other and has no way to communicate.  We communicate with humor and sarcasm and it’s usually at your expense so from a very young age you learn how to take it, and how not to put yourself out there for the taking. We talk around things, nothing is ever direct, and you look elsewhere for support, for encouragement, for that type of thing.  I never knew other families were different than mine, but that’s another story.

I told her about the book and she said, “Huh.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know you wrote.” There was silence on my end. She wasn’t trying to be hurtful, just honest, from a family of people who never tried to be hurtful.

“Well sure.”

“Well good for you then.”

“What?” I said, knowing better than to push an honest person who is pausing to be polite.  When someone in my family pauses, it’s best to let it drop.

“It’s just that writers, people I think of as writers don’t just start writing.  They have to write.  They’ve always written.  They can’t not write.”

“Well, we’ll see. It’s just something I’m playing around with.”

I don’t think people should take themselves seriously, just the writing.  And in one fell swoop, I had taken the one thing that I had always protected and kept from my family, and downplayed it because it hurt too much to try and take it seriously.

I had always wanted to get back to that conversation, but she wasn’t long in the nursing home, and really what else was there to say? I still think about that though, quite a bit, the idea that if you are to write, you do it because you have to, the idea of the obsessive compulsive writer.

What say you, is it something you do because you have to?  Or is it something that drives you quietly, that you work really hard to try and get right failing all the while?

I miss her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Be Your Own Valentine

“The remote possibility of the best thing (is) always better than clear certainty of the second-best thing”. – Author, Author by David Lodge attributed to Minnie Temple, Henry James’s cousin.

I have this quote taped on my desk at work, to remind me of what I’m trying to do.  I challenge you all, on this Valentine’s Day, to go out and buy a new notebook, or scrounge up one from the surplus we all have around the house, in the drawers, under the bed, on the bookshelves, yes, that’s the one.  If it’s an old notebook, rip out the used pages, the pages with grocery lists, and lists of things to get to, those that we try our damnedest to get done never succeeded but just adding on until the list is overwhelming.  Rip them all out.  Tear them up, and get rid of them.  Light them on fire if you can.

Take that notebook, and make that your notebook of all remote possibilities, those things that are the best things, all the ideas that pop into your head that are so rich, so clever, so spot on in description.  This notebook is your Valentine to yourself.  This is where you put the idea of the lady you saw in the grocery store, the man you saw in church, the child you saw from the car window of his station wagon despondently looking out the window.  These are the only things that go in the notebook, because this is special, and sacred, and the place that will protect the ideas that may form into the very best.

Because after all, attempting the very best is better than succeeding at the average.  And if you write it’s because somewhere in you, you know you have something really good, really amazing that you need to do. You just need to figure out how to do it.

When that time comes, flip through that book, and feel confident because there are those ideas, and the person who noticed those things, that person is brilliant, beyond brilliant.  Keep your ideas safe and protect them, because you owe that to yourself.  None of us was put here to be average. There is no place in the Valentine book for our doubts, and our self-deprecating humor.  We have life for that.

Go forward today, those who are in the throes of young love, the stability of long love, the desperation of wasted love, the sadness of love lost, and say to yourself over and over “the remote possibility of the best thing”.  And then write something in your book.

Happy Valentine’s Day to you.