Category Archives: Writing

I hath a dream (about hecklers)

30 Wednesday Nov 2011

Posted by in seasons, Writing

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

, , , , ,

Posted November, 2011.

“30 days hath September…”

I get that far with the old rhyme, then have to stop and think what comes next.  November rhymes with September so it hath 30… right?

Hmmm. A quick online perusal yields a website with 89 versions of the rhyme = not helpful when trying to unscrew a memory aid that I can’t remember!  This is what I can recall: November is NaNo is 50,000 words written in 30 days.  Got it.

November. In 2009 and 2010, November meant NaNoWriMo for me, an exhilarating ride of literary abandon, a seemingly impossible goal of verbal output.  What lovely irony that attempting the impossible is so freeing of fear of failure.  Liberating really, to be forced into writing for speed, which by necessity turns off the Inner Critic.  If the Heckler is on duty, there simply are not enough hours in the day, even if you feed your kids Eggo Waffles for dinner and forgo luxuries like sleeping.

But, alas, no NaNo for me this year, for a variety of reasons.  I have missed the experience off and on all month, but not more acutely than today, November 30th, when I can almost feel the exhilaration of rounding third, banging out 5000 words on the last day before skidding into home, face first, mouth full of dirt, submitting the manuscript by 11:07pm for the midnight deadline and holding my breath until the website confirmed that it indeed caught what I had just birthed as it hurdled through the ether.  (I always get that visual when I hit the send button on my work, which I am guessing would be disturbing for the recipients if they knew.)

In my memory of prior years, NaNo is perfect. It provides the deadline I require for adrenaline driven output. Any arbitrary nature of that deadline is inconsequential when I am in the middle of it.  It feels so good to just write without censorship, not bothered by little details like whether each paragraph actually makes sense.  That is all sorted out later, because in November each day is just words on the page, pushing harder to squeeze them out of some small place inside that I did not even know was full of ideas because I was too busy thinking.  Yes, 2012 NaNo?  I’ll be back.  (Luckily, the pain of NaNo is harder to remember…)

For now, I will embrace one aspect of the November NaNoWriMo experience into December and beyond:  gagging that Heckler.  You know the Heckler — the one that likes to curl up in a lumpy LazyBoy recliner in my mind, drooling with anticipation at each days’ spoils as she chews yesterday’s ideas, dribbling doubt onto every string of alphabet letters I dare to scrabble into sentences.

Yes, that Heckler.

Maybe you have met her brother or sister?

Yep, working my little word magic in peace without the sound of her breathing in the background — that is the dream for the days that come after the 30 days that November hath. Has. Whatever.

nudge, nudge

29 Tuesday Nov 2011

Posted by in Writing

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

,

Posted 2011.

Sometimes it takes a nudge.  And some good advice.  And an encouraging nod.

And butt-in-chair.

I am beyond thrilled to be mentioned in Jane Friedman’s blog:  Being Human at Electric Speed>>Media Professor + Speaker : 3 Reasons to Have a Website If You’re Unpublished

http://janefriedman.com/2011/11/28/website-for-unpublished/

If I am very still, I can hear it.  A rustling in my soul. 

Knock, knock – it’s the universe calling.  It’s time to open the door again.

growth

17 Thursday Mar 2011

Posted by in seasons, Writing

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

, , ,

Growth

I write of my garden as it grows through the years

The experience of life, the joys and the tears

I write to keep track of the planning and sowing

I write, unabashed, of my passion for growing

I write for myself, and so loved ones can see

The earth, the breeze, my garden and me.

N. Platto

I found this stanza of a longer poem, source long forgotten, circa 1997.  I didn’t know the name N. Platto then, and a quick search now does not provide any further illumination. Actually the SearchEngine was quite adamant that what I really meant to type was Plato, but I insisted it wasn’t.   I am no expert in Ancient Greek philosophers, but N. Platto is clearly not to be confused with Plato, who does not sound like a big fan of flowery poetry in general, and probably did not compose anything with this cadence.  Growth is a simple poem, and I am embarrassed how much I like it since I am pretty sure cool poems are not supposed to rhyme.

I rediscovered this poem today when I found an old garden journal I started while we still lived in Minneapolis, during the chapter when my life was slowly turning full circle from career to creator.  I still have this journal of the Minneapolis gardens, of course, because I find it difficult to part with nostalgia, and it was such a shiny, new, happy time in my life.  I wanted to remember.

As an “enthusiastic” Rememberer, I have been labeled a pack rat, too sentimental, and at worst, a borderline hoarder.  Let me be clear – I do not have stacks of newspapers from the 1980’s towering around me, no mountains of old yellowed margarine tubs filled with flotsom, no crates of oranges rotting on the porch.  I do not have a room full of dead cats that I can’t bear to part with.  I do however feel the need to hold onto some/quite a few boxes of memorabilia, just until I don’t need them anymore.  Admittedly, this process takes me a smidge longer than your average crazy-ish person.

Yes, things are just things and they are not what life is about and if I lost it all my nostalgia in one fell swoop it would be what was meant to be and I would live.  I could be anywhere with nothing and as long as my guys were with me it would be enough.  Stuff is just stuff and material possessions do not bring happiness and I know all that already.  Society values someone with truly excellent disposal skills that are measured by uncluttered rooms and closets and basements and garages.  And guest rooms.  I get it.  I value the peace that comes with simplicity, and strive for that state of zen.

I like to keep old things.  I always have.  And those certain objects that I was pressured into parting with before I was ready?  I still mourn those items.  They haunt me.  I don’t know how else to explain it, other than I was not yet done absorbing and understanding what those objects were trying to tell me. About who I am and who I was and where I came from.

I kept the Minnesota garden journal, pages full of photos of the same garden beds taken in spring, summer, fall and winter over a five-year period.  I liked watching the progression of growth, and the pages helped me remember where certain plants did well and where they failed.  We moved from that garden 11 years ago, and, as is now painfully obvious to anyone paying attention, I still have the journal. I rationalized holding on to it so I could look back and cross-reference certain flora complete with their Latin names, as this information would be surely be useful in the future and therefore it was OK that I kept it.  I don’t have to feel guilty about wanting to keep something if it is potentially useful.  For reference purposes.  Of course, I haven’t really looked at this volume for 10 ½ years, but, see?  I knew I wasn’t done with it yet.

I now know I was meant to find this journal, this spring, so I could revisit a feeling that has laid dormant for a long time.  I still have this journal because I was meant to find that poem again, and now I have.  Now I can write about the time and the place and the feeling of warm dirt on my hands when the long Minnesota winter finally ended and the plants nearly sprained themselves they were so ready to reach the sunlight.  I can write about it now, and I can remember.  Now, finally, it is time for that item to go, to be recycled.

*

Spring

Cool moist earth, ready to turn,

Peonies pushing, unfurling ferns,

These welcome, familiar, early spring urgings

Find me tools in hand, adrenaline surging.

As the first robin lights on my pond and tree

The earth, the breeze, my garden and me.

N. Platto

the Gift

24 Monday Jan 2011

Posted by in Motherhood, seasons, Writing

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

, , , , , ,

Posted 2011.

I was given an unexpected gift.  I was able to turn back the clock, on a snowy day in January.  I was able to live an experience that I’ve regretted missing the first time, and thought was gone forever.  A writer can rewrite chapters, but who has that luxury in life?

I often feel a bittersweet-ness as my kids grow up — the wonder of seeing both boys become functioning future citizens, and the simultaneous mourning of the little boy days left behind.  The days of toys and picture books.  The days of trains.

The Professor was the one who lived and breathed trains, from age two until what we can now refer to as the Unfortunate Nascar Years.  Trains, every day– the first thing he talked about in the morning and last thing discussed at night.  When he first learned his dad was an engineer, his excitement surely stemmed from the belief that Dad drove the trains.

The Little One’s interest in trains seemed to stem more from the need to do whatever his older brother did, and then the thrill of systematically destroying his brother’s meticulously crafted layouts.  I remember little of the days we can now refer to as the The Dark Years, when each day seemingly ended in wailing and gnashing of teeth in biblical proportions.  Granted, this only lasted from approximately 2001 – 2006, which if you do the math is… well, many, many days where I knew I should feel grateful for the priceless opportunity to be a full-time mom, but I often didn’t.  I wished many of those days away.  If I published a memoir of journal entries from that time, the volume would serve as an excellent form of birth control.

It is entirely possible that I never played trains with The Little One for more than 10 minutes in all those years.  He was such a Pocket Nazi during his formative train-playing days that I would lose my temper with him often, and have to remove myself from the situation before I went all out and lost my mind.  I loved that kid fiercely, but let’s just say I frequently needed to count backwards from 100.  Thousand.  I’ll leave it at that.

I thought about the trains, and many of their old toys, just last week when we cleaned the entire house in preparation for guests.  As we piled toys onto basement shelves and closets, it became clear that a thorough sweep of the Basement Land of Misfit Toys is long overdue.  He kept saying “Ooooh, I remember THAT!” and wanting to take things out while I was putting them in.  He’s a tween, half demanding to be grown-up NOW, and half still a little boy.  Someday soon we will purge the toys that they have not played with in years, I thought to myself, with a twinge of… something, undefined.

Then, during yet another snow day home from school, The Little Man unexpectedly carried the impossibly heavy bin of wooden trains upstairs — the old, well-worn Thomas trains and bridges and tracks – and he looked at me.  Without a word, we went together into the den and we played trains on the floor.  Together.  I had so much fun, and he did too. We took a picture of the final creation.  I think I’ll frame it in a double frame, with an old picture I have of him, “Colezilla”, stomping through a huge train layout with a look of devilish glee.

In those old days, I never had the patience.  I was always too busy trying to find time to be me.  Now I was given the incredible gift of a do-over.  A mulligan of motherhood.  And I treasured every minute.

Becoming a writer was just a dream back then.  I saw many women were able to combine motherhood and writing very successfully;  I had not yet reached that chapter, in those years.  Today I have the space to write, and play, on a magical, snowglobe-y day.

greetings and salutations

26 Tuesday Oct 2010

Posted by in Photography, seasons, Writing

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

, ,

Every fall, a new spider sets up her last camp on our deck.  Every year, I name her Charlotte and watch her go about her business with fascination.

Here is Charlotte 10.

She is not as large, nor did she last as long as some of her predecessors.  But she kept a tidy web and was a good companion for a while.  (Outside spiders = good companions when viewed through window.  Inside spiders, not so much.  Not at all, really.)

One morning before school, as the Little One and I were marveling at the intricacies and symmetry of her web, a bug flew into it and mild-mannered Charlotte transformed instantly into a killing machine.  I think the swift and violent death of the bug was of more interest to the boy than the beauty of the web in the morning dew, but that is just a hunch.

And then, the next morning, she was gone.  I felt a little lonely until I saw one of my Walking Stick buddies on the kitchen screen, so I said good morning to her instead.

This, my friends, is one of the primo benefits of calling myself a writer.  Writers can talk to insects, or plants, or seasons, or themselves, and it is considered normal behavior, creative and charmingly eccentric.  Before?  Not so much normal.  Not at all, really.

I like my job.

Proudest Moments

14 Friday May 2010

Posted by in Motherhood, Writing

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

One person’s humor can be another person’s yawn.  One person’s proud can be someone else’s embarrassment.  On either side of the fence, I find that most things in life are not as they appear on the surface, because there exists the chapters before and the chapters not yet written, and all we see is a snapshot.

Profound?  Maybe.  Prophetic?  Confirmed.  Pedantic?  That’s your call.

(Forgive my lack of an obvious segue here — hang with me),  I recently completed a writing course with author Christina Katz called Writing and Publishing the Short Stuff.  I want to make some money as a freelancer, with a side benefit of feeling more comfortable calling myself a writer when I have more clips.  I know, I know, it is not necessary to be published to be a true writer, but truthfully there is some ego involved.  And freelancing is my next challenge.

The class was a fantastic experience — a wealth of information on writing list articles, how-to pieces, fillers, tips, cover letters and much more.  Most importantly for me, it was a kick in the pants.  I willingly signed up for a kick in the pants and I am so glad I did.

I have been following Christina’s blog and reading her newsletters for over a year.  I own two of her books, and am ready to purchase the third.  I respect her advice.  But it was one of her most recent posts that touched me more deeply, one where she asked “writer mamas” to share their Proudest Moments.  I think it is a great read whether you are a writer, a mama, both or neither.

After reading story after story, here is what I chose to share in this on-line conversation about pride.  Because I am still a self-handicapping procrastinator budding deadline embracer, my contribution is in the comments section (umm, missed the cut-off):

This collection of Proudest Writer Mama moments left my heart on my throat. I am so touched by these stories of accomplishments, ones that society may consider large or small, but are each huge to all of us that have this goal. Thank you Christina for inspiring each of these writers to post these experiences, and to each writer for sharing the private insight into their dreams.

My proudest moment came the day I received my copy of the anthology “ The Ultimate Mom“, in 2009. My essay “The Impromptu Birthday” was my first published piece, and was not just a shot-in-the-arm of confidence, but really the I.V. drip that kept me going through my self-doubts. I held that book in my hands with the late afternoon sun streaming in the windows, looked at my name in print and smelled the pages as I let them riffle. Then I looked at the mountain of dirty laundry in the dining room and the sink-full of dirty dishes still left from breakfast, (and quite possibly the previous night’s dinner) — and felt a sense of accomplishment, a quiet peace that after many years and multiple careers, I had finally found what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Subsequently, things started hopping. I appeared twice as a guest blogger on Jane Friedman’s Writer’s Digest blog “There Are No Rules“, was invited to do a radio interview about my story, did a book signing at my local Barnes & Noble (did you know you could do a book signing by being a contributor to an anthology? I didn’t!) and most recently appeared very briefly on CBS Sunday Morning as an attendee at the Erma Bombeck Humor Writers’ Workshop. No matter that my published story of motherhood is about poo and lying to my kid to accelerate the potty training process; the radio interview was broadcast from a nursing home-based radio station with a broadcast range of approximately five miles; at the book signing I sold 11 copies, with eight of those purchased by my friends; and on my seven second stint on national TV, I inadvertently uttered the words “incontinence problem” and “recovering valedictorian”. There’s a lesson in there somewhere, that lots of things in life sound far more impressive to others until they know the details.

But I am proud of these moments, even though a disturbing number of them involve bodily functions. The real pride blooms from this: each and every time, I had pushed myself far beyond the edge of my comfort zone, and laid myself bare with as much authenticity as I could bear.

…it is that same authenticity that I feel in these Writer Mama stories. We can all feel proud.

Other than being a mom, my best job ever, nothing has been as personally fulfilling as being a writer.  Wife, daughter, sister and friend are treasured roles…  and in all these areas, I have been unbelievably blessed.  But, writing?  I can hardly wait to see what happens next, (and it will not be the missing component of the body function trifecta, I promise).

Life is funny, or why I started screaming at the TV

10 Monday May 2010

Posted by in Motherhood, Writing

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Have I mentioned before that life is funny?  It bears mentioning again, because it is the only explanation I have for why my Mother’s Day included blood-curdling screams.

Like most of my adventures, this one started out innocently enough.  As I have mentioned 53 times already, I attended a writing conference a few weeks ago.  By chance, CBS Sunday Morning was also at the event, filming a segment for Mother’s Day about Erma and how her humor helped revolutionize the way America viewed the career of Motherhood.  Tracy Beckerman, humor columnist, blogger, conference speaker, and author of the book Rebel Without a Minivan, was on deck as a feature interview for the show.  Tracy is smart and funny, and she signed my copy of her book even though I do drive a minivan, and I once commented on her blog “Lost in Suburbia”, and we are friends on Facebook, so really I’m almost a real friend,  stalker,  quasi-acquaintance, so I tuned in to see her (and, truth be told) to try to catch a glimpse of my aforementioned disastrous haircut from behind, somewhere in the crowd.

The TV cameras were around every day, filming many, many hours of mingling attendees and numerous workshop sessions.  No biggie, until they popped up in a session where I stood up and shared some very personal information as part of writing exercise on our greatest fears and most embarrassing moments.*

*A lethal combination.

I felt rattled to have a camera in my face while speaking, but was reassured that with 350 attendees, many speakers and an estimated 147 hours of raw video footage, I need not give it another thought.

So, fast forward to 9:00 Mother’s Day morning, and I know the show is on but I have recorded it on the DVR so I would not interrupt the family making a fuss over me early on my day. Watching Tracy would be fun, but I knew the enthusiasm for showering me with gifts and cards would too soon come to an end, so I wanted to savor it.  Indeed, my guys gave me a wonderful day.

As the fawning masses were running out of steam later in the late afternoon, I settled in and cranked up the DVR.  The segment was a sweet piece about Erma and motherhood, with fun interviews of her kids.  It included cute little cross-stitch segment transitions of Erma quotes, such as “Insanity is hereditary — you get it from your kids.”  Fade that first cross-stitch, and there is my face.

I found this shocking.  I started screaming.  I don’t know why.  It was so not cool.  I bet Tracy did not scream at the TV.  I was on the screen for five seconds, and said one sentence.

The Little One came rushing up the basement stairs to see if I was being murdered — apparently seeing myself on TV when I don’t expect to see myself on TV makes me emit a blood-curdling type of scream.  We didn’t know that about me, but now we do, for future reference.

It is a good thing to know, because life is funny.

Why Erma?

20 Tuesday Apr 2010

Posted by in Motherhood, Writing

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

, , ,

“Why Erma?” someone asked.

Erma Bombeck was the first humor writer that I ever read.  As a kid, when I had exhausted the stack of books from the summer bookmobile, I would browse through the house for reading material.  There on the living room bookshelf, near the Reader’s Digest Condensed versions and the set of encyclopedias, stood several Erma books in various stages of dogearedness.  The paperback that stands out in my mind is “The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank.”  I used to think the title meant something like “the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence”, but later, as I contemplated the uncanny ability of septic tanks to either green up a lawn in no time, or kill the grass completely, the title had great depth.

Or it is entirely possible that I over-thought that book title.  I had a lot of time on my hands.

To me, the wonder of her humor is this:  I was a 10 year old kid who had never lived in a suburb.  Erma’s world of grown-up responsibilities and tedium and frustrations and joys — that was not my world.  Yet her situations were so comically real and her descriptions so universal that somehow I understood how she felt.  And I would laugh out loud.

I forgot about Erma for many years.  Then, staying in a vacation house on Marco Island, I found a bookshelf filled with an eclectic mix of titles, the kind of collection that grows from people leaving a book and taking a book as they come and go.  I spotted Erma there on the shelf and started to read, and I laughed out loud.  I watched my own kids race around and bicker and joke and I saw my family, and I smiled.

A recent comment from the wonderful writer Darrelyn Saloom sums it up for me:

…I adore Erma Bombeck. Her column and books were a housewife’s drug before anti-depressants. I never needed ‘em. I had Erma to fire up those synapses in my brain.

As I listened to writer after writer share their stories at the conference, women and men, I heard so many experiences that mirrored my own.  As children themselves, they also related to her humor.  And here I thought I was the only pre-tween who found these books funny even though the setting was on another planet.

Yet, funny or not, I must admit that Erma’s world in a suburb of Dayton, Ohio served as a cautionary tale to me as a kid.  I had no aspirations to be a Midwestern housewife, or a stay at home mom.  In fact, I spent a long time running in the opposite direction.  But, as I learned from reading Erma’s stories long ago,  life is funny.  The winding paths of the years can even land an unsuspecting girl in suburban southwestern Ohio, not 30 miles from where Erma’s septic tank was fertilizing the lawn as she raised a couple kids.  I have found myself in an unforeseen life, one I never dreamed could make me happy.

But this life does make me happy.  Thanks, Erma, for finding the funny in everyday situations, and sharing the stories.  Now I can see that being a mom can be the most noble profession of all.  Even in the ‘burbs.  Writing about it sounds good too.

funny people

17 Saturday Apr 2010

Posted by in good reads, Writing

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

, , , , , ,

I love writing conferences.  Every writing workshop I attend leaves me feeling energized, inspired, and armed with, well, armloads of useful information.  This time, I can add one more take-away to the list: the endorphins from laughing until I have tears running down my face.  It is the final day of the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop and I am surrounded by the largest group of funny people I have ever seen assembled under one roof.  I have looked forward to this particular conference for over a year.  The chance to meet like-minded writers, authors, bloggers, speakers, columnists and comedians?  Whoa. *Highly recommended experience*

I particularly enjoyed these speakers:

Tracy Beckerman, author of Rebel Without a Minivan and the blog Lost in Suburbia as well as the syndicated column of the same name.  Very funny lady who makes me feel better about a life in the ‘burbs.  (Much like Erma herself.)

Donna Gephart, author of several successful middle grade children’s novels that incorporate humor.  I feel optimism about my work-in-progress nanowrimo middle grade novel, based on her presentation.  I think I am on the right track with the characters, format and plot.

Karen Walford and her beautiful blog chookooloonks — this was a delightful look into how a woman with a passion for writing and photography can leave a former career behind, and follow her heart.

Wade Rouse, author of several best-selling humor memoirs.  This happens to be my new favorite genre to read.  He reminds me of David Sedaris, except Wade lives in the woods, and I don’t think David would do that.  This break-out session did involve an unfortunate incident involving a TV camera and me reading aloud our “assignment” for the day — a personal essay on one of our greatest fears.  All in good fun except I started crying while reading mine, which can lead to my next great essay about my new biggest fear, which is crying in front of a TV camera and room full of strangers while reading out loud.  But he was great.

Add in the chance to talk to the most helpful editor of a regional parenting magazine that I could hope to meet, and hear Gail Collins, Bill Scheft, and many other authors… I need to go lie down somewhere before my head explodes.