Is it too late to move?

Met some nice folks today. They are all writers from my neck of the woods. All of them have signed up to do NaNoWriMo - every blessed one of 'em has taken the pledge to write like crazy for the month of November.

Except...now they know who I am. And I'm pretty sure they expect me to write like crazy for the month of November, too.

Ruh roh.

Beware: random words

I joined NaNoWriMo a couple of days ago.

Writing frenzy may ensue.

Ye be warned.

Got Mensa?

There are days and then, there are days like this. I'd like to say I was informed - that at some point during my upbringing, someone shared that days like this are out there and sometimes, without warning, they swoop in and play a series of games that would mess with the minds of many a Mensa member.

But, alas, seems I missed school that day.

Okay, I admit it. I am very naive at times. Things slip by me unnoticed on a fairly regular basis. Sometimes I catch them in the periphery of my vision, and by the time I blink - whoosh - they are gone. And yes, on occasion, I stare at them, bold as brass and then go on my merry way, feigning ignorance. Oftentimes, keeping my head in the sand is pretty much the only way I get through the day.

But, today. Yeah, today. Today, a giant wallop of reality has come home to roost and man, it's big girl stuff. I'll figure it out. I always do, and when I do, life will be good, or at least, more informed than it is now.

Yes, ma'am, information is a powerful thing.

But...just one question: is it a good thing or a bad thing that, at twelve, my daughter already knows about days like this?

*sigh*

Illumination Day

A lifetime ago, my guy and I spent the evening of July 4th in a hotel room on the outskirts of Boston. We weren't there for any kind of fourth of July celebration -  we were about to embark on yet another chapter on the road to parenthood. We didn't know yet that we'd be parents 'for real' by the following summer, we only knew we had a few more hoops to jump through, a few more wishes to make, a few more hopes to pray.

The following day was a blur. There was some surgery. We drove to my parents house afterwards - a nightmarish trip that felt like we were traveling at the speed of light - a side effect of medication. I slept. To this day, I've no idea what my guy did.

And life went on. A baby, then another, a move here, a loss there.

The blackberry brambles are tenacious this summer. Seeded from bird droppings they have invaded my perennial beds. I dig them up on Saturday, and by Tuesday, they are back, their young limbs blue-green, a color that reminds me of velvet. In one corner, under the deck, in a place I cannot reach, there is a branch bearing fruit. Instead of frustration, I find myself admiring this thorny interloper - it has some inner resolve, some inestimable fortitude to keep on growing, and in so doing, bears the sweetest of fruits.

On July 5, 1994, I took a step toward parenthood. My thorny interloper was born the following summer. Sweet fruit? Oh, you betcha.

They toil not, neither do they spin...

The yellow loosestrife by my back door.

Sweet William.

It self-seeds every year and I never know where it will turn up or what color it will be.

Helloooo in there...

Been pretty quiet in my head of late.

Most people would be grateful. Not me. Used to be a time when the voices of my characters would clamor to be heard. They used to have a lot to tell me, most often things like where they were headed and how they would like to get there. Now, not so much. Matter of fact, not at all.

Nick and Flint MacAllister are arguing in a post-apocalyptic world, Randy's in a police station wondering what's become of his mother, young Sam's just gone out to steal breakfast in an oversized rainjacket, and Dottie's got a secret she hopes her husband doesn't discover. And Monk. Dear Monk. Monk sits on the top shelf pinging me with peanuts, his mad attempt to either juice up my imagination or at least keep me nourished until I can find it again. The rest eye me periodically wondering what's next on their agenda.

I've no idea. Literally. None. Does Nick save Flint's life and prove himself the next leader of the ragtag band of refugees? Is Randy's mom off getting married to the wealthy Mister Mister? Will Sam make it home before being beaten by the lowlife that lurk in the shadows, will Dottie's husband forgive her? And will Monk survive long enough to hear Kira say she loves him?

I dunno.

The ceaseless chatter of the internet is blocking my thoughts. I hope Monk has lots of peanuts.

Keep smiling, keep shining

I have a new friend. He's blond, wears glasses and his face is set in an expression that never deviates from 'man on a mission' determination. He's four.

Yesterday marked his first school-wide assembly. He spent some time squirming and ended up sitting on the floor. Twice he covered his ears. He had trouble waiting and I can't say I blame him. I'm not sure the range of deficits this little guy carries around with him, but I'm guessing 'doesn't like loud' and 'get on with the show' are two of them.

His helper scooped him up and sat him on her lap. That's when it happened.

We connected.

He turned and looked at me. I think at first, he was attracted to my glasses, but then, he found my eyes. I stayed absolutely still. I glued a pleasant expression on my face. I waited.

We stayed like this for a long while. Then, he smiled. It felt good.

I hope he remembers. I'm writing this so I never forget.


*post title from "That's What Friends are For" Lyrics by Burt Bacharach and Carole Bayer Sager

Little Girl Lost...and Found

She's twelve. She's not like everyone else and try as she might to follow the crowd, there's a drummer inside her aching to burst out.

Last night she was lauded for being her. Not the her that tries so hard to fit in, but the her that hears the drummer.

There's nothing better. Not even chocolate.

Mos Eisley Cantina

Before we got married, we used to drive around back country roads and end up in odd little diners like this one. The food is always incredibly greasy but so good! They are populated by a motley crew of townsfolk who all seem to know one another well enough to say 'hello' but look at you as if you're a recent visitor from the Twilight Zone.

You have to know my guy to appreciate the twinkle he sometimes gets in his eye. I spotted it right off. He poured cream into his coffee, smiled at me and said, "they have pie." I cracked up. We've been married twenty-two years. We get each other's humor.

We talked about a lot of things today: songwriting, teaching, politics, the fact that Han shot first. We made up stories about the locals. Yeah. We're silly like that sometimes.

Earlier we met with 'the team' to write Speedy Pete's IEP. It's always an arduous process. SP's getting older. Today we were asked how we envision his post-academic future.

Whoa. Heavy-duty.

I'm not sure how to answer it. He wants to be a marine biologist. Am I supposed to say he can't? Am I supposed to tell them that he'll never go to college? Write him off before he even has a chance? Decide for him what he's supposed to be?

They must be thinking I'm someone else's mother.

We didn't give them an answer.

At the diner, we talked and laughed and recharged. It was a good day.

Say "Cheese"!

One day last summer, I was taking a picture of the hummingbirds that frequent my garden every July and I dropped my camera on the deck and smashed the lens. Ouch.

A few months ago, in a master stroke of genius, I left hubby's camera on my desk. Speedy Pete, my wild tornado of a child, used it as a percussion instrument and smashed its lens. Ouch.

With my man not working, I've had to wait for a new camera. The only reason we decided to get a new one was because Peach Fuzz is having her dance recital next weekend and I need to take her picture. So, with mom's day as an excuse, we bought this:

It's a simple point and shoot with a few bells and whistles, but she'll do. I'm not looking to be the next Ansel Adams, I just don't want my babies to grow up without me capturing every moment.

"We're not going to Guam, are we?"

A  plane crash, a tropical island, a polar bear, a mad Frenchwoman, a series of repeating numbers.

A hole in the ground, a science project, a four-toed statue, the end of the world.

A smoke monster, a trek through time, a long-standing battle between good and evil, and an alternate universe where a plane didn't crash.

At some point in the next week or so, all these random pieces of information are going to come together into coherent whole. That's my hope, anyway. For 119 weeks, I have eagerly sat in front of my TV, remote control in hand, poised to leap into the strange and confusing world of LOST (created by Damon Lindelof, J. J. Abrams and Jeffrey Lieber.)  I visit that world with a large group of fans. I'm thankful for them. I'd hate to feel this confused all by myself.

I'm thankful for another thing, too.

This show inspired my writing. It begged me to put things on paper whether they made sense or not. It helped me to trust the process; it taught me to ask "what if..." I accepted the challenge to view the blank page with  a LOST perspective. I learned it is okay to take your readers on a ride, to keep some things a mystery, to take risks, to just write the damn thing and see where it ends up.

I'm not sure whether the LOST writers had it all planned from the beginning or if they've been making it up as they go along. What I know for sure is they've freed their imagination, and in so doing, have lit a fire under mine.

Not a bad way to spend a weeknight.

Mother's Day

This is my favorite picture of my kids. It was taken almost three years ago at DisneyWorld on a stifling hot September day. All around us people meandered down Main Street USA taking in the sights and sounds of 'the happiest place on Earth'.

Not my kids. They were looking at ducks.

I took this picture of them because it made me laugh. At the time, the incongruity of it made me smile and shake my head the way parents do when their kids do something cute and incomprehensible.

Years later, I look back at this moment and realize it encapsulates everything I need to know about being their mother. No matter what I do, or how much I pay, plan, encourage, lead, direct, push and cajole, if I give them a chance, they'll show me what they think is important. And who am I to disagree?

I think they may have put the ducks there to remind me.

Thanks, Walt.

Behavior is Communication

You hear that a lot when you have a kid with autism. Kids with autism can't always say what they think, or how they feel, or what they want to tell you. Instead, you get behavior. And then you try to figure out what it means. Try, because while you won't always be successful (as a matter of fact, you will fail to figure it out a great portion of the time), you will still want to try, because, well...look at him. Wouldn't you want to know what he's thinking?

He's perfect, in every way. He looks like my husband, but with the slender fingers of a pianist. His hair has lost the reddish tint he was handed down from my grandfather. He has blue eyes. His face is changing, the way faces do when they wind their way through puberty. Above his lips soft hair forms a the beginnings of a mustache. He's almost as tall as me. He's growing muscles in all the right places. There are hearts out there he would have broken.

He aggravates us to no end. "How can he look like that and act like this?" "This" being the incessant, idiotic, bizarre strangeness that sometimes makes us all feel like we are going crazy. What is he trying to tell us?

Damned if I know.

Nicknames

I blame my father.

Not that he had a lot of silly names for me, he really only had one, and it wasn't even all that silly, but he did have a lot of other silly sayings he used to direct at me along with a wealth of affection. Things I can't even try to spell, that's how invented they were.

In that same spirit of silliness, I nicknamed the dogs, my husband, our relationship, the canoe, our kids.

I use nicknames often enough that the animals respond to them as readily as they do their true names. (For a cat, that's saying something.) Tish-Tosh, Snoo-Boo, Smoreo, Peebs.

I called my son "Speedy Pete" long before he began actually traveling at the speed of light, and my daughter "Peach Fuzz" for the downy soft fluff that covered her head on the day she was born.

Recently, I've been playing around with nicknames for my characters. Not all of them. Some of them are too nasty to merit a nickname. But, for others, I think it might be a way of fleshing them out, of giving them an intimate history with another, of showing the reader a side of them that might be otherwise hidden or secret.

I think this bears some looking into.

Names

It took us four days to name our daughter. Strange only in that we chose our son's name years before he was born.

I think about their names sometimes and the way they were chosen and whether or not we made the right decision. The fact is, their names suit them. Much as I wanted to call my daughter Margaret - Maggie, for short - she's not a Margaret or a Maggie. (We've her father to thank for that save.) And, while I still love Joshua and all the reasons we had for choosing that name, it's not the right name for my son.

My characters are also like this. No matter how they get named, be it an inspiration that comes while I'm composing, or a name I've researched, by the time I call them a specific something - that's who they are.

Usually, it's not a problem, but lurking in the back of my head, and sometimes on paper, is a guy I've come to love. He's got a story to tell even if I can't find all the words to tell it just yet. His name is Donnie Monk. Most of his friends call him Monk. Trouble is, he looks nothing like the nebbish TV detective with OCD and an anxiety disorder who just happens to have the same surname. And try as I might, I can't get Donnie to change his name. I've suggested a different spelling: Munk, Monch, Munck - nope, Donnie and I are having none of it. We like Monk.

Tony Shalhoub as Adrian Monk who is so 

NOT Donnie Monk

I've got a sneaking suspicion if I tried to pitch this story, an editor would insist upon a name change. So, what's a writer to do? 

I've got no answers on this one, but I'm really hoping I get to debate it with an editor someday. 'Course, by that time, Monk the TV show may be a distant memory. See, Donnie, told ya not to worry.

Ink

I always wanted a tattoo. For years, I thought about getting one, but I never could figure it out. I'd choose a design, but either I'd grow tired of it (big problem - if you are getting a tattoo, you'd best love it for the ages, cuz, it's damn hard to get rid of it) or I never could settle on a place to put the darn thing.

I love tattoos. Each one come with a litle story. They mean something. They prick my curiousity. I want to hear about them. I think they beautiful and mysterious and incredible.

It took me many years, but I finally settled on a design and a placement. I'm a little annoyed with the placement. It's on my back and I can't see it real well. Stinks because I really love it. It is a tribute to my children. It's based on a poem by Sharon Olds, here's a little excerpt:

"...the world that was not enough for her without me in it,
not the moon, the sun, the stars...not the
earth, the sea, none of it was
enough for her, without me."

Sharon Olds' poem appears in

The Wish, The Wait, the Wonder:

A Book of Wisdom for Expectant Parents

Complied by Gail Perry Johnston

(Harper Collins, 1994)

Pencil and Paper

About a year or so ago, I began composing all my stories on the computer. I'd squirrel ideas in my head and type them out whenever I had a chance. It worked pretty well for quite a while. And then it didn't anymore.

For some time, I've been wondering why I can't finish a story. I came up with two reasons: one - I used to spend more time in my car. I do a lot of great brainstorming in the car. It's the only completely quiet place I have. Two - I used to write everything out longhand.

Here's the thing: I write in bits, nothing is linear. Sometimes I know the ending before I finish the middle. Sometimes I have a general idea of what gets talked about in the middle and then have to find a beginning. Sitting at the keyboard, I feel compelled to fill the page from top to bottom, beginning - middle - end.

Except.

I don't write that way.

The other day, I typed out a decent beginning, took a drive and daydreamed about the middle and then, over the next two days, I grabbed a notebook and jotted down ideas, sentences, snippets of dialogue. It's all very disjointed, with arrows and cross-outs and a few passages are circled (them's the good ones) and I can't tell (yet), but I think I'm going to end up with a decent story.

I'm glad I re-discovered this style of working. This post is here to remind me.

Getting Paid

I made an executive decision a couple of weeks back. It involves money. I decided I'm not going to give away my work anymore. I'm going to get paid for my stories. Sounds cocky, doesn't it? I mean, I'm not brilliant or famous. I write little stories. Very little stories. Some of my stories barely break a thousand words. But, still. I work hard on them. They represent countless stolen hours. I write. I re-write. And then, just to make sure I know what I'm doing, I re-write some more.  

By the time I'm done, I feel like I have something valuable. Maybe it is only valuable to me. That's okay. I can take it. I'm proud to see the growth in the work, I like that it continues to evolve. I mean, two years ago I hardly knew where to place a comma. (You're re-reading now, aren't ya? Making sure I've got all the commas in the right places. Don't bother, I promise you, I still screw them up.)  

It's not about greed. It's about respect. Mine, for my work.  

From now on, if I can, I get paid for my efforts.

The First

It occurs to me, after a year and a half of having this blog, that I have to actually write something here and post it in order to 'start the blog'.

So, here it is. The first post.

Now I can move on to other things...