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...