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