It came on Christmas Eve - weeks earlier than we'd expected to see it. When my son pulled an envelope out of the pile of mail he'd just dropped on the kitchen table I turned away - I couldn't look.
The Christmas tree at the other end of the room was a distraction - for all of two seconds - then I had to know.
My son's widening smile confirmed what we'd been hoping for months: he'd been accepted to MassArt. This was his dream college, his number one and ONLY choice. He knew it was a reach, but never once gave up the goal that would ultimately seduce him over the Sagamore Bridge and into a life all his own.
I'm not sure who screamed first, or who jumped the highest. It was literally a movie moment. Exactly how I'd imagined it to be: stunning, thrilling, exciting and terrifying all at once. We both felt it so loudly that my younger son flew up the basement stairs, where he'd been plugged into the X-Box all morning, to see what had happened to raise the roof off of our little home.
I was hugged so tightly I pulled a muscle in my neck. It took me three attempts to read the words through eyes that couldn't stay focused. This was it - my son was going to leave me - and soon.
I published as a blog entry (below) an article I'd written for the Fall 2010 issue of CapeWomenOnline.com about a trip I'd taken last summer to the Grand Canyon. I'm still peering over that cliff edge. Still wondering if it's okay to let my sons walk ahead, run ahead, disappear behind a rock I'm too afraid to climb over myself.
This is where I've been these last six months, and why getting back here, to write about not writing, has been impossible.
The funny thing is that I HAVE been writing, or rather rewriting the novel that I began this blog to discuss in the first place. From last June to late December, I was in a fabulous routine of driving my son to his figure drawing class (see an article about Sarah Holl in the Holiday issue of CapeWomenOnline) then heading off to the haunted back room of the Hyannis Public Library to work on my novel in a blissful silence that only exists in such a space.
I was on a roll - editing, rewriting, filling in the gaps of storylines that had eluded me for years. It was so easy to just 'show up at the page'. To drop into the lives of the characters that had begun to communicate with me on a daily basis. The light at the end of the tunnel was in sight - then the art classes ended.
My library time became lost in a blur of days stuffed with dirty dishes and laundry again, endless trips to Trader Joe's for MORE milk - how much milk can one child drink, for god sakes? Time to rearrange the kitchen - toss out old appliances and order new (red) ones online - time to open brown boxes filled with new "stuff" that would make life simpler, give me more time to write...
Time to do anything but dwell on the contents of the letter that had arrived on Christmas Eve.
Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled for my son. He's talked about going to MassArt for years. My struggle has been with the push-and-pull of being his mother; of celebrating his success while quietly grieving the loss of the child that is perched on the very edge of the cliff he plans to jump off.
Stepping into the shadows to get out of his way goes against every instinct in my body. I want to at least stand beside him, talk him through the jump, but he doesn't need me there. He needs me to let go.
So that's what I've been practicing...the delicate art of balancing on the edge of my own cliff, where the view from here is probably a lot scarier than the edge he is peering over. Perhaps that's because I know how it feels to fall, and to discover that sometimes, the safety net isn't there afterall.
If I've done my job, however, my son's wings will be strong enough to safely carry him forward, to wherever he decides to go, even if it's just over the Sagamore Bridge to Boston.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Grand Designs: Navigating the Amazing Trails of Motherhood
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| Bright Angel Canyon, Arizona. |
My article concluded that if I listened to my sons, I mean REALLY LISTENED to who they are and what they needed as they matured, I would be guided along the unfamiliar path of motherhood. I am happy to report that my insight was correct and now, a decade later, my sons are becoming the young men I always hoped they could be.
Thanks to my mother, my sisters and I found our voices at a very young age and were encouraged to use them, loudly, when necessary. She also encouraged us to be independent, self-reliant and courageous. I believe I was twelve when the headmistress of our all-girls' Catholic secondary school declared that "Good Catholic girls belong at home."
It was my mother who showed me how to change draconian rules. She marched into that spinster's office and demanded that her daughters be allowed to sit the exams that would open the doors to higher education.
When my time came to leave the nest I couldn't fly off fast enough. I took a plane from Heathrow airport to JFK just three days after graduating from University and the rest, as they say, is history.
Now it's my turn to let go and see how far the wings of my own children can take them.
I say children, I still call them that, but they are young men now. And what courageous young men they are! I know I'm biased, but I made it my personal mission to raise my sons the same way my mother raised me – to find their voices at a young age and to follow their hearts to wherever there dreams may take them.
My eldest son is an artist who has his sights set on Massachusetts College of Art and Design. My younger son is a musician with plans to attend Berklee. It has been my job, as their mother, to nurture these creative aspirations and trust that if they follow their passions they will succeed at whatever they do.
I have Julia Cameron to thank for my confidence that art and music are serious career choices. Passages from her book The Artist's Way have been echoing through my head for years.
Years ago, I promised my sons that we would see the Grand Canyon before they graduated high school. It was one of those "some day" ideas that often got lost among the endless "To Do" lists of daily life. Being a single mother, I didn't relish the thought of attempting this trip as the only adult, so I let the trip keep falling to the bottom of the list.
This past summer, my sons and I found ourselves peering over the cliff edges of Bright Angel Point, on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, into a fathomless, mysterious, ancient chasm below. Two of my sisters stood beside me. The Grand Canyon had been on their wish lists too.
Although we couldn't see it, we all knew the Colorado River was still carving its course through layers of multicolored rock that held historic details dating back over two billion years. The size, age and beauty of the canyon were breathtaking, and not just because we were struggling to breathe the extremely thin air.
 | |||
| My younger son listens to the voices of the Grand Canyon |
But my sons fooled around, as boys do, leaving the trail to climb boulders that were precariously balanced on one side of the narrow paths stretching out into the canyon's gaping abyss. I had heart attacks, as mothers do, when I imagined them hurtling to their deaths.
The only way to express my sense of terror that they could die if they lost their balance, was to leave the safety of the path and threaten to climb onto one of the protruding boulders myself. It was my eldest son who caught both my arms and begged me not to risk my life. Relieved, I returned to the trail and said, "Now you know how I feel," as I marched passed him.
The Grand Canyon surprised me. The silence that floated in the air above us was louder than anything I've ever heard before. It told me to stop. To sit. To look and to listen. It reminded me that life is a journey through many wonderful, treacherous, exciting moments, and that each second that passes is something to be felt as deeply as possible.
It asked me stop white-knuckle driving to work, to school, to appointments. It suggested that I slow down enough to smell the lavender growing in pots on my deck. It asked me to listen to the laughter of my sons playing x-box with their friends in their basement man-cave.
I hated the panic in my chest at the thought of losing my sons on that trail. But I loved the warmth of the knowledge that I got us there, to that incredible place, just as I'd promised.
I hate the thought of entering this final year of living with my eldest son before he flies the coop, but I love the strength of his commitment to his own future.
 |
| My eldest son steps onto his own Amazing Trail |
I know this is what we mothers do and I accept that within three years, both my sons will be navigating their own journeys through lives that will no longer be lived within the safety of my arm's reach. And I love the knowledge that I helped them find their voice, their vision, their passions, just as my mother helped me to find mine.
I understand now that Nature makes teenagers challenging to live with so that we want to help them pack, to drive them to their new lives, to wave them goodbye, and then to trust that they will, despite all the fears a mother can imagine, be okay.
As I stood looking into the heart of the Grand Canyon, where so much was said in such deafening silence, my sisters stood beside me, assuring me that as our lives unfold before us, we will always have each other to share our journeys.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Celebrating Summer on Cape Cod
If you've never had to carry your largest fan onto the deck before attempting to sit outside, then you've never experienced the full force of a humid, Cape Cod summer. It's been brutal this year! The only way to escape the suffocating heat is to treat yourself to lunch in an air conditioned restaurant, followed by a movie for desert. At least that's how I choose to handle it.
Today's movie was Inception. It was amazing. I won't go into the intricacies of the multilevel story lines, nor rave too much about the brilliant casting choices, I'll just say that it was two and a half hours very well spent. The AC and stadium seating were mere cherries on a very delicious Sunday afternoon treat.
My sons couldn't discuss the movie with me on the way home because they were too busy contemplating what they'd just seen. I was told they'd need a few hours to "take it all in" before they could talk about it. That left me with my own thoughts. Which led me to firing up hoses to water my very thirsty gardens, and to the deck, which was still sweltering at 8pm tonight.
I recently bought myself a deck fountain for my birthday, so I'm currently bathing in the cool sounds of the lawn sprinklers and the water pouring into the half-barrel beside me. Thankfully, the fan is keeping the green heads and the no-see-ums at bay, or it would be impossible to stay out here for more than 3 seconds. The deck is one of my favorite places to sit in the summer, but with July running into August, I can count on one hand how often I've made it out here.
It's not just the heat and humidity keeping me from my new deck chairs that recline so much that I can watch the clouds dance across the sky. It's my crazy summer schedule that has me working 7 days a week, instead of the usual 5. My hopes of napping in my hammock, reading on my garden swing and writing at the table next to the chimenea are just that; hopes of time to slow down enough to celebrate summer before it's over.
How often have I walked through the front door with a firm plan to keep walking until I'm out the back door and in my garden? I don't recall a single day when I haven't held that dream. I typically make it three steps into the living room before picking up stray t-shirts, socks or yes, smelly undies off the floor, then it's into the kitchen to clear up breakfast dishes, or off to the bathroom to hang wet towels left straddling the shower stall. I'm not sure why teenagers have such a hard time cleaning up after themselves, but it doesn't take Inspector Morse to figure out who went where, what they ate and when they ate it.
Nor will this craziness last forever. Like the summer, my years hosting teenage boys are going much too fast. Three years from now my home will be nothing more than a stopping-off point in my sons' lives. I'm sure by then I will probably welcome their abandoned clothes, dirty dishes and damp towels.
My youngest son turned 15 last week so we had a beach bonfire party to celebrate. It was a wonderful combination of swimming, volley ball, pizza, s'mores and music blaring from an iLuv that was loud enough to clear the less adventurous souls from our party zone. On the way home, my eldest son announced that it was the best party he'd ever been to. That's saying something considering the fact that parents were present! I'd worked a full week and felt so tired that I could have fallen asleep in the trunk of my car, but his words made all the effort worth it. My younger son thanked me with a giant hug, which, coming from 15-year-old, is a miracle.
As the summer spins out of control with chaotic schedules and relentless demands for rides and sleepovers, I try to remember how fleeting the seasons are with these time-sucking teenage boys. I try to listen for the spaces between the noise. To find the moments I'll treasure long after they've moved on to their busy lives beyond these Cape Cod walls.
We followed today's movie with treats from Dairy Queen. I pretended that I thought it might cool us all down. My real motivation was to see, once again, that childish grin that always comes when you hand someone something you know they love.
Afterall, you can't have summer without ice cream!
Today's movie was Inception. It was amazing. I won't go into the intricacies of the multilevel story lines, nor rave too much about the brilliant casting choices, I'll just say that it was two and a half hours very well spent. The AC and stadium seating were mere cherries on a very delicious Sunday afternoon treat.
My sons couldn't discuss the movie with me on the way home because they were too busy contemplating what they'd just seen. I was told they'd need a few hours to "take it all in" before they could talk about it. That left me with my own thoughts. Which led me to firing up hoses to water my very thirsty gardens, and to the deck, which was still sweltering at 8pm tonight.
I recently bought myself a deck fountain for my birthday, so I'm currently bathing in the cool sounds of the lawn sprinklers and the water pouring into the half-barrel beside me. Thankfully, the fan is keeping the green heads and the no-see-ums at bay, or it would be impossible to stay out here for more than 3 seconds. The deck is one of my favorite places to sit in the summer, but with July running into August, I can count on one hand how often I've made it out here.
It's not just the heat and humidity keeping me from my new deck chairs that recline so much that I can watch the clouds dance across the sky. It's my crazy summer schedule that has me working 7 days a week, instead of the usual 5. My hopes of napping in my hammock, reading on my garden swing and writing at the table next to the chimenea are just that; hopes of time to slow down enough to celebrate summer before it's over.
How often have I walked through the front door with a firm plan to keep walking until I'm out the back door and in my garden? I don't recall a single day when I haven't held that dream. I typically make it three steps into the living room before picking up stray t-shirts, socks or yes, smelly undies off the floor, then it's into the kitchen to clear up breakfast dishes, or off to the bathroom to hang wet towels left straddling the shower stall. I'm not sure why teenagers have such a hard time cleaning up after themselves, but it doesn't take Inspector Morse to figure out who went where, what they ate and when they ate it.
Nor will this craziness last forever. Like the summer, my years hosting teenage boys are going much too fast. Three years from now my home will be nothing more than a stopping-off point in my sons' lives. I'm sure by then I will probably welcome their abandoned clothes, dirty dishes and damp towels.
My youngest son turned 15 last week so we had a beach bonfire party to celebrate. It was a wonderful combination of swimming, volley ball, pizza, s'mores and music blaring from an iLuv that was loud enough to clear the less adventurous souls from our party zone. On the way home, my eldest son announced that it was the best party he'd ever been to. That's saying something considering the fact that parents were present! I'd worked a full week and felt so tired that I could have fallen asleep in the trunk of my car, but his words made all the effort worth it. My younger son thanked me with a giant hug, which, coming from 15-year-old, is a miracle.
As the summer spins out of control with chaotic schedules and relentless demands for rides and sleepovers, I try to remember how fleeting the seasons are with these time-sucking teenage boys. I try to listen for the spaces between the noise. To find the moments I'll treasure long after they've moved on to their busy lives beyond these Cape Cod walls.
We followed today's movie with treats from Dairy Queen. I pretended that I thought it might cool us all down. My real motivation was to see, once again, that childish grin that always comes when you hand someone something you know they love.
Afterall, you can't have summer without ice cream!
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Sunshine, Swans and Springtime!
Well it's finally here - the sound of the woodpecker that returns to my little corner of the Cape has replaced my alarm clock once again. It must be Spring.
The knocking of beak against bark begins as a distant tapping in late March, as the bird debugs my neighbors' trees. But by mid April, this beautiful creature has flown into my garden and announces itself with a jack-hammering on my chimney cap so loud that it makes the bedroom wall vibrate. A startling wake-up call that always makes me smile, once I've recovered from the hammering of my heart within my chest.
With spring come swans on the Herring River, sunrise peeping though my kitchen windows as I put the kettle on for tea, and those earthy smells of life pushing through the soil as we all greet another season of growth.
After many weeks of thinking up themes, gathering stories, editing and formatting pages, the Spring issue of CapeWomenOnline.com has been launched!
This is our 5th issue since I took on the Publisher's role and I am delighted with the growth of our little venture. We just added embedded video clips to some of the article pages, which add a whole new dimension to our storytelling, and we've joined the ranks of the Twitter and Facebook generation.
The T&F links are perplexing to me as I have to conquer my fear of yet another form of electronic communication. I barely get back here to update this blog - god knows how I'm going to add Tweeting and Facebook chat to my super busy world, but I am willing to give it a try.
I remember the very first time I went on the world wide web, as we used to call it back then. I was standing in the back office of a restaurant I used to work at, watching an image of the earth circle in the center of a black computer screen. I had no idea what to expect other than the totally unfamiliar and fantastic.
When the Netscape browser opened up to reveal a website page I was completely flummoxed and struggled to connect the images on the screen to my physical reality. What the hell was this internet thingy, anyway? And why should I care?
I laugh at my ignorance now because I go online as much as anyone. Even when I'm not near a computer I can check my email on my cell phone, or look up the menu for the pizza place that just moved into town. It's a wonderful, curious, addicting phenomenon that has weaved its way into the lives of everyone I know. I can't imagine life without it.
This is why I knew I had to continue working with CapeWomenOnline magazine. Although I couldn't see where this might take me a year ago, I've learned so much from the interactions I've had with our writers, artists, editor and web princess (yes, she really does live in a princess palace) and the countless people who have just wanted to talk to me about the content we've published. It has widened my horizons on all levels and I feel so blessed to be a part of its continued growth.
I have to admit that I've been so busy with the magazine that my poor old novel has been shoved to the back of my mind for several months now. I miss talking to my characters and have so many details I want to add to the rewrite. Since January I have collected a slew of yellow sticky notes, scribblings on the backs of anything I could write on, thoughts added to the 'Notebook' in my cell phone and long rambling narrative downloaded into the parts of my brain that wake up when it's novel-writing time.
With the new issue online and already receiving rave reviews, I hope to carve out some time to dust off those manila files and get back to work on my rewrite. I still have the summer as my 2nd draft goal, because I need a deadline, so I will have to resist the urge to spend long hours in the garden weeding, planting and pruning, and settle for just sitting on my garden swing with my lap top on my knees instead.
Check out the new issue of CapeWomenOnline.com and let me know how you like it.
Happy Spring!
The knocking of beak against bark begins as a distant tapping in late March, as the bird debugs my neighbors' trees. But by mid April, this beautiful creature has flown into my garden and announces itself with a jack-hammering on my chimney cap so loud that it makes the bedroom wall vibrate. A startling wake-up call that always makes me smile, once I've recovered from the hammering of my heart within my chest.
With spring come swans on the Herring River, sunrise peeping though my kitchen windows as I put the kettle on for tea, and those earthy smells of life pushing through the soil as we all greet another season of growth.
After many weeks of thinking up themes, gathering stories, editing and formatting pages, the Spring issue of CapeWomenOnline.com has been launched!
This is our 5th issue since I took on the Publisher's role and I am delighted with the growth of our little venture. We just added embedded video clips to some of the article pages, which add a whole new dimension to our storytelling, and we've joined the ranks of the Twitter and Facebook generation.
The T&F links are perplexing to me as I have to conquer my fear of yet another form of electronic communication. I barely get back here to update this blog - god knows how I'm going to add Tweeting and Facebook chat to my super busy world, but I am willing to give it a try.
I remember the very first time I went on the world wide web, as we used to call it back then. I was standing in the back office of a restaurant I used to work at, watching an image of the earth circle in the center of a black computer screen. I had no idea what to expect other than the totally unfamiliar and fantastic.
When the Netscape browser opened up to reveal a website page I was completely flummoxed and struggled to connect the images on the screen to my physical reality. What the hell was this internet thingy, anyway? And why should I care?
I laugh at my ignorance now because I go online as much as anyone. Even when I'm not near a computer I can check my email on my cell phone, or look up the menu for the pizza place that just moved into town. It's a wonderful, curious, addicting phenomenon that has weaved its way into the lives of everyone I know. I can't imagine life without it.
This is why I knew I had to continue working with CapeWomenOnline magazine. Although I couldn't see where this might take me a year ago, I've learned so much from the interactions I've had with our writers, artists, editor and web princess (yes, she really does live in a princess palace) and the countless people who have just wanted to talk to me about the content we've published. It has widened my horizons on all levels and I feel so blessed to be a part of its continued growth.
I have to admit that I've been so busy with the magazine that my poor old novel has been shoved to the back of my mind for several months now. I miss talking to my characters and have so many details I want to add to the rewrite. Since January I have collected a slew of yellow sticky notes, scribblings on the backs of anything I could write on, thoughts added to the 'Notebook' in my cell phone and long rambling narrative downloaded into the parts of my brain that wake up when it's novel-writing time.
With the new issue online and already receiving rave reviews, I hope to carve out some time to dust off those manila files and get back to work on my rewrite. I still have the summer as my 2nd draft goal, because I need a deadline, so I will have to resist the urge to spend long hours in the garden weeding, planting and pruning, and settle for just sitting on my garden swing with my lap top on my knees instead.
Check out the new issue of CapeWomenOnline.com and let me know how you like it.
Happy Spring!
Friday, March 5, 2010
Tools of the Trade
It's been over a month since my last confession...I mean entry (flashback to being a Catholic there) and my excuse is simple - I've just been too damn busy to get back here!
Ridiculous, isn't it?
After giving myself the gift of finishing my first draft I let myself get buried, once again, beneath the many layers of my life. I feel like a million tiny fingers are tugging at my skin; wanting, pulling, demanding, needing. It's exhausting.
It's also validating and rewarding, to some extent. These fingers belong to my teenage sons, my students, my family in England, my pets, my friends and yes, some of them belong to me. These fingers remind me that I am surrounded by people who make my life worth waking up to. While some days feel heavier than others, some are brightened by surprises that leap out of the darkest of shadows.
One such surprise came last week, when my high school friend called to tell me she had found a house. After years of struggling to raise her three children in rented accommodations, she finally has a place she can count on. When she emailed me a link to the realtor's virtual tour I found myself surfing around the rooms of her new home. It was magical! I felt like I was there, walking through those wonderful rooms, right beside her.
It doesn't matter that she lives on the other side of the Atlantic. I've seen her new place and it rocks!
A second ray of light came in the form of a phone call from another high school friend. She wants to come and visit me in July. As I've not seen her in over 6, maybe 7 years, that's absolutely fabulous news. I'm so glad we refused listen to those god-fearing teachers who said our friendship was "a terrible thing" because we got busted for writing notes to each other in French class.
Okay, so there were a few creative comments about our class mates. And perhaps we made a snide remark or two about the frustrated old prune that was our headmistress. But nothing we wrote at age twelve was bad enough to dedicate an entire assembly to shaming us publicly for our "wicked words".
I like to blame Ms H. for my writer's block, on occasion, although I don't believe that our "evil notes" really had the power to condemn our souls into eternal damnation. Nor do I believe that it was necessary for Ms H. to hurl our writing into the flames of the sanitary towel incinerator.
Wouldn't she just turn in her grave (she MUST be dead by now) to know that this friend, whom she thought was such a bad influence on me, is now the inspiration for one of the lead characters of my novel?
Okay, back to that novel. Well, I've been reading my first draft and it's a very interesting experience.
The characters feel so much more, what's the word? Full? I don't remember writing the words that gave them their color, their accents and my god, what attitudes! Who are these people? Where do their voices come from? It's so strange to listen to them chatting back and forth, to hear what they have to say about the world that we created, together.
Talk about flashbacks! I wonder if all that magic mushroom tea, from my university days, can be credited for opening up my mind enough to let these characters in? I'm sure they weren't always in there....
I didn't mean to digress so completely from the title of this entry - I bought a new lap top last month. Yep. Got an email from Staples advertising President's Day specials. So, in the spirit of honoring Obama's stimulus efforts, I invested in an HP Pavilion. I really wanted to buy a Mac, but that will have to wait for more affluent times. The HP is fine, for now.
Instead of rewriting my novel I've been learning how to use Windows 7 and discovering that Microsoft 7 is actually a very intuitive program that thinks very much like a Mac...I know, weird, isn't it? This new distraction was so delicious that I lost myself in online tutorials for days. I also spent endless hours copying all my files from my beloved, aging iBook to the HP.
Not to keep harping on the magic mushrooms, but I swear my iBook knew there was an intruder in the house because after 7 years of flawless service it started freaking out the very day I bought the new lap top home. My screen began freezing then it refused to reboot altogether. I did the usual rescue routine: drew a couple of Reiki symbols over the keyboard, slapped the screen a few times, then yanked out the cord and the battery. That worked.
Now I have to spend 20 minutes convincing my iBook that I still think it's amazing before it will deign to boot up for me, then it lets me save a few files to my thumb drive before throwing another hissy fit. We seem to have fallen into a pretty workable routine. It just takes hours to accomplish what used to take seconds.
I don't think I'll ever have the heart to permanently unplug it...even if it does need an ethernet cable to get online.
Now if I could only figure out how to transfer my Quicktime version of "Here's to the Crazy Ones" Apple ad. from my iBook to the HP. The Mac to Pc files just won't translate and it was so easy to download it back in '97!
Hang on - I just found it on YouTube. If you haven't seen the ad here it is:
Think Different Apple Ad - Original version
It's such a great reminder that round pegs in square holes are good things...and that "the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do."
Cheers to you, if you're crazy :-)
Ridiculous, isn't it?
After giving myself the gift of finishing my first draft I let myself get buried, once again, beneath the many layers of my life. I feel like a million tiny fingers are tugging at my skin; wanting, pulling, demanding, needing. It's exhausting.
It's also validating and rewarding, to some extent. These fingers belong to my teenage sons, my students, my family in England, my pets, my friends and yes, some of them belong to me. These fingers remind me that I am surrounded by people who make my life worth waking up to. While some days feel heavier than others, some are brightened by surprises that leap out of the darkest of shadows.
One such surprise came last week, when my high school friend called to tell me she had found a house. After years of struggling to raise her three children in rented accommodations, she finally has a place she can count on. When she emailed me a link to the realtor's virtual tour I found myself surfing around the rooms of her new home. It was magical! I felt like I was there, walking through those wonderful rooms, right beside her.
It doesn't matter that she lives on the other side of the Atlantic. I've seen her new place and it rocks!
A second ray of light came in the form of a phone call from another high school friend. She wants to come and visit me in July. As I've not seen her in over 6, maybe 7 years, that's absolutely fabulous news. I'm so glad we refused listen to those god-fearing teachers who said our friendship was "a terrible thing" because we got busted for writing notes to each other in French class.
Okay, so there were a few creative comments about our class mates. And perhaps we made a snide remark or two about the frustrated old prune that was our headmistress. But nothing we wrote at age twelve was bad enough to dedicate an entire assembly to shaming us publicly for our "wicked words".
I like to blame Ms H. for my writer's block, on occasion, although I don't believe that our "evil notes" really had the power to condemn our souls into eternal damnation. Nor do I believe that it was necessary for Ms H. to hurl our writing into the flames of the sanitary towel incinerator.
Wouldn't she just turn in her grave (she MUST be dead by now) to know that this friend, whom she thought was such a bad influence on me, is now the inspiration for one of the lead characters of my novel?
Okay, back to that novel. Well, I've been reading my first draft and it's a very interesting experience.
The characters feel so much more, what's the word? Full? I don't remember writing the words that gave them their color, their accents and my god, what attitudes! Who are these people? Where do their voices come from? It's so strange to listen to them chatting back and forth, to hear what they have to say about the world that we created, together.
Talk about flashbacks! I wonder if all that magic mushroom tea, from my university days, can be credited for opening up my mind enough to let these characters in? I'm sure they weren't always in there....
I didn't mean to digress so completely from the title of this entry - I bought a new lap top last month. Yep. Got an email from Staples advertising President's Day specials. So, in the spirit of honoring Obama's stimulus efforts, I invested in an HP Pavilion. I really wanted to buy a Mac, but that will have to wait for more affluent times. The HP is fine, for now.
Instead of rewriting my novel I've been learning how to use Windows 7 and discovering that Microsoft 7 is actually a very intuitive program that thinks very much like a Mac...I know, weird, isn't it? This new distraction was so delicious that I lost myself in online tutorials for days. I also spent endless hours copying all my files from my beloved, aging iBook to the HP.
Not to keep harping on the magic mushrooms, but I swear my iBook knew there was an intruder in the house because after 7 years of flawless service it started freaking out the very day I bought the new lap top home. My screen began freezing then it refused to reboot altogether. I did the usual rescue routine: drew a couple of Reiki symbols over the keyboard, slapped the screen a few times, then yanked out the cord and the battery. That worked.
Now I have to spend 20 minutes convincing my iBook that I still think it's amazing before it will deign to boot up for me, then it lets me save a few files to my thumb drive before throwing another hissy fit. We seem to have fallen into a pretty workable routine. It just takes hours to accomplish what used to take seconds.
I don't think I'll ever have the heart to permanently unplug it...even if it does need an ethernet cable to get online.
Now if I could only figure out how to transfer my Quicktime version of "Here's to the Crazy Ones" Apple ad. from my iBook to the HP. The Mac to Pc files just won't translate and it was so easy to download it back in '97!
Hang on - I just found it on YouTube. If you haven't seen the ad here it is:
Think Different Apple Ad - Original version
It's such a great reminder that round pegs in square holes are good things...and that "the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do."
Cheers to you, if you're crazy :-)
Sunday, January 24, 2010
I did it :-) !!!
That's right - I completed the first draft of my novel.
To be honest, it was a bit of a non-event. I was so busy shoveling snow and clearing out the basement in preparation for a teen-packed New Year's Eve party that I didn't fully appreciate the fact that I'd met a goal I'd been chasing for a decade.
Of course, after the snow stopped falling, the earth began to shake and all eyes turned to Haiti, especially mine.
For several days I felt paralyzed by the devastation and horror of the high definition images sweeping into my home. Absorbing each gory detail with a writer's eye, I downloaded the unfolding events, holding my breath each time a possible survivor was located.
It took me until now to sift through the files that have crystallized in my brain. A dead baby lies on top of an endless pile of rotting corpses. Parents scream at the concrete rubble in the hopes of hearing their child's cry. Sounds of anger, frustration and desperation.
I wasn't prepared for the eruption of emotion this earthquake resurrected in me. I was unable to leave my couch, turn off the television or just turn away. I couldn't pretend it wasn't happening.
Yesterday I poured my anxiety onto the page and wrote a poem about it. I had to do something other than text a donation.
I will publish this poem in the Winter issue of CapeWomenOnline.com and ask the readers to continue donating to the ClintonBushHaitiFund long after the reporters have left town. This is all I can do. I know it's not enough. But it's better than doing nothing.
Today I finished writing an article about completing my novel. It felt so good to think about something inspiring and I was reminded that I'd met the challenge I'd set myself at the beginning of this blog.
It also prompted me to set myself a new goal - to complete my first rewrite by the end of the summer.
I've had almost a month to let my first draft simmer in the back of my mind. It's time to get back to work and face the new journey that lies ahead.
To be honest, it was a bit of a non-event. I was so busy shoveling snow and clearing out the basement in preparation for a teen-packed New Year's Eve party that I didn't fully appreciate the fact that I'd met a goal I'd been chasing for a decade.
Of course, after the snow stopped falling, the earth began to shake and all eyes turned to Haiti, especially mine.
For several days I felt paralyzed by the devastation and horror of the high definition images sweeping into my home. Absorbing each gory detail with a writer's eye, I downloaded the unfolding events, holding my breath each time a possible survivor was located.
It took me until now to sift through the files that have crystallized in my brain. A dead baby lies on top of an endless pile of rotting corpses. Parents scream at the concrete rubble in the hopes of hearing their child's cry. Sounds of anger, frustration and desperation.
I wasn't prepared for the eruption of emotion this earthquake resurrected in me. I was unable to leave my couch, turn off the television or just turn away. I couldn't pretend it wasn't happening.
Yesterday I poured my anxiety onto the page and wrote a poem about it. I had to do something other than text a donation.
I will publish this poem in the Winter issue of CapeWomenOnline.com and ask the readers to continue donating to the ClintonBushHaitiFund long after the reporters have left town. This is all I can do. I know it's not enough. But it's better than doing nothing.
Today I finished writing an article about completing my novel. It felt so good to think about something inspiring and I was reminded that I'd met the challenge I'd set myself at the beginning of this blog.
It also prompted me to set myself a new goal - to complete my first rewrite by the end of the summer.
I've had almost a month to let my first draft simmer in the back of my mind. It's time to get back to work and face the new journey that lies ahead.
"Only when it's dark enough can you see the stars"
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
Please click on this link to make a donation to the ClintonBushHaitiFund
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Dreaming of a White Christmas
There was less than an inch of snow on the ground when I went to bed last night - when I woke up the entire neighborhood was buried beneath a flawless white blanket over twelve inches thick.The weather teams haven't decided if they can officially call it the "Blizzard of '09" ( how the love their fancy names) but it would be impossible to venture out until after the roads are plowed.
Until then, I am happy to stay warm and toasty in my pajamas and watch the wind whip the white powder across my gardens.
Until then, I am happy to stay warm and toasty in my pajamas and watch the wind whip the white powder across my gardens.
I should be writing. I am so close to reaching my goal of 100,000 words by December 31st, but here I am, in full procrastination mode. Why? Where do I start?
Prior to this last week I was in a wonderful rhythm of working, writing and sleeping.
The usual avoidance techniques had been well and truly defeated by my determination to complete this single goal that I set for myself. My fingers were flying across my newly acquired wireless keyboard (thank you Logitech) as my characters dictated their stories at breakneck speed.
My eyes had abandoned their protest of the tiny text on my iBook screen since I installed a large monitor that made it possible for me to write without having my lap top anywhere near my lap. No more hot legs or nauseating vibrations.
My eyes had abandoned their protest of the tiny text on my iBook screen since I installed a large monitor that made it possible for me to write without having my lap top anywhere near my lap. No more hot legs or nauseating vibrations.
So what's the problem?
I'm not sure, and I don't think I should waste time trying to figure it out.
There are the usual culprits to blame:
- over-scheduling myself to make up for the upcoming Holiday break when I'll have two 4-day weekends in a row! What luxury!
- the incessant "nipping to the store" on my way to and from work to buy gifts, cards, wrapping supplies.
- deciding who to cross off my Christmas card list and which new names to add.
- baking pumpkin muffins, cookies and stick-to-your-ribs dinners to help pile on the internal layers that mother nature thinks we need during the cold winter months - maybe someone should tell her we have fleece blankets and furnaces nowadays?
- then there's the real creative monster - the finish-line-is-finally-in-sight monster that lunges into your path just when you think you are going to make it
Yeah, that's the one I suspect I'm dancing with as I watch another episode of House, CSI Miami, or Masterpiece Theater. I have all these shows saved to my DVR so I could watch them AFTER I complete my first draft. But I still find myself snuggling into my over-sized chair with my super soft blanket and glass of Pinot Noir for yet another few hours of staring at the flat screen, instead of the monitor.
I don't know if we'll have a snow day tomorrow. I guess that depends upon whether or not I dig out my car before it gets dark.
I don't know if we'll have a snow day tomorrow. I guess that depends upon whether or not I dig out my car before it gets dark.
The snow pants, gloves, jackets and boots are piled by the door next to the shovels. There's at least 2 hours worth of shoveling to do just to clear the driveway.
I could pretend that it's okay to ignore the fact that I'm wasting a perfect opportunity to get my novel written this afternoon, but my characters are sitting on my shoulders and literally whining like children, telling me to JUST WRITE.
They've been at it since I woke up to this winter wonderland, when they squealed their delight at the picture perfect scenes lying just beyond my snow framed windows. Their unconstrained excitement reminded me of my children on Christmas Eve, thrilled by the magic surrounding them in the form of fairy lights, candy canes and mysterious colorful gifts tucked under the tree. I guess I've never spent the Holidays with my characters before. They were probably buried beneath my endless To Do lists and the uncompromising "I'm way too busy to write" mantra that usually accompanies me in December.
But here we are, on a gorgeous snowy afternoon, talking to each other.
If I could ask Santa for a special gift this year it would be the gift of completion. I want to cross the finish line, once and for all, and leave my creative monsters in the dust behind me.
That said, I'm off to write - after I bribe my sons with Egg Nog and cookies to go out there and dig out my car!
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