Day 7

Twenty-nine third graders sat on the floor in an old refurbished building. They were collectively writing a story and the leader of the discussion was a patient man named Steve with lots of enthusiasm. There was talk of a rapping hamster who was stuck in a tube. There was mention of rocket boots, of money, of wanting to see the world. I stood and watched this creative chaos and wondered how it would end.

The sweating volunteer paused the discussion and asked a question: "OK, wait a minute. We have the hamster in this dark and strange tube, but why would he go in there in the first place?" There was general shouting and creating and "Rocket boots!" and "Why not?!" and such when a hand shot up in the front row. Steve the volunteer quieted the mob and pointed to the intense little girl, sitting straight-backed and waggling her hand in the air as high as her shoulder would allow. "Did you have an idea?" Steve the volunteer asked. A loaded question, if ever there was one.

"Well, you want to know why he is in the tube. He wants some money, too. So why not let the motivation be  the same? Put the money in the tube, just a little back so he has to go in to see it, and then he can get stuck. It will be a trap." There was a chorus of "Oh yeah!" and Steve the volunteer bounced a little bit, "Great! And what is hamster money?"

The little girl answered promptly and calmly. "Why cheese, of course. It's funny because 'cheese' is an expression for money."

I have written a lot about my daughter. She is the walking embodiment of where all of my nerves and feelings and heart end. Bruise her and I will bleed. She smiles and I dance. She storms and I drown. I work hard to keep the responsibility for this intense visceral connection off of her young shoulders. I am supposedly the grown-up here, so I carry the weight of these intertwined souls and all the beauty and heartbreak that involves. I am the mother and this is my job. As she gets older - suddenly so tall! - she pulls away and defines herself in contrast to me. I celebrate this even as I feel the tiny stabs of loss. This is the way it is supposed to happen. This is what I am raising her for - to be independent, to think for herself, to find what she loves and pursue it. This is not about me.

My wee girl with her nose in a book.
She's in her Halloween costume, but it's not Halloween.

But sometimes, you know, it is. I stood with the other parents along the edge of this mayhem of ideas and laughed with them at the cheese, if only to mask the vivid, grateful tears that suddenly threatened to fall. I will never force my kids into being like me - heaven forbid they be like me. I would never insist upon their interests or their goals. I will not project my unfulfilled fantasies onto their small frames and make them live for me. I just won't. But my little girl - my beautiful, independent little girl - loves to write. She loves to tell stories and has invented them since she could talk. She loves to play with words and make them sing for her. She amuses herself with plays on words and explains them carefully to me. She has journals full to overflowing with bits of ideas and and dialogue and characters. She totes them everywhere with her and stops to write when she feels like it. Her spelling is atrocious, her handwriting is sloppy, punctuation is frequently optional - but she writes. Oh, she writes.

There are times when we don't communicate very well. There are times when my "I love you so much I could just lay down and die," comes out in a shout or a criticism. There are times when I try to tell her all the words she needs to avoid the heartbreak of growing up. I try to fill her up with the information that I felt I lacked as a child, not realizing that she lacks it for the same reason I did, she's a child. Sometimes she's weary and says, "Please can we stop talking, now?" Sometimes she has more ideas to share, more questions to ask. I try to listen and answer the questions she asks, not the ones I think she needs to ask. I try to listen to what she tells me when she rages or fumes, or can't sleep at night. I try to hear what makes her truly happy, what she really needs from me. I fail at this as often as I succeed. So it is to be a mother.

But this intense little straight-backed girl with her ready smile and waggling hand so high in the air, who is thrilled by "motivation", who thinks a story through, who makes a silly play on words - she is familiar to me. So familiar it hurts. I see me in her, but she is not me. I don't have enough words to explain to her how this fills me so. I have only my stupid, grinning tears that embarrass her on a field trip to communicate this deep connection to her, this gratitude for a shared love, some common and sacred ground. We don't always communicate very well, but I hope that we will always write.

Today's The Day!

This Thursday the 1st of November is the first ever Mindful Writing Day, organised by Kaspa & Fiona at Writing Our Way Home. To join in simply slow down, pay attention to one thing and write it down (making a small stone). Read all about it here. small stones are easy to write, and they will help you connect to the world. Once you've started, you might not want to stop... You can read more about small stones and find out about Lorrie with pea-green eyes in Fiona's free ebook, Write Your Way Home. If you visit Writing Our Way Home on Thursday you'll find out how to download your free kindle copy of the new anthology, 'A Blackbird Sings: a book of short poems'. You can also submit your small stone and see it published on the blog, and be entered into a competition to win one of five paperback copies of the book. There's a Facebook invite here if you'd like to invite your friends, and do feel free to copy this blog onto your own blog. You can tweet this: Connect with the world through mindful writing - join the first Mindful Writing Day on the 1st of November:  #smallstone

***

Kaspa & Fiona were kind enough to provide the above text about Mindful Writing Day, and as it is their project, they describe it succinctly and wonderfully.

My day hasn't started terribly mindfully - just a bundle of reactions and emotions. I will endeavor to channel this throughout the day and will update with stones that I find. Wishing all of you blessings and safety and peace. Keep thinking, keep writing.

***

8:00 AM:

Torrent of tears and rain on the way to the bus. 

Sending them off with an umbrella for the rain.

Nothing to protect from the tears.

Stretching my heart taut over a fragile wire frame.

Doesn't quite reach far enough.

11:00 AM: 

Inhale, reach up and back. Higher than I think I can.

Exhale. Swoop down, supplicant, gather my courage from around my ankles.

Inhale again. Reaching up, but with focus. Pointing to the sky and pulling it all down to my heart.

Exhale.

Sun Salutation on a day with no sun.

2:00 PM:
I overhear a snatch of conversation as I walk past, busy with my groceries.
He is either saying something racist, or talking about good food.
I will believe it's the food.
I am hungry for humanity.

5:30 PM:
She sits on the kitchen floor with me while dinner cooks.
She asks me to tell her about God and love and a time before she was born.
Math homework is happily forgotten.

9:00 PM:
He fell asleep with a book on his head.
Wrapped in blankets of galaxies and hugging his new tiger tight.
His mouth opened slightly as if to let off the exhaust fumes from his full throttle adventures in his dreams.

11:00 PM:
Adding up the day before I fall asleep.
The columns are out of balance.
There is always profit in finding gratitude.

What's That Smell?

Objects in the picture are closer than they appear.

For better or worse, I have a very strong sense of smell. As you may know, smell is the sense that is most strongly linked to memory. I can be walking down the street in Seattle and all of a sudden be transported to Hong Kong with a whiff of bus fuel and a very distinct frying fat smell. When I worked with Alzheimer's patients, it was amazing to see the memories come flooding back to otherwise confused people with a simple sniff of vanilla or cinnamon or apple cider.

My sense of smell has been temporarily disabled by massive amounts of phlegm and I feel as though I'm a little bit blind. The Chief Lou and I sometimes play a game called "What's that smell?" in which we try to precisely describe someone or something with two scents. I'm sure everybody does this for fun, right? For example, an acquaintance of ours can be succinctly described as "Ben Gay and anger." Does that paint a picture? Can you see him? Funny how that works.

Now it's your turn. What's that smell? Can you paint a picture in two scents? Of whom does it speak? Does it give you an instant mental image? It can be someone you know, it can be a particular place, it can be a character in your mind. The rules are few. Only that it must be two smells (as with the example above, it can be figurative if need be - what does anger smell like? I think you know) and that there can be no other description. Leave it in the comments here or on your blog if you are looking for a very short post today. Then the fun begins, read through the comments and be sure to let people know what pictures they have evoked with their smells. Are you game? It's a simple audience participation this week.

Ladies and gentlemen, start your noses!

Here are a few to get those olfactory juices flowing:

Baby powder and ennui.
Latex and gin.
Bubble gum and desperation.

Have fun and keep sniffing!

Coming Soon

Listen up, ducklings.
I have to go put on my secret agent hat today and stand tall and represent for the housewife contingent at a focus group about protein bars, so there may not be a whole lot of writing going on. I hope there are free samples. They will definitely reward my troubles with some cash, though, so it's all good. It's like giving plasma, only without the giant needles - boring, mindless, requiring no skill except to sit still, and you get paid for it. Sometimes they even have free coffee and doughnuts. I digress.

So, listen up, ducklings. I have an announcement to make. A week from today, Thursday, November 1 is the first ever Mindful Writing Day. Why does this matter? Well because I said so, mostly, but because it's really going to be a fun celebration and you can get in on it!

Remember the Small Stones? Take a look at something in your day and really see it, savor it, write it down. Everyone can do this because it's short and it's sweet and there is no right or wrong way to see things. Why are Small Stones a good idea? Well, because they're short and they're sweet, for one thing. But mostly because they exercise your Noticing Muscle. And with a strong Noticing Muscle, you can learn to slow down for a moment and transcend whatever awful day you might be having or whatever writer's block you have or whatever you happen to be knee-deep in and take a breath. You can notice a thing of beauty anywhere, even if only for a moment. These Small Stones pile up and they make little towers and walls and sculptures of things and they change the landscape of your brain. This is all very scientific. It is.

So give it a try, won't you? You can join the Facebook page and post your Small Stone there next week with all the other little goodies and it will be a feast. You can subscribe to the blog and get one every day, or you can even subscribe to the Writing Our Way Home blog and get all kinds of goodness from Robyn and Kaspalita who have worked hard on this whole thing. You can also collect A Blackbird Sings - a whole anthology of small stones that they hand selected and put together. You may or may not recognize a name or two in there, too. (Wink, nudge, nod. Uh-huh.)

So, darlings, I am going to go and examine the intricacies of protein bars and pretend to have a very strong opinion about such things so I can make a little scratch. And you have a good day. Find the beauty in something, even if it is tiny - especially if it is tiny. And do please consider taking part in Mindful Writing Day. Think of it this way: November 1st is also the beginning of NaNoWriMo, so you could either start your novel or write a Small Stone. You choose. I may do both, but I'm certifiably insane.

Even if you don't choose to participate publicly, I still hope you give the whole Noticing Muscle a workout.

Also, this: Go check out what else people have been up to over at Larissa's place.

When Life Hands You a Car Door, Make Small Stones

This is a multimedia presentation. Please play this song in the background while you read.

I am not exactly clumsy, sometimes I just do random bits of inadvertent violence to my body.

Yesterday when I picked the monkeys up from school, I was looking at a tree and opened the car door - full force - directly into my face.

Just imagine a car door and the tree and a loud, squishy
"ka-thonk" noise.

 This is not the first time I have done this. I did not cry or swear or scream. I just checked for blood and then told the monkeys to fasten their seat belts.

Note the points of impact.

I was not dripping blood and I did not break my glasses, which protected my eye from being unceremoniously removed with the corner of the door.

(That is not my mustache)
It would have taken forever to replace my glasses
 and then I would have had to wear my sunglasses
around all the time. 

Which, now that I think about it, would have its advantages.

Behold the awesomeness of prescription sunglasses.
That is not my mustache. It is a trick of the light.
IT IS A SHADOW, I TELL YOU!

So, my face hurts to smile today and I may end up with a few more distinguishing characteristics on my mug when all is said and done. I had to practice laughing with a limp face last night (try it, try it now) and that made me laugh even harder.  I woke up this morning with a renewed sense of purpose and euphoric relief to be alive after my eye-wear's brush with untimely death. I have recommitted to appreciating the small, yet important things in life.

I still have my rugged good looks:

Do not be jealous.
Shaun Cassidy hair just comes naturally to some folks.

I've got my sanity. A positive attitude can go a long way. It is important to get all of your chins and a thumb involved, if possible.

This is what winning looks like:
grinning maniacally at your YouCam because you can,
even though it hurts your broken face like nobody's business.

And this guy. He just keeps turning up as I'm trying to write this post, so I'll let him stay.

"I smile coyly at you, Earthlings. Love me. Accept me.
Make me your leader."

Thursday, November 1st is Mindful Writing Day. Mark your calendars. It is to celebrate the launch of A Blackbird Sings, an anthology of small stones that are all about magnifying and celebrating the little things in life... even when they are completely absurd.

Think Outside the Dead Horse

Several years ago someone sent us a movie about talking ponies with falsetto voices who rollicked around baking cakes and rollerblading and pouting and misunderstanding each other and then making it all up in song at the end. I generally don't allow such falsetto nonsense in my house, but the jBird was intrigued and I didn't want to come across an evil dictator, so we watched it. There was a sort of musical interlude where the ponies sang directly to the camera something to the effect of: "Your dreams can come truuuuuuuee!" and so on with all of the self-esteem building that pastel animated ponies could muster. My jBird looked at me and her little chin crumpled up and wobbled.

"Yes, honey. I know. It's so bad it makes me want to cry, too."
"Mama! They are saying that my dreams will come true!"
"Uh, yes..."
"I don't want my dreams to come true! They're strange and a lot of times they're scary!"

Looking into that frightened little face was a moment of pure maternal adoration. I shut off the movie and hugged her and reassured her and explained to her about clichés.  She snuffled around a little bit, verifying several more times that the giant spider who walked on her bed the night before in her dreams would not actually materialize because the talking ponies said it would and then she got angry.

"Why would they tell kids that? That's just mean!"

Why, indeed?

I tell you this because it's hilarious. Also because it perfectly illustrates one of my pet peeves about language. I'm not a fan of the cliché. (Even though I just used one in that sentence. Ooh! Quick digression: when jBird was tiny, we would say "I'm not a fan of ..." instead of "I don't like..." or "I hate..." because we'd rather she not learn those particular phrases when she was two. One time we were in an elevator and a man got in with us and stood rather too close to jBird for her taste and she ducked over behind my legs and looked out at him and said: "I'm a fan of my mom." It was cute and he laughed and she and I were the only ones who knew that she was really saying "I don't like you" to the man. See what I mean? Language matters.)

So, pet peeve. It would seem that we indoctrinate kids from a very young age to think and speak in catchphrases and clichés and then they grow up and think that's honest communication. We tell them things like "your dreams will come true" and expect them to know that we're pumping them full of delusions of grandeur, not threatening them with their nightmares made corporeal. Not only do clichés oversimplify things (which is why, I suppose, they turn up so much in children's literature and on Facebook), they are boring, and to a certain extent, dishonest.

I will fully admit to being a bit of a language freak, here. I didn't speak baby talk to my children, even when they were babies. We taught them the correct words for things when they asked. (Well, except doughnuts. The Chief Lou gave the jBird a doughnut hole when she was about 18 months old and I said, under my breath to him, "She doesn't need to eat that crap." The next time we got doughnuts, jBird piped up and said "I want crap! I want to eat crap!") There were no binkies or ba-bas or tee-tees or ta-tas in our house because I am a curmudgeon about such things. Having these two little language sponges around really made me stop and think about the language I used with them and in general and how I communicated not only with them, but with everyone. We get used to speaking in shorthand, we accept the strange clichés of our particular demographics, and we take the words we use for granted.

As writers, this cannot be so. As writers, we can't take the words we use for granted. We can't resort to shorthand and clichés.  I suppose we can, but we wouldn't be very good writers, then. (One last digression: that is not to say that we wouldn't become published writers, though. This is an odd conundrum.) So, for the writing. Audience participation time! I have it on good authority that people enjoy this. And so do I. Immensely.

Let us think about cliché.  Pick one out.* Write about it. Explore what it actually means. Make a defense of it, or disprove it. Think about the language that you use and blast that cliché wide open. (And, for funsies, you can do what I do, go through all of your old writing with a Sharpie and eradicate anything trite or at least admit that it is and try to find a new way to say it.) Send me a link or an email or leave it in the comments. Share with your friends. There's no particular deadline, just let me know what you come up with and when I get a bunch of them I'll share in a link-up post. Fun, no?

Remember: Think outside the box on this one.

(All right, it physically pained me to type that.)

*This is based loosely on a prompt in The Writer's Idea Book. I highly recommend the whole book.

A Year of Blogging Dangerously

$20,000 annual stipend, a brand new iMac, a pocket video camera. All of this in exchange for writing 500 innocuous words a week and occasionally handing out T-shirts and key chains at public events. Why not? I ask you, why not?!

My credit union is big on community. That's part of the reason it's my credit union. That, and they have free pomegranate lip balm in their lobby. I'll never have to buy lip balm again. Besides making sure that all of their customers have smooth, supple lips, they also have a series of blogs linked to their web page to foster this sense of community. Every couple of years they have a contest for their Mom blog. After circling it like a hyena for a year or so, I finally entered last year. Because why not?

Suffice it to say that I didn't get the gig. I didn't even make the first cut. They weren't looking for me. I submitted a post about potted plants; they were looking for potty training and wine at the end of the day. I have no talent for that sort of thing. So I decided that I would blog for free. Because why not? I didn't know anything about blogging. I read a few, wondered who their readers were and stumbled into BlogHer, where they were just gearing up for NaBloPoMo. I was amazed to discover that people actually would willingly read my stuff and share it with others. I was completely enchanted with all of these other people out there quietly doing what I wanted to do. I discovered some invaluable friends and have gotten so much feedback on my writing that I don't even know what to do with it.

I am a terrible blogger. I don't always respond to comments, I don't join blogging groups, I read posts all the time without commenting. I am sporadic and grumpy. I am not a networker, I barely understand social media and I chafe at the unwritten "rules" of it all. I am a terrible blogger, but I keep blogging. Because of you, of course. Because I read your words and I am inspired. Because I am thrilled with the knowledge of all these smart people thinking and writing it down. Because I feel connected to something larger than my own journals and notebooks and scribbled post-it notes.

I am a decent writer. Shall I tell you a story? I have written forever. I can't remember not writing. I can't remember a time when I didn't look around and make up stories in my head. I don't know what it would be like to look around a crowded room and not wonder what is happening inside the brains of others. Something happened, though. Some kind of message received through the garbled reception of my perception. Back when I was making the kinds of decisions that I was far too young to make and everyone tells you that it will affect the rest of your life, I decided that writing wasn't a "real job". I decided that I could keep my silly little hobby to myself. I decided that I must do something "useful", something "worthwhile". I had this nonstop Morse Code of negative bleeping through my brain: self-indulgent, waste of time, pipe dream, useless, immature, arrogant, self-involved, etc. And I believed it. And I went to college and got a semi-respectable degree in a field I enjoyed, but really only so much. I mostly enjoyed it because it facilitated the writing; it gave me fodder for the stories in my head.

A year ago, I decided to listen to myself for once and get serious about the writing. Not about the blogging; about the writing. There's a difference to me. Blogging is a means to an end for me. It is a space where I can make connections with other writers, explore ideas, try different writing exercises, etc. People blog for a lot of reasons. I had no clear idea what I was doing when I started. I just wanted to write every day. That has evolved over time. Most of my writing is now done off the blog. But I keep this going because I like the community. I like the lip balm in the lobby. There are Mommy blogs, DIY blogs, journalistic blogs, some read like a diary - thoughts for the day, current events, a place to gripe, to shine, to rejoice. Mine has never felt like any of those things. I have no pigeon-hole and I'm all right with that, mostly. But sometimes I feel like it makes my readers a bit uneasy.

I am a terrible blogger, but I'm a decent writer. I am writing, writing, writing when no one is looking and it is thriving. I am having some blogging growing pains. I am casting about for some direction. I don't want to give up the community, but sometimes the blogging is a distraction from the writing. I guess I'm trying to figure out what this blog wants to be when it grows up. If you're reading this now, then it's for you that I keep blogging.

What would you like to see?
What's working?
What isn't?

Be honest. I'm really asking. I am not fishing for compliments.

Fashionably Late

Here's a not-so-secret: I don't get invited to many parties.

I don't know why not. It probably has something to do with halitosis and appalling small talk. When  I was younger, I used to dream of fancy cocktail parties and freeze-frame moments of glamorous frivolity. I'd show up in black and heels and turn heads and say amazing things and laugh with my head thrown back, just so. Dah-ling! You are too much! Oddly, this is not exactly how my life has turned out.

I got invited to a party, though. Larissa is throwing a link-up shindig over at Papa Is A Preacher and I don't even have to wear pantyhose and make up. It started yesterday, so I am as per usual, late. Patience please, with the chronologically challenged among us. I thought yesterday was both Wednesday and Tuesday for the better part of the day. Don't ask. It's amazing I get anything done, actually.

So, here I am. A little late, a little out of breath, and my cupcakes got crushed in the car on the way here. Fortunately, Larissa is a gracious hostess and you can't see any of this anyway. I brushed my teeth and now for the appalling small talk: What have I been up to?

First and foremost, I have been contemplating my light switches. You know how when you have two switches that turn on the same light and then the up/down/off/on thing gets all out of sync? I have a switch that's up when the light is off and it makes me a little bit edgy. So sometimes I engage all of my mental faculties trying to figure out the exact sequence of switch flips to get this sorted out. Up = on. Down = off.

I have also been melting crayons with a hair dryer. This is so fun. It's all over Pinterest, so the law of averages says that at least some of the people who pinned it will actually do it. It's like the strip mall  of DIY - you can walk into any number of homes in any region in America (and sometimes Canada) and find the same cheap art. In a few years, you'll be able to find waxy canvas messes in Goodwills across the country, too. But for now... for now... watching those multicolored drips fall down the canvas are worth the price of admission. I will be hanging these in the monkeys' rooms to use as message boards. Everyone needs a message board.

So, the writing. This is the portion of the cocktail party where the dreaded "What do you do?" gets asked. The only worse question for me is "Where are you from?" I answer that one with "Nowhere" and then if people are interested I can elaborate. What do I do? I write. What do I write? Nonsense. Um, OK, then. Seriously, though, I'm working on several essays at once right now. They may become blog fodder, or they may actually turn into something I'd like to send out somewhere. It remains to be seen, really. I don't want to talk about them much because I'm coy like that. Not really. I find that discussing a project rather than just working on a project tends to suck the life out of it. For now, though, let me tell you this: for the writing, I have been spending a couple hours a day dwelling in a lonely, confused and angry place to get these things written, so I am not always a whole lot of fun to be around. It's worth it to me, though, in the service of authenticity. Some of the fumes from these particular gas leaks may show up on the blog from time to time. Just hold your nose and try not to inhale too deeply. It's all good.

Here is my most useful tidbit, though: pick up a copy of The Writer's Idea Book by Jack Heffron and keep it handy. There are so many useful kinds of prompts in there and just the right kind of encouragement when you need it. Keep creating, folks. 

Tangled Errands

At the library, a man is speaking to the librarian in a loud, but calm voice.
"I am just telling you that if I find any overdue fines on my account, I will sue you and the library and the city."
I wonder how many overdue fines he has that would justify the legal fees for a massive lawsuit. I also wonder if it is worse to be a city librarian or a city bus driver. I envision this man speaking in his loud, even tones to the bus driver, too. I check out my stack of graphic novels and dark Australian rock and roll and try not to stare. I can't afford a lawsuit right now.

Well dressed people walk down the street and shout to themselves. That's all right, though, because they have hands-free phone devices screwed into their ears. It's not like the other people who walk down the street and shout to themselves. I heard all about one woman's divorce while I looked at sweaters I wished I hadn't touched. What fiber is it that makes sweaters feel slimy in designer discount chains? Why do I keep touching them? I smell like someone else's perfume. There were lotion samples. I tried them all. I'm a fruit bowl now. Did any of us know what verbena  was a few years ago? Do we know now? It is a relaxing shade of green and it tempts me with promises of invigorating citrus undertones. It smells kind of like a urinal cake.

I am drinking French bottled sparkling water to soothe whatever beast has set up shop in my belly. I am trying not to blame three days of enchiladas. Anything but the enchiladas. It is an international incident in my intestines. The French and the Mexicans squaring off for possession of 23 feet of dark, cramped real estate. For now, the French are winning. The Mexicans are blaming the Americans. Never eat enchiladas from an establishment that is also known for its tater tots. They can call them "Mexi-fries" all they want, but we know the truth - the delicious, dangerous truth.

I am pretending that my car is a shuttle to another world. The world where I buy things like window treatments and decorative candle holders and create tasteful "tablescapes" in my home instead of buying lime green striped socks and seasonal M&Ms and thinking of places to shove piles of paper. My shuttle smells like corn dogs and feet. This is not a dignified mode of transportation, I fear. What if the corn dog smell clings to me along with the lemon verbena urinal cake and combined with my crazy hair makes me One To Be Avoided like the man in the library? How would I know the difference between the usual avoidance and the purposeful avoidance? I console myself that I am drinking French bottled sparkling water and therefore, classy.


I imagine I am tall and elegant and practice walking as if balancing a plate of apples on my head: neck extended, shoulders back, drawing a line from the top of my head to my coccyx. I have replaced my flapping gap-toothed jeans with flowing skirts and an ermine cape, just so. I am tempted to sweep through the aisles like a dowager, commanding the cans of black beans and bags of coffee to jump into my cart, to do my bidding like eunuchs, chop-chop. I amuse myself and then remember that it's just me, walking around trying not to think about how my hair just feels like it looks ridiculous today.

I am spending my fortune a dollar at a time on half-finished ideas and promises; shadows and imitations of things stacked in bins. Only one dollar. I forgot what I came in here for. It's like a casino with the distracting lighting and ambiguous exits. I have things in my hands that I don't remember picking up: a box of note cards, a kitchen gadget, cupcake papers that look like Russian nesting dolls. Perhaps I should eat the cupcake papers; send the Russians in to settle the Intestinal International Incident. Would that start World War 3? Probably so. Domino effect and whatnot. Not to mention the ramifications of eating twelve useless, beautifully designed cupcake papers. I should set these things down and step away. It's dangerous in here.


I am listening to children who are hungry and bored, two women who are very upset with someone and say so over and over to each other, clucking and nodding affirmation each time. I am listening to a girl explain to her boyfriend about the socks. I catch snatches and bits of words that float around me, muted and distorted by large tiled spaces stacked with consumer goods. I wonder if they know I will write about them all. That I will try on their perspectives like outfits and wonder what it's like to be so angry about library fines. To remember being small and bored in the store with my mom. To gossip freely with a friend about someone who has wronged me. To speak with such bitterness of my new-found freedom from matrimony to the invisible person on the other end of the line. I wonder if they know they are being watched. I wonder if any of them will write about me. It's possible, you know.

Tangled Fables: The House that Freud Built

Once upon a time there were three roommates. They lived in a damp and cave-like place that was filled with odd bits of furniture and mythical beasts. It was often cramped and chaotic, with dust on the shelves, floors that frequently moved like the deck of a ship at sea and the windows and doors had a habit of relocating unexpectedly. There were brilliant spots of sunlight, though and some pleasant comfy chairs, so they made an uneasy peace with their surroundings.

Ichabod Droolie was immature and whimsical. He wandered about the house, belching and scratching and telling scatological jokes. He shrieked and cackled at his own humor and casually upended trash bins and jewelry boxes and then rolled around in the debris. He was a tiresome roommate, but amusing. He had an odd sweetness about him that made him tolerable at times and was so blessedly naive, that the other two roommates liked to keep him around, in spite of the mess and the appalling behavior.

Egotha was generally easy going, or so she liked to think. She was the middle of this trio and could see things from both sides. She was a little bit messy, herself, but mostly meant well. She just wanted to mind her own business and get along. She liked to laugh, but sometimes would stop short and wonder if it was all right. She craved the sunny spots and soft, comfy chairs, but frequently acquiesced when her other, more vociferous roommates demanded them. She spent a lot of time trying to facilitate disagreements between Ichabod Droolie and her other roommate, who was, oddly enough, also called Egotha.

The other Egotha was ancient, almost primordial, a shriveled old prune and she wasn't much fun. She preferred not to be called Egotha Senior because she was sensitive about such things. "Call me Super Egotha," she insisted. Mostly because she deeply believed in her superiority to these other two slobs with whom she lived. Super Egotha was in a permanent state of aghast. She was fussy and fastidious, overly critical and strict; and although she would never admit it, her roommates thought she was tedious. She spent a lot of time and energy bossing the other two about, demanding they clean up their messes and stop laughing so much. She was a chore, but the other two tolerated her because she did help keep things tidier and they believed that in spite of her methods, she had their best interests at heart.

These three lived in a sort of detente, occupying the same space and trying not to get in each other's ways too much. Every now and then there were golden moments in which they three would catch themselves happily enjoying tea together and laughing like friends. But almost as soon as those moments came, the recognition of them would send them scurrying self-consciously behind their napkins. Except for Ichabod Droolie. He would rip a great billowing fart and laugh until the tears ran down his face, laughing all the harder as the other two gagged and choked on his fumes.

Ichabod's only employment was amusing himself. He played video games, ate cookies and left the crumbs around and even though he was really quite intelligent, he frittered away hours doing things like contemplating light switches and smelling his own armpits. Super Egotha had aspirations so wild they immobilized her. She wanted to save the world, buy them all a Coke and teach them to hold hands and sing. Because she could only fail at the impossible tasks she set for herself, she instead contented herself with endlessly wiping counters, folding clothes and vacuuming the ceiling. All the while, tut-tutting and sighing the deeply passive-aggressive sighs of one who felt so put-upon by her own constructions.

Egotha decided that somebody needed to pay the rent, so she set about to use her skills in a way that both mattered and amused her. She decided she would tell stories about the things that fascinated her and try to see if they fascinated other people. She was unsure about this decision but it had clung to her for so long that she wasn't sure it was wise to ignore it any more. So she set about gathering her tools and making a space in their cramped abode to do this very thing.

She sat down one day in a patch of sunlight and rolled a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriter and started to type. The words danced and splattered onto the page and she was feeling quite satisfied with the clackety ring of the keys and the words. Ichabod wandered in and looked over her shoulder, spilling his beer into her hair as he did so. "Boobies!" he bellowed, "You need to add more boobies! Funny!" Egotha giggled a bit, but shooed him away as he danced and hollered swear words and twisted her train of thought into a bungled heap. Egotha shook her now-sticky hair and began to focus once again. "I will think about funny," she assured Ichabod, "but let me think. Stop shouting in my ear." But alas, as she set to work again, all she could do was hear his ringing shout: "Boobies!" and giggle to herself.

Drawn by the distraction, Super Egotha stormed into the room and clobbered Ichabod with a feather duster, sending him whimpering to his room. She turned her attention to Egotha and started to read over her shoulder. Super Egotha's sighs got louder and louder and were combined with foot tapping and lip smacking until it was deafening. "You're wasting your time," she said. "Just who do you think you are? I just don't see the value in it. Isn't there something more useful you could be doing?" She kept up her nattering until Egotha, deflated and distracted couldn't bear it any more. "This is what I want to do! It isn't entirely useless! I have to at least try!" she shouted. Super Egotha rolled her eyes and huffed around. "Who cares what you want? Why do you inflict yourself on others so?" and then she wandered off to scrub the floor, muttering to herself as she went about starving children and self-indulgence and hand baskets and hell.

Near tears and fed up, Egotha packed away the typewriter for the day and went out for a walk. It was so claustrophobic sometimes, living with these roommates. But she couldn't leave them, not completely. She could only continue to make her peace and try to snatch some moments alone when they were otherwise occupied. Her only hope was to sometimes get in a belching contest with Ichabod and and laugh until it hurt; sometimes help with the cooking and cleaning and the saving of the world so Super Egotha would stop breathing down her neck; and sometimes demand their silence so that she could sit and write their story.

Dear John Jeremiah Sullivan: An Epistolary Book Review

Dear John Jeremiah Sullivan,

I just recently picked up your collection of essays, Pulphead. Someone, somewhere recommended it to me and I have no idea whosoever it was. I can't thank them, so I will thank you instead.

Thank you for being exactly my age. Thank you for your perspective on this world we who were born under the sign of Nixon's resignation have inherited. Thank you for your thoughtful consideration of topics that generally just send knees jerking. Thank you for not being smug and condescending from your literary perch. Thank you for using phrases like "facty-facty" and making me laugh. Thank you for treating topics like Hurricane Katrina to a Christian rock festival to the Real World with equal parts seriousness and levity. Thank you for not taking yourself, nor this world we live in too seriously. Thank you for taking it seriously enough to really examine it. Thank you for writing in a voice that is authentic and entertaining. Thank you for encapsulating the beauty of our twisted human experience in ways that make me cry with recognition.

I aspire to write, to find my collection of essays in a book somewhere, some day. I plug away and ship them off; I sit and cringe and think I have nothing valuable to say. I know on some level that isn't true, but I wonder if there's a place for me in this great big literary world with my silly words and my self-deprecation, my goody-two-shoes roots, my irritability and my unconventional views. I wonder sometimes if it's even worth it. I struggle against the notion that fiction is the crown-jewel of genre, and I wonder if I'm just biased because I suck at it.

Reading your book has reminded me, yet again, of the value of essays, of literary non-fiction. It has reminded me of the beauty of examining closely a tiny facet of a larger whole and trying to figure out how it all fits together. It has reminded me that under seemingly "shallow" pop-culture references and icons lie much larger, deeper ideas. It has reminded me that a well written piece, even if it is about Axl Rose, has the power to move. Mostly, and less selfishly, your collection of essays has reminded me that in a world of sound bites and status updates and Tweets and platitudes and aphorisms, there is still a place for the long-form article, for opinions that are backed up with the heft of research and experience, for observations that sometimes go against the grain of the expected. Thank you most of all for that.

Sincerely,
Tangled Up In Lou
Aspiring essayist and not-at-all-creepy fan-girl

Digging Again: Bamboo and An Essay

The Chief Lou and I decided to put the "labor" back into Labor Day weekend and finish digging up the grove of bamboo that is taking over our yard. This has been a most counter-intuitive activity. I like plants. I like pretty plants. Bamboo is pretty. It sways and it is delicate and strong and it's a survivor. It is strange to feel an overwhelming need to eradicate a plant, but it threatens the structure of our house, so it must go.

I am in the final polishing, editing, sweating phase of writing an essay for submission. The topic of the essay is "Regret". The instructions were to explore a thing I did that I regret or would like to do over and write about what I learned about myself from it. This is a counter intuitive exercise for me. I don't believe in living with regret. I pay lip service to embracing one's mistakes and learning from them, not wasting a lot of energy wishing I could do them over. I look back over bad decisions I've made and see how they've worked together to bring me closer to who I am now. I like this philosophy. It's pretty and it works for me. This essay has been giving me fits. It hasn't been about the writing. I could write a bunch of pretty tripe and send it off, but then I would regret it for its dishonesty.

When digging bamboo, you start with what you see: the shoots, the canes, the above the ground pretty plants. You trim those down so you can see the real business of the bamboo. The roots don't go all that deep. You dig around the base and you start to see that the shoots are not alone. They are connected to strong, cane-like runners or rhizomes that spring from rock-like culms. They march in a steady, persistent line along the rhizomes, connected to each other beneath the surface of the soil. I wrote about this already. You just have to get in there and dig. There is no magic spray or pruning technique that stops them. Sheet metal doesn't really stop them. You just have to dig them out.

I spent far too long spinning my mental wheels about this essay. I wrote about this already. I received such great support, encouragement and gentle chiding from this lovely blog community that it shames me a little. Time to stop whining and get to work. I started with the surface. I picked an event that was truly painful to think about. It was something that happened a long time ago, but had its hooks in a lot of emotions for me. I attacked it from the surface. I wrote my 1500 words, relieved to have done it, and shared it with some trusted critics. They kindly read and gave it back and said "Good start." Time to get the shovel.

One of the amazing adaptive qualities of bamboo is that the culms harden with age. That's why it's good construction material. Even when cut, they secrete instantly a kind of sealing sap in the new wound to keep out infection and pests. It makes them strong, and prolific. They grow easily and with abandon. They are self-protecting, durable. If you block their growth in one direction, they will send out rhizomes in another with new shoots within days, reaching for the sun.

I rewrote the essay. One friend said "Tell me how it feels." Another said, "You are protecting yourself. You are justifying. Let the truly regrettable actions show." They were right, of course. That is why they are trusted critics. I rewrote again. Here is the difference between writing and life: in life we seal off and protect the wounded places, we find new ways to grow, we harden and it helps keep us strong. We cannot stay open, gaping wounds all the time or we would wilt. In writing, however, sometimes it's necessary to peel back the protective layers, cut open that wound again and seize it, rip it up before the protective sap begins to flow. But this is where writing intersects life for me: this process of writing and digging up the roots helps rid my life of the neglected offshoots of old injury that would eventually threaten the structure of my life.

We spent the day in the sun yesterday, laughing and acting like fools. We spent the day with crowbars as long as our legs, prying stubborn culms. We spent the day sweating and dirty and digging and pulling. We spent the day with our combined weights thrust against the handles of tools and only then barely having enough leverage to rip these ancient things loose from the soil. We wanted to quit. I hit my knee so hard with a rogue crowbar that my kneecap is black and looks dirty. I dropped my iPod down my pants and as it slithered cool against my leg, I feared I'd wet myself from the exertion. We drank lots of water, we collapsed in heaps. We prized and muscled and lifted with our backs instead of our legs. We slipped on rocks and fell. We made jokes and spoke in lines from movies. We let the kids wander in and out of the house, eating random things they found in the fridge. We got it done. It took hours of back breaking work, but it's done. Those rock-hard, ancient roots have been excavated. All of their tendrils and delicate shoots have been removed. They have been officially dealt with... we think.

So this essay. I've sent it to another trusted critic. I'm unsure about it still. I am a little sketchy about the outcome. But it is in a place of honesty now, with many of the protective layers stripped away. I have not changed my general philosophy about living without regret. I have, however, exhumed it and looked at it anew. I have examined what the pretty leaves and swaying canes on the surface have distracted me from. I have pulled out the ancient roots of things I no longer needed in my soil. I have exposed the neglect with which I have treated the topic.

Our bamboo was an artifact from another time. It was neglected and allowed to run amok. We bought it with the house and knew when we bought it that it would need to be dealt with. We have done the best we could with the tools we have (and some loaned us by the neighbor) to amend this neglect and protect our home from its far-reaching roots. It is with satisfaction that we can look at the freshly dug soil, the rocks out of place and the giant pile of disembodied roots. But we wait. The rains will come, life will go on, there may be some things we missed. Their shoots will pop up and surprise us, yards away from their source. We will see them and deal with them when they come, but for now, we are satisfied, we have accomplished the task at hand.

I will send off this essay that has plagued me so unnecessarily in a couple of weeks. I will be satisfied, I will be unsure, and I will wait. Life will come and go. I will live some more and hence, write some more. But the work I've done for now is finished. I will doubtless return to the subject, both in writing and in life. But now the worst of the work is done. I will sit and I will wait on the rain. I will see what springs up again.

Squatting

I'm squatting over on Kelly's blog, Southern Fried Children, today. She's on vacation, so I wrote about what the jBird wrote about one of our vacations.

Do any of you not read Kelly's blog? You should, if you don't. Prepare to be blown away by wickedly funny storytelling, brute honesty, moving insight and, let's all be honest here, your own jealousy that you can't write like that. Kelly's is a name we will one day see on a table of contents in an anthology or on the cover of a book. There is no way talent like that will go unnoticed. I am completely honored and flabbergasted that Kelly even reads my blog, much less allowed me to guest post in her space. She's one of those gems of the blog world that make it all worthwhile. So go read.

Meanwhile, I will be thinking about the word "squat" and how it's a very funny word. The house next door to my mom had squatters in it, true story. That wasn't very funny, though. OK, it's kind of funny because my mom had no idea she was living next door to a meth lab, she was just annoyed by the junk in their yard. Meth labs aren't funny. What's wrong with you?

Speaking of squat, when traveling abroad in countries that primarily use what is known as a "squat pot" or "squatty potty", thank your lucky stars. It is so much easier than having to hover over a toilet seat. There are some American gas stations that I wish had squatty potties.

"Doodly squat" is a wonderful phrase that should be used a lot more often. As in: "I don't know doodly squat about quantum mechanics."

Squats are one of my favorite exercises. They just seem efficient to me. They hurt like mad, work about eighty-five muscle groups at once and you can also do them at random out in public and people just think you're picking stuff up. Much easier to justify than jumping-jacks.

Squat. What are your other favorite uses of the word "squat"? Why are you even still reading this? Hop on over to Southern Fried Children and check out her squatters. She's also got MOV from mothersofbrothersblog, Tara from Faith in Ambiguity, and Mike from All Things Reasonable... Except the Ones I Forgot. We are not cooking Meth, I promise. But we are telling some stories in Kelly's absence. 

Beneath the Surface

The Chief Lou has taken a few days off work to help get some things finished around the house. So of course, this morning we went kayaking. And then we stopped on the way home for giant cheeseburgers and garlic fries. So, of course after that, we couldn't possibly go to the hardware store, we had to take a bit of a nap. That's the best way to work off a cheeseburger, according to experts. Cheeseburger experts, that is. I am, of course, a cheeseburger expert. I've eaten cheeseburgers on at least three continents. Word to the wise: do not eat cheeseburgers in China that come from unauthorized cheeseburger dealers. Not worth it. I digress. This is not about cheeseburgers. It is about far more important things than that. That's saying a lot, mind you, coming from me.

As our cheeseburger comas receded late this afternoon, we recharged and balanced with a bounty of summer fruits: nectarines, strawberries, honey dew melon (I digress again, but when I purchased this particular melon, the darling man checking me out suddenly shouted "Honey dew melon! Any honey will do, Melon!" I very nearly kissed him.) Some assorted cheeses: Havarti with dill, double cream Brie, Manchego and buffalo Mozzarella with flat breads and crackers. Fresh pinon coffee from New Mexico, and the waning sun. And then we went and dug up half our yard. This is really what I'm talking about.

Everyone was puttering after dinner in that satisfied, sleepy, summer sunsetty kind of way. I stood with mug in hand, thinking about New Mexico and how I love it so, and surveyed my back yard from the deck. That happy, satisfied, I must dig up that bamboo shoot right now feeling just washed over me. I'll be like Ina Garten, I thought. I'll take my coffee outside with my shovel and talk to an invisible audience about the gastronomic delights of summer while I putter about in the garden in white linen and never break a sweat or get dirty. I will be backlit and hazy and beautiful in the setting sun. And that bamboo shoot in my flower bed is driving me crazy.

The bamboo shoot was about the size of a pencil, maybe a little taller, but certainly no wider. I have new leather work gloves and a shovel recommended by contractors. I have gardening clogs that have a pattern like Monet's Water Lilies. I have a belly full of fruit and cheese and sunshine and delicious desert coffee, how can I go wrong? My first shovel full of dirt came out easily, and maybe the second and third. And then I hit what felt like stone. I dug around a little bit to see if I could get underneath it, but alas, finally had to stoop and pry out the landscaping boulders that have been artfully placed in the flowerbed. Roar. I am so strong, I am mighty, I lift large rocks in my leather gloves and sassy gardening clogs. I am strength personified, one with Mother Nature as I just heave this here stone and slip a little bit and have to stop and hike up my pants and try again and Sweet Baby James, there's a city under my flowerbed!

A complete subway system of thick, hard roots crisscrossed around and disappeared out of sight. You know how they use bamboo for floors and furniture and eating utensils and stuff because it is so hard and durable? Yes. Well. My shovel told me I should get an axe probably. Instead, I got reinforcements. "Um, Lou? Can you come here for a second?" He loves to hear these words, you know. He knows it means I'm up to something and that "a second" could last anywhere from a few minutes to fourteen years. The monkeys love to hear this, too. They know there will be two parents involved in something strange and consuming and they will be able to "help". The Hooligan came screeching out in his underwear and my flip flops, with the jBird hot on his heels, on a mission, demanding "Show me where you need me to dig."

We never got the axe, but we did involve two plastic trowels and tiny claw rakes (Hooligan: "Look, I have badger claws!") some sort of pick-axey, double headed digging tool, a lot of hands, and some serious elbow grease. My annoying bamboo shoot led to three or four others which led to a cluster of other tiny ones which led to "oh, what's that doing over here?" and so on. We dug up about thirty feet of this underground bamboo city from under about a third of our yard. It was better than cheeseburgers, I tell you. To finally dig out enough around the root to get a firm grasp and pull, watching it peel up like giant hairy zipper from the ground, to feel that sweet release as it pulled away, to find another intersection and follow it where it goes. All eight hands and a tiny bulldozer plowing and digging and tugging and reaching and excavating together. Great family times. "Hey, remember that time we stayed up way past our bedtime digging up the yard?" That's wonderful and an after-school special all its own, but that's not what this is about, either.

It's about this: that one, annoying, pencil thin bamboo shoot disturbing my violas. It was beautiful, but out of place. It was this small intrusion on my landscape, sprung up there beside the rocks and through the flowers. I have this settled world; a tidy, small plot of ground I cover. I walk my paces, I paddle along the surface in the sun, I eat my cheeseburgers, bloom occasionally and try to keep the peace. With flippant hubris and a pair of dashing gardening clogs, I had this plan to just remove this one thing out of place. This one, tiny thing. This delicate anomaly which happened to be connected to a vast and ancient network that runs throughout the whole yard, just underneath the surface. In our excavations, we found evidence of previous attempts: great fattened canes which had just been cut down at the ground and covered with mulch. "They moved the headstones, but they didn't move the graves!" Sure, it had prettied the place up a little bit, but didn't remove the problem, and in fact, made it worse by aggravating the plant to grow further roots and spring up elsewhere.

Look beneath the surface, that's where the truth lies. It lies in vast networks, ancient and strong; sometimes with its point of origin so far away, it's unrecognizable. This is my inspiration. I trade my shovels and claws and tiny bulldozers for pen and keyboard, paper and screen and I dig. It's a communal effort, it's hard and sweaty work. I get dirty and blisters on my hands. But this is my goal, with all this scribbling and chittering on the keys, to find the sweet relief of finally getting a handle on that firm root of things and pulling it, like a great hairy zipper from its home. To expose it and uproot it and see how it all connects. To not just trim unsightly things out of view, but to find their source, examine them and try and strike some balance in the landscape of things.

"Um, you? Could you come here a second?"

Landmarks

I have been awash, away.
A river of cardboard boxes, paint rollers, memories, plans.
I have been wandering aimlessly crosscurrent, barking my shins on the newness of things.
At some point I picked up my feet and let the current take me where it would.

It has taken me away.
Away from endless words and constructions of small sentence empires.
Away from the interior decoration of my own skull and into the other muscles in my frame.
The ones that scoot and lift and tote and adjust and fold and hang and sweep away the debris of change.

My words have leaked outward into the necessary conversations of conversion to a new locale.
The words to comfort, soothe and share excitement with tiny people overwhelmed.
The words for new things - that bit of hardware that holds a drawer in place, the properties of machines that cut grass, the jargon, syntax, rhythm, grammar of finding a toothbrush, a cherished doll, a clean pair of socks.

I have floated and tossed, awash, away on the strength of will to do this one last thing before I sleep.
My life preservers of ibuprofen, glucosamine, chondroitin, tied together with an Ace bandage to hold in the tiny screams of old injury - they float with me, crashing into the mattress every night to sleep with mouth agape, arms outflung, dreamless and sinking, sinking, sinking like a well-tossed stone.

My life preservers in the daylight hours besides an endless stream of coffee are the crooked smiles and still-small hands that seek comfort in my own, the strong back and quiet patience of a man who rises early, works a day, comes home and works another day again before he gets to sleep beside me.

I have been awash for days, neglecting things that matter for things that matter more.
I have come ashore in a new place, different from where I started, but my senses remember this is a place I've stood so many times before.
I have come ashore with creaking joints and have prized apart my rusted chest of words. It screams and groans with the effort and resists the light of day.
I tire with the effort and make excuses to walk away, to leave it where it sits, to convince myself it does not contain treasure but only silt and slime and small dead fish who lost their way.

I have sat on this stubborn, heavy trunk I carry with me everywhere I go and gazed into the foggy night of acquiescence and there, like beacons in the distance, a steady winking string of lights that flash and catch my eye. These are landmarks I know, they are the presence of a familiar, comforting path, not so far away as it feels.

These are landmarks. These are you. Your words. You continue through the night. Your struggles, preoccupations, triumphs, mundane - they are not mine, but they continue on simultaneous, steady and intermittent, the blips on sonar that show the contours of a shoreline that I've been drifting right beside.
They are you.
Standing there and patiently blinking until I realize I'm not drifting.
I'm tethered not so far from shore.


This is dedicated to the loyal readers and writers who have inexplicably shared this whole writing escapade with me thus far. With special thoughts for Deb at Kicking Corners who is working down to a final deadline and asked for others to share what inspires us along the way. Without a doubt, my inspiration comes from all of you. You who read and share and believe what I sometimes find impossible - that I can do this writing thing. You who write and share and say amazing things in ways that I never even considered before. I love this cacophony of voices more than I can say.

Finally

A friend of mine owns the best bookstore in the world. It's nestled in the heart of Pike Place Market. It is her passion and her art. She's got impeccable taste in books and an excitement for literature and reading that shames even the most voracious of us. Her free time is spent culling thrift stores, book sales, private collections and library cast-offs for just the perfect products to line her shelves. Customers in her store are treated to personal and perceptive service. I like to sit on her park bench by the door and listen to her while she listens to her customers:

"I'm looking for a book for my uncle."

"What does he like to read?"

"I'm not really sure. He likes history."

She will start from this maddening introduction and gently prod and chat until she has determined the perfect book for the uncle. A radiant customer leaves with their package and the knowledge that they have selected a unique and meaningful gift. Usually they leave with a tiny crush on this spirited and intelligent proprietress as well. I have more than a tiny crush on her, myself, and I am wise to her ways.

She was my first friend in a new city. When I met her, I had a toddler and a newborn and a quiet desperation. I don't make friends easily. I get bored with people, irritated with their children, lost in my own thoughts and bogged down in insecurity. She ignored all that, invited herself over for lunch and asked me "What are you reading right now?" Almost every conversation with her starts like that, even now. It's a gauge we use to see where we are in our lives when we haven't seen each other in a while. 

We got together for the first time in months over the weekend. She brought me a copy of Infinite Jest that she found. I gave her a stack of cookbooks for her store. Our girls took off and picked up right where they left off; where they've been leaving off and picking up since they were less than three years old. She is reading Japanese magical realism in her native Italian. I am reading a stack of books on writing. 

"Finally," she said. "I have been waiting for you to write this." She waded right through my neurosis, my effusive explanations, my insecurity and said "Finally." I have been mulling over the roles people play in our lives, what draws us to one another and what repels us. I have been spent the last several weeks recalling and reliving a whole hodgepodge of emotions long buried or forgotten. It is sometimes daunting work, but compelling and motivating, too. I think of this friend, this person dropped into my life when I feared I was nothing more than a milk dispenser, diaper changer, and a target for bodily fluids. She embraced that mess and asked me "What are you reading?" to remind me of the parts of me that were all my own - my intellect, my imagination, my thirst for the written word - and helped me carry on, firmer in my understanding and appreciation of myself.

And now, when I have a different sort of newborn I'm tending, when I'm still fraught with insecurity, overwhelmed and daunted by my undertaking, she has done it again. "Finally," she said. "I have been waiting for you to write this."

Show Me the Money or How I'm Hot When I Eat Enchiladas

Photo credit: mconnors from morguefile.com

I just spent a mind-numbing hour on a conference call with a mortgage adviser. Are you so jealous? I think you should be. It was all very adult-y and I got to eat chicken enchiladas and fruit salad covered in caramel sauce while asking intelligent questions and she was none the wiser. This amused me endlessly. As did the fact that I had massive plumber's butt the whole time and my hair very strongly resembled a certain teen pop sensation's and she couldn't see that. She could sit there and think I was totally hot and smart. Which, of course, I am. You just have to look at me with the right eyes. Or, you know, on a conference call.

I don't want to talk about how hot I really am, though. Not today. What struck me during this conversation is that while we were talking about certain tax credits and whatnot, she was explaining that we wouldn't ever have to pay back some sort of tax credit fee thingy (this is, of course, the technical term. I'm very adept at jargon.)  because our income was very much less than likely to exceed the maximum amount allowed and blah blah. So in an act of wizardry, she showed us on our very own laptop when she wasn't even in the room some kind of tax schedule. Her partner (who is clearly a ghost who comes to your home and plays with your computer and opens websites you never knew existed and proprietary software applications and highlights things while she talks to you on speakerphone) highlighted a number and she asked: "Do you see your income exceeding this in ten years?" and she then laughed in such a way as to say "Obviously not, chuckleheads."

I had a conversation via some different email ghosts today with a writer friend of mine about this very topic. Well, sort of. We are writers, and therefore tacky, so we were talking about money. Specifically, earning money from writing. Every book on writing that I have ever read has pretty much said, point blank, don't write for money. Even Stephen King, who makes more money than some small countries, said "Don't write for the money. Write because you love it." I can understand this. Probably even Stephen King only makes about ten bucks an hour when everything is said and done if you do the math. What would that equation be? Number of hours spent writing, editing, thinking about writing, thinking about editing, sweating while you wait to hear back about submissions divided by number of dollars received for finished product, less expenses (which would include your computer, paper, journals, coffee, writing pants, special face creams to reduce the visible signs of aging, more coffee, antacids to counteract the massive consumption of coffee, and so on.)

I have had a long, illustrious career as an unpaid writer. Starting at age six I have written stories and articles and scenes and poems pretty consistently. My publishing credits include: a poem in the church bulletin when I was 9, my story displayed in the Governor's mansion when I was 11, my articles, poems, and stories for The Underground  secretly copied on the faculty copy machine and distributed around the school when I was 16 and 17, an article about the irresponsibility of the collaborators on The Underground  in the actual school newspaper when I was 17; in my 20s there were a few chapbooks floating around sold for a pack of smokes or a cup of coffee, in a poetry creative writing class when I was 25,  my professor (whose name was Chuck Taylor, I kid you not) said one of my poems reminded him of Alan Ginsberg's Howl (an assessment I believe was based either solely on the length of my poem or an utter unfamiliarity with Ginsberg's poem), in a short fiction creative writing class when I was 26, my professor (who looked like a shar pei, I kid you not) read one of my stories to the class as "an excellent example of good tone without any plot whatsoever", I kept my writing to myself for several years after that and then now, in the springtime of my life - my very late 30s - I started "publishing" a blog, wherein I have done a few guest posts, had a few things featured, and met some dandy folks.

So as the magic mortgage lady and her ghost asked us a semi-rhetorical question about what we imagined our income would be in 10 years, this little part of my brain piped up (silently, I might add. Aren't you proud?) "Well, you don't know! What if I get my book deal by then?!" You should be a little less proud, because my mouth was full of enchiladas at the time and I didn't want to spit verde sauce on the phone or the laptop. I am at a point where, as my writer friend and I discussed, I would be happy with coffee money. Or perhaps enough to buy jeans that only I had ever worn. But even if that never materializes, I don't want it to be because I never tried. I write and I write and I write. I polish and I offer my demented little gems around to whomever will look at them. So far, they say "That's lovely. For someone else. Please try again." I'm OK with that. I'll keep writing, I'll keep sending my babies out with their notes attached to their chests, I'll keep receiving whatever criticism or praise I can get. Because I love to write. I need to write. I can't rely on my freakish good looks and stunning fashion sense forever. Besides, I learned tonight that it's win-win for me. If I don't make doodly-squat, I won't have to pay back that tax credit fee thingy when we go to sell our house that we haven't even bought yet. If I hit it big, well, then I can have my CPA sort that out.

My New Japanese Boyfriend

It is amazing the things you discover when you read books.

I always shudder a little bit when people proudly announce "I don't read." Not out of snobbery. I don't really care what you read, it needn't be all high brow and incomprehensible. But reading is just one of those fundamental elements of life. Through reading we learn facts, we see those facts disputed, we learn stories, perspectives. We have windows into lives we would otherwise never witness. Reading develops the part of our brains that ingests and analyzes information. We learn the nutritional information on the backs of cereal boxes, we discover what's on sale at the grocery store, what albums are due for release this month, and what somebody's cute baby said today. We are enveloped in wild romances, other planets, other times, other places. We also find our long lost 13th century Japanese soul mates.

It goes a little something like this: A few weeks ago, we were at some friends' house for lunch. No wait. Back up. Last November, some friends of ours came over to our house. The library copy of Oblivion with which I was in a steel caged grudge match was lying on the end table in our living room. (By end table, I mean steamer trunk, but let's not discuss my decorating tastes here.) Our friend completely surprised the pants off me (not literally. What kind of people do you think we are?!) by picking up the book and saying simply "Consider the lobster." This friend of ours is a very straightforward kind of fellow. An engineer, a little bit shy, logical and straight laced. I didn't doubt that he read books, I just was surprised that his choices would be similar to mine. So we commenced commiserating about David Foster Wallace and then we went out to dinner (wherein my darling jBird announced my various gastric distresses to the table and pretty much all else was forgotten.) We all ended the day seeing each other in a little bit different light. I had this other piece of to the puzzle of my quiet friend, an area of commonality, something new we could talk about when conversation got awkward. And he... well, I don't know what he came away with. Probably some excessively disturbing mental images.

So, a few weeks back, we were at this friend's house and I was pawing through his bookshelf because that is my version of peeking in someone's medicine cabinet. You find out interesting things about your hosts, and generally the things you find out have nothing to do with frightening rashes. After a few minutes of pawing, I had to borrow a sheet of the Hooligan's coloring book and a crayon to scribble down some titles. Don't you just love friends like that? One of the titles I scribbled down was The Art of the Personal Essay and immediately went home and reserved it at the library (along with Eminem's latest album, but I digress.)

To my delight, this weighty tome has come available for me to peruse and probably not finish and then have to consider buying for a reference book because it is so awesome and then copying huge parts of it down in case I can't find it at the used book store and wishing I could highlight a library book and then wondering what good that would do me since I have to return it and then wondering if I should just commit the cardinal library sin and keep it and how bad would it be to have to move to a new city?

In a very heavy paper nutshell, this book is a collection of personal essays from since the beginning of time. It is my own personal version of Disneyland. It is also my Graceland and my Great Smoky Mountains and my Niagara Falls. Last night after the monkeys were in bed and the fire was lit, the Chief Lou and I sat down to read and listen to music and occasionally chat. [This is a large and important aside: When I was 18, a friend of mine was trying to convince me to date him and possibly marry him. I explained that while I loved him dearly, I didn't think we had enough of the right things in common for us to really be compatible. "Like what?" he asked me. "Well, like I like to read and you don't. I like to write poetry and you mock it. Like I don't like professional sports or Republicans." (or something like that.)  He was dismissive of this and said "What is more important to you? That you be with someone who make enough money to support you (my other option at the time was a penniless college student) or that you be with someone who will sit by the fire and read with you and talk about fancy things?" When I chose the latter, he was incredulous and assured me that would never happen and I was being hopelessly romantic. Much to my delight, he was wrong. No hard feelings, though. We remain friends to this day.]

What was I talking about? Oh yes. I was reading with my love when I found my long lost Japanese boyfriend. Kenko lived in thirteenth century Japan. Little is known about him except that he was someone or other in the Imperial court and that he was a bit of a poet. Then he became a Buddhist monk. The best details of his life are learned from his writing, however. He wrote in the style called zuihitzu - which directly translated means "follow the brush". Donald Keene, the translator of Kenko's work, notes:

"This form - or lack of form - was most congenial to Japanese writers, who turned to it perhaps because it was less 'dishonest' than creating fiction. The formlessness ... did not impede enjoyment by readers; indeed, they took pleasure not only moving from one to another of the great variety of subjects but in tracing subtle links joining the successive episodes."

How sweet is that?! I have, at long last, found a name for the kind of writing I do. It's in an anthology. It's medieval. It's valid. So, if I should happen to blurt out to my real estate agent that I write and she should happen to look surprised and ask me what, exactly, do I write, I could happen to respond: zuihitzu. It is a much less ridiculous response than: I don't know. Stuff?


The icing on my merry little Japanese cake of discovery -  the wasabi on my peas, the ikura on my sushi - is this opening written by Kenko himself, to his Essays in Idleness:

What a strange, demented feeling it gives me when I realize I have spent whole days before this inkstone, with nothing better to do, jotting down at random whatever nonsensical thoughts have entered my head.

One of my favorite quotes from the movie Shadowlands is when C.S. Lewis's recalcitrant student tells Lewis: "I read to know I am not alone." Of all the wonderful things we learn from reading, finding that you are not alone is among the most valuable.

To your inkstones, friends!

Guest Post: Comparison Shopping

Today's guest post is from a blogger who holds a very special place in my bloggy little heart. She was one of my first readers and was one of the very first blogs that I read that I finally felt like I had a kindred blogging soul out there. Without further ado, my fellow reader and writer: Masked Mom. 

"Most people can read much more profoundly than they can write, speak or even think. For me, this is one of the great humiliations of being literate at all. If I can read Shakespeare, why can't I write Shakespeare? It's not fair."

~~Reeve Lindbergh, No More Words: A Journal of My Mother, Anne Morrow Lindbergh

I am not merely an avid reader, but a voracious one. This is a character trait I mostly consider a good thing—particularly when it comes to writing, because I’ve yet to read a book on writing that does not trumpet the importance of reading (and lots of it) to the development of writing skills. One of my favorite lines from Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down The Bones  is “If you read good books, when you write, good books will come out of you.” This seems so sensible—like an artistic version of “You are what you eat.” And sure, there is a certain simple logic to it—of course there are many things in life we learn not merely by being actively “taught,” but by proximity, by osmosis almost.

The flip side, the dark side, of reading good books, or good work anywhere really, is that sinking feeling that nothing, NOTHING!, I ever write will be as good as what I’m reading. There are sentences and whole passages of things I read that not only strike an emotional chord but also inspire outright awe in the writer in me. Miracles of economy, stellar examples of structure, masterpieces of clarity, icons of imagery. All these things bring me great joy—and, very often, at the heart of that joy is a hard little nugget of despair.

This is one way of putting that paradoxically delicious despair: “I’m not sure how it’s possible, but I am simultaneously grateful to have read it and insanely jealous that I didn’t write it.” I couldn’t have said it better myself—and, in fact, I did say this myself, in a comment on this very blog, where I regularly read things that give me this exact feeling.

I think a feeling of inadequacy in the face of so much greatness in the literary world (in all its manifestations, including blogs, dammit) is a practically universal thing—we all feel it from time to time. “What’s the use in plugging away if I can never be as great as _______________.” Don’t we all have a name, many names, we can put in that blank? (And, to really push the limits of tasteful sucking-up, isn’t our fabulous hostess, TangledLou, one of those names for a lot of us?)

We must each find our own ways to work around this feeling. At the core of my own philosophical approach to this problem is a page from a years-old calendar featuring Maxine, the wiry-haired, cranky old lady who is a creation of Hallmark greeting cards. It said, “I gotta be me. I don’t see anybody else lining up to do it.” I am me, there’s no choice really. I approach the page with my own life experiences, my own level of education, my own proclivities (passionate (and somewhat intemperate) love for parentheses, just for one example), my own motivations, my own interests, my very own me-ness. I try to focus on leaving the best me on that page that I can.

Most days I succeed-ish.