Day 8

Patient, patient people.

I forget now how I came to discover Sleepy Joe and her Life and Writings. She lives on the other side of the pond from me and works in one of the coolest fields, ever - library science. I have such respect and gratitude for librarians in general and it's somewhat akin to knowing a rock star to be associated with Sleepy Joe.

As if that weren't enough, she is a steady and constant presence on this blog with her constant encouragement and her unfailing loyalty to reading and commenting. She's an aspiring writer, herself, and leads a busy life with two little people and working full time and just generally being fabulous, yet she always finds the time to root for other writers and bloggers. That really means a lot. It takes some effort to reach out to other people and she does it anyway and is a cheerful presence here and on a lot of the blogs I read.

Over the last several weeks, she has gifted me with two different bits of blogging love. I have been woefully behind in catching up with all things blogging and they have slipped through the cracks. These little blog award thingies have been a delightful little surprise bonus to blogging. I'm not much one for memes, generally, but to have someone take the time to single out my ranting over here is touching to me and I really do appreciate it.

So, for you, Sleepy Joe, I am grateful. For my Wonderful Team Member Readership Award, because I am not a wonderful team member, actually. Writing is a generally solitary and lonely pursuit. I spend hours buried in things invisible to the naked eye. It is exhausting and exhilarating and it appears to waste a lot of time. In what other endeavor would you strive to eliminate at least 20% of the work you've done after you've done it? As a result, I get all down deep in my head and shut out the rest of the world. Writing is not a team sport. Blogging is, though. And I deeply appreciate my teammates. And for my Reader Appreciation Award.  It may seem from time to time that I do not appreciate my readers as much as I should. If appreciation is measured in mutual comments or responding promptly to Tweets and comments and Facebook notes, then I fail at this. If appreciation is measured in the thrill of seeing a familiar name on my stats and taking the time to really savor and consider the words that you've left behind, then there it is.

I encourage you to go check out Sleepy Joe's blog if you haven't already. She's really a shining light, the encouragement fairy, if you will. I am so grateful for her and all of the people like her who populate this world and make things just more pleasant. I am going to change the rules of all this up a bit. Instead of answering questions about myself, instead I'm going to ask you to leave your favorite thing about Sleepy Joe here in the comments. Let's fill her bucket at least half as much as she does for others.

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. 

I Met Margi

I got my new cowboy boots in the mail today and it reminded me that I have yet to write about meeting Margi.

She was disappointed that I didn't blurt things at her. She should take it as a compliment, though. It means that I wasn't nervous and that I already considered her a friend when we sat down to chat. That's weird, right? I don't know. I'm not a twenty-first century baby. Margi and I talked about this. It's still a little weird for us to say we've made friends online. It's a hangover from the days when the Internet was only used by sweating nerdy folks in their basements - a command center of Radio Shack components teetering on leftover pizza boxes and a tangle of wires. Remember when Internet access was something that involved a series of swapping diskettes in and out and stretching a phone cord across the house? Don't call me. I'm online. You'll only get a busy signal. Whatever. If you don't remember that, it's OK. But that's why it's weird to meet people for the first time that you already kind of know and admit it. I am, in fact, a dirty old man. Everyone knows that. Now Margi has seen for herself. She didn't take a picture, so you will never be quite sure if I'm telling the truth about this.

I met the J-Half, too. He was polite and brief and had some work to do. He was carrying a mysterious black bag with headphones attached to it, so I'm pretty sure he's a spy. Margi told me about what they both do for a living, but I didn't understand. It's all right. I have a hard time explaining my job, too. Have you noticed how a lot of jobs are sort of nebulous? One of my very best friends has been extremely successful at her job for years and continues to get promotions and pay raises and goes on trips and everything. Every time I see her, I ask her what she does. She explains and I listen very carefully and think "This time I will remember." I still have no idea what she does. But sometimes she gets free espresso, so it must be fabulous.

Margi is just like her blog. She is witty, very smart - like, really smart - thoughtful, kind, and entertaining. Here's what you don't get from reading her blog, though: she smells good. I am envious of people who can smell good. Not an overpowering perfume, product-y kind of smell. Just... I don't know. This is getting weird. I don't mean it to be. I smell things, I can't help it. I wonder if she stank, would I have liked her as much? Her smell is irrelevant, really. It just struck me from time to time as we were sitting and talking: "Hey! I'm talking to Margi about things that I've always wanted to ask her about and I can smell her."

We talked about really everything. Politics, religion, kids, husbands, families, writing, grammar, depression, the Puyallup Fair, football, and my new cowboy boots. I didn't censor myself which would explain the lack of blurting. It's usually when I try to edit what I say that the weird things come flying out. I don't think she did, either. She and I come from fundamentally different backgrounds, we hold extremely different beliefs, but not really. This is the exciting part for me: I love talking to intelligent people who think about things instead of just reacting. Margi doesn't react. She listens, she thinks, she speaks with kindness and consideration, even when she disagrees. There should be more Margis. Seriously.

We talked about happiness. We talked about the ability to look around and say "I am truly happy," even when there is a beast of a dark cloud following us around sometimes. That's a valuable skill. We talked about blogging. We discussed why we do it, why we hate it, why we love it. Oddly, a lot of the reasons are the same even though our ultimate goals are very different. We talked about being able to say "I don't care what you think" while at the same time valuing the input of others. Margi likes words as much as I do. We read books and we write and we get ridiculously excited about ideas just for the sake of them.

We talked about so many things I can't remember them all. The time just flew by and all of a sudden I had to run out the door to pick up the monkeys from Running Club. I spent nearly all day talking to Margi and there still was not enough Margi in my day. I like this kind of thing. I like to leave before I'm finished. I like to have so much more to say and ask and hear. I like to miss talking to someone I just met for the first time ever. It is so much better than surreptitiously looking at my pocket watch and suppressing yawns.

Here's the deal: Margi is the genuine article. She's an incredible woman with so much to offer this world. She has a light heart and a deep impact. I never ever ever would have met her if it weren't for this bizarre blogging world. It's weird and it's wonderful and, as I discovered a few weeks ago, some of it is even real. I met Margi. And I'm so glad I did.

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. 

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.

Some Light Housekeeping: Have Book, Will Travel

All right, my lovers. Remember when I said I was working on a project and some of you wrote wonderful things about your first loves and some others of you said you wanted to and I haven't heard from you yet? Well, I'm planning to do a whole link up deal on Monday (or let's call it Tuesday, shall we?) of next week, so you still have time if you wanna.

I have so very much enjoyed reading the posts people have sent me so far. I love a good love story. I love a sad love story. I love a gross love story too, sometimes. I am working on a project that is combining all of these things. Do you know anyone who has a love story to tell? One that you love to hear? Do you think they would like to be interviewed? Would you like to be interviewed? Let me know.

Check out the author's website here.

Speaking of love stories... Jane in Her Infinite Wisdom has been so kind as to share some love in the form of a book with me. Remember that, folks? Creative is a Verb. 


[This is a small digression: as this book has been lying about the house, jBird has been fascinated by it. She is also quite concerned that I am reading fallacious material when she's not supervising me. "Mom. Creative is not a verb." She knows this because she is studying it in second grade. So, either her teacher has misinformed her, or I have. Hmm. I have had to explain the notion behind the title and she grooves it; she really does. But this flexibility of rules is unsettling to her straightforward little soul.]

Anyway, the book came to Jane from Melanie at Is This The Middle, and Jane decided to turn it into a travelling bit of love. I have been the custodian of this fine book for far too long now and it's time for it to have a new home, to provide someone else some new inspiration. It's colorful and beautiful and chock-full of encouragement and gentle kicks in the pants.

Here's how we play: You leave me a comment here if you want a stab at the book. I will roll the dice and see who wins (this will be a totally random kind of thing like having a monkey draw a number out of a hat or something.) I'll let you know who the big winner is and send this book on its merry way. If you are the winner, you are under no obligation whatsoever to FedEx me chips and queso or new jeans. You only have to agree to send it on to another person when you are done. Sound like fun? Of course it does.

Also, if you should notice a distinct change in tone and feel around here this weekend, it's because I will be featuring a guest post by the lovely Tonya Vrba, who contacted me and said she'd like to guest post for me. Hers is an article about her view of the changing nature of relationships and what that does to traditional values. I thought that sort of  fit with the whole love thing we have going on here and goodness knows, I get tired of the sound of my own voice.

There are some things blooming with the spring, folks, and they are causing more than seasonal allergies. Drop your comments below, tell me about your day. Do you want to win a book? If you've already won one, you can comment anyway and tell me not to include you in the fun and games. Be well and adore your lives, folks.

Exhaust Fumes From the Word Mines

Author's note: My deepest apologies to my gentle readers for the appalling lack of quality in this post. As a peace offering, I have offered you several links to good things to read. You may just want to click on those and ignore all of the rest.



I had a writing breakthrough today. I will share my secret. I moved my laptop two feet. Kelly at Southern Fried Children posted about the state of her desk the other day. I can honestly say that I had not thought about my writing space until then.

We have a coffee table that lives in a corner up against the back of the couch. We moved it back there when the Hooligan was still the age that goes careening into sharp edges leading with his head and we never moved it back for one reason or another. The laptop lives on the coffee table there so when I write, I usually just sit on the floor in the corner and use the coffee table for a desk.

Last week I was complaining that my neck really hurt and the Chief Lou suggested that it might be from hunching on the floor to write and perhaps I should consider moving this new-fangled laptop invention to another locale where it might be more comfortable to sit and write. It took me a week to do it. But today I threw caution to the wind and picked up the laptop and moved it two feet to the dining table behind me so I could sit in an actual chair at an actual table. Brilliant, I know. The difference was amazing. Not only did I get a considerable amount of work done, I also managed to send a rather lengthy email to a blog friend of mine commenting on her thought-provoking post rather than just responding in the comments section like a good blogger, and I also managed to offend two of my friends' husbands on Facebook. How's that for productive? Look out world, I've got a chair and I can feel both of my legs now. Nothing's going to stop me now.

I had a long discussion with a complete stranger about the nature of introversion, parenting styles, and whales today while the Hooligan got to show a small girl the wonders of climbing through a tube and hooting. I don't go out of my way to talk to people, usually. If you may recall, I'm a little bit challenged in this regard. I'm proud to report that I didn't blurt a single inappropriate or embarrassing thing while I chatted with this woman for an hour. I really think that moving the laptop has helped me not only work better, but to grow as a person.

I had a long, meandering chat with my real estate agent today, too. She is a fellow blurter, I've discovered. I knew I liked her for a reason. So today she called to tell me that the house she looked at for us seemed fine if we wanted to come take a look, but that it gave her the creeps. She also informed me that she attended yoga class this morning, that she has no fax machine at home, and that she was still in her pajamas. I trust this woman implicitly to help us find a house. She probably uses her laptop at the table. She's a professional.

I had a heady post to write today about the preamble to the Declaration of Independence. Really I did. I'll write it soon. But for now, I suggest you go and check out Michelle at Buttered Toast Rocks because she forgot to shave her legs today, and then read the comments because it appears that Larissa from Papa is a Preacher also forgot to shave hers. And then I remembered that time I forgot to shave my legs for six months. And then you should swing by Tara's place: Faith In Ambiguity. She's got a fantastic discussion going about how we are all being strangled by our children, or about how the French made up for being surrender monkeys by being better parents, or wait. That doesn't sound right. It's about how we can all be better women if we would just move our laptops to the table.

Misson: Comment Mob

Let me tell you about a blogger.

She's brilliant and funny. She makes the rest of us look like slackers. She's working on her PhD, teaching, running a freelance translating and writing business out of her home, and she's raising four children, all under the age of four. Do you know who I'm talking about? Many of you probably do. For those of you who don't, it's cdnkaro at four under 4 (plus two). On top of her workload of epic proportions, she still finds the strength to stay positive and witty, and what impresses me most is that she also still finds the time to reach out to others with incredibly thoughtful gestures: surprise flowers for another blogger going through a rough patch, a stamp book for a blogger's little brother, endless and regular sweet comments on any number of blogs, guest posts, and on and on.

Our blog friend has been a little bit overwhelmed lately and it's time for us to give her back a tiny bit of what she gives to so many. Jane in her Infinite Wisdom and I had an idea. We are going to mob her with comments. She just posted for the first time in a month yesterday with a tiny update on things. Click on over and leave her some love, then encourage others to do the same. Even if you haven't read her blog before, you don't have to know her to know what it feels like to be completely buried in life.

This is one of the wonderful things about the immediacy and far reach of blogging. Within a matter of minutes, I can sit in my home in Seattle and encourage you at your computer in __________ and you can send some goodwill to a dear heart in Canada. Pretty sweet, no?

Let's fill her post up with so many comments and well wishes that it boggles the mind.

Thank you and good days to all!

She's Ba-ack!

Didja miss me?
I doubt it, with all of these wonderful guest posts to read. I am having such a good time catching up on the five-day love-in that has taken place here on the Periphery. What do you all need me for?! This is just so fantastic.

I'm waterlogged and I'm exhausted in the best sort of way, so I will leave you with a few of my favorite things from the last few days:

I love that I got to drink all of my coffee from paper cups.

I love how our car turned into a shuttle of us. Just a pod of the people I love best, piled in with snacks and books and crayons and knitting and lots of music.

I love how everything disappeared except hanging out, celebrating each other and having fun.

I love how much people watching I got to do. People are so appalling and strange and wonderful. All these people I got to gawk at, see their tattoos, watch them interact with their families, eat their dinner, drink their coffee, fight and play and get sick and just be in all of their glory.

I love the fact that I got to eat not one, but two pot roast sandwiches in the last two days.

I love that I had to talk the Chief Lou out of buying me a T-shirt that said "Winner Winner Chicken Dinner" at a roadside cafe (although I kind of wish I hadn't.)

I love coming home, taking a shower to wash of the gas station bathrooms, putting on clean jammies and curling up on my own couch.

G'night all. And until next time... winner winner chicken dinner!

Big Sticky Tootsie Pop Hug

I am a Tootsie Pop. A hard outer shell, with a soft and gooey center. My kids know this, so they have learned just how to patiently lick away until my gooey-ness is exposed. Sometimes, people with especially sharp teeth can just plow right into that gooey part without warning. I don't like that as much. But sometimes when the moon is right or if I've been listening to a lot of REM, I crack open that outer shell and give folks a view of the soft stuff. Really, and shhh! this is a secret, I'm mostly soft stuff.

I have spent the day getting ready to take my monkeys on a trip for a little breaking of spring, and to my delight, a large part of this day has been spent in communication with various stranger-friends who for no other reason in the world except that they're nice, have volunteered to guest post for me while I'm away. This is the sort of thing that reassures me about the future of the human race. Overly dramatic? Perhaps. Perhaps not, though. I was going to say that it's not like we're changing the world here. But maybe we are?

Technology and the internet and blogs and social networking all have their damaging effects on the world in one way or another. In the wrong hands, they can be used to tear down, to divide, to isolate, to disengage. I'm a hands-on kind of girl, so I prefer my life to be in 3D for the most part. But I also believe in the power of the written word. These words that we all work so hard to get down on the screen every day - most of us for no tangible compensation - these words matter. Sometimes they're silly, sometimes they're terse and driven by exhaustion, sometimes they're angry or moving or profound or misspelled or nonsensical. But always they matter. They matter to the lives that they touch, they matter as the tiny threads that weave people closer together, they matter because they're yours.

Six months ago I got my first actual reader on this blog. It was a thrill and a rush to know that some stranger out there read something I wrote and responded to it. To my amazement, some people responded again and again, and brought other people to respond as well. And now I have this little crowd of stranger-friends who inspire me daily, encourage me both directly and indirectly through their words, their tenacity and their dedication. That's you. All of you. You have changed my world.

So as I sit here, sleepy and satisfied, I want to say thank you. To all of you. Even if this is the first time you've ever read this blog, thank you. Thank you for having the courage to say things out loud, to follow your dreams, to think, to reason, to write, and to share. It's people like you who do change the world. Each time one of you reaches out to another person with a comment, an encouragement, a note, a laugh, or any of the other many things you do, you are making this world a better place to be. So thank you, from the bottom of my great big, gooey heart. Thank you.

Uncovering Skeletons

Write to me of loss, I said. I'm interested in loss. Tell me about the first time. What did it feel like?

I wrote about losing my wisdom tooth, I've written about losing contests, I asked you to write about your losses. Succinctly, freely, instantly, 250 words or less. Some of you did, and it was fantastic.

Deb at Kicking Corners wrote about an old loss that somehow uncovered more recent losses.
Michelle at Buttered Toast Rocks wrote about the good kind of loss - the little loss of selfishness that comes with being a mother.
Larissa at Papa Is a Preacher wrote about the necessity of loss for growth, the divine plan in loss and even used a parable.
Masked Mom wrote about a loss of something indescribable as a child, but clearly a loss.

Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom sent me this marvelous link. It's a project driven by loss, to uncover the commonalities across the board in all kinds of loss.

Casey has a whole blog dedicated to dealing with cyber losses. Check it out here.

I had a few other responses, too. A fellow blogger commented on the BlogHer version of the post and wondered if it was necessary to examine losses.

A friend of mine told me this in an email: "I apologize, but I'm not gonna write about loss. I'm trying to explain, but I'm having trouble getting the words right. So simply put, I'm not gonna write about loss cuz I don't want to."


Only a very small part of this whole exercise comes from a creepy voyeurism on my part, I promise. I have been pushing my writing (obviously not my blog writing) to its limits and beyond lately. I've tried to stop being so polite, so proper. It has been the sweatiest of exercise for me. I don't like to sweat, but there is the hope that after I'm all showered up, I'll feel better for having done it. Not feel better for the sake of a kind of therapy, but that the writing will feel better - healthier, more toned, leaner, stronger. I believe in writing for therapeutic reasons; I don't necessarily believe in publishing said writing. I do, however, think we can use these intense emotions, these moments in our life that take our breath away (for good or for bad) to enrich our writing, rather than skimming merrily along the surface.

There is a price, though. It's sweaty. It's uncomfortable. It's exhausting. It sometimes takes you places you weren't quite prepared to go. Sometimes it frightens small children (this is why I write after they've gone to bed.) If you've read my blog for any time at all, you may have realized that I like to examine things. I appreciate so much all of you who chose to examine along with me. You are my comrades, my co-conspirators, my fellow travelers through the madness that is writing. I have nothing but the utmost gratitude and respect for all of you. As always, if you don't see your link or if I've overlooked someone, LET ME KNOW! I want to include everyone. Thank you.

So, my 230-some-odd words on loss. I wrote four different pieces to get to this one. I had to peel back several layers of defenses and I probably could stand to peel a few more. But I wanted to get this done, so I could share the lovely work you all have done.

It hurts in the center of my chest, and when I breathe around it, it leaks out my eyes.
I can't write this. It cuts to the quick and it hurts.
It divides muscle from bone and leaves me a lifeless, spineless heap.
It exposes my useless mask and the skeleton it hides.
We hide our skeletons, not in the closet, but right under our skin.
They prop us up, they keep us walking, keep up the framework of our appearances.
These skeletons aren't hanging out forgotten, underneath out of season clothes, dust bunnies, defunct vacuum cleaners and the shoes I forgot I had. That's not where our skeletons live.
They walk around just under the surface, always there. They hurt and they break us when we bump up against things unexpectedly. Like a picture. Out of the blue, just pops unexpectedly where there was nothing before and you bark your shins or stub your toe.
I didn't stub my toe. It hurts just behind my ribs, that skeleton that covers my heart. Protects it and other soft and vulnerable things. It hurts. The bruise is from the inside. It threatens to burst.
All unnatural, unnerving to see the skeleton on the outside. The little bit of bone, out of place, poking through flesh. It sickens. It must be addressed. It must be healed.
I don't want to write this.
It hurts.

This Is How We Do It

Last week I posed a question: How Do You Do That Thing We Do?
How do you write? From whence comes your inspiration? How does the process work for you?
There were a lot of answers. A lot of them were similar: a lot of people just seem to sit and write, then edit what comes out when they're done. A lot of people get sudden flashes of inspiration at the most inconvenient times. For some it is a necessity, a drive. Some of us couldn't explain, exactly. It generated so much fascinating discussion - read the comments on that post! So much good information there. It generated a few posts, too. And that, my friends, is the beauty of blogging. People in their living rooms, kitchens, offices, pajamas, all across the world can sit and chat together instantaneously about the things they love. For your reading and writing pleasure, I've assembled the posts (that I was aware of) here. Please, it is not my intention to leave anyone out, so if I've missed you or someone you know, let me know!

Masked Mom wrote three! Two are full of good information about getting an essay ready for submission and waiting on the answer. One is about her process - or as much as she can tell us about it anyway. AND she has a hat.

Tara at Faith In Ambiguity talks about being alive while she writes. About editing, about telling the muse to wait. About finding exactly the right words.

Dawn at Alphabet Salad surprises herself where she ends up. She also edits as she goes along and then tweaks, tweaks, tweaks until it's perfect.

JT at In Search of a Title talks about the different kinds of writing she does in her life - for work, for pleasure, for herself, for others and how they differ. She prefers to write essays over fiction and to find exactly the right word to express herself.

M at the M-Half of the M & J Show prompted even more discussion in her post about writing vs. blogging.

And! The fashionably late Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom talks about the most key ingredient for writing - courage.

Jewels at Frazzled & Frumpy is in the process of shopping a novel. I have read part of it and I think it's going to go places. She shares some what she's learned here.

Are there more? Link them here in the comments. And a great big thank you for such interesting discussion and input. Having all you people around every day keeps me writing when the muse is stamping his tattooed foot and saying "IDONWANNA!" and chucking great big cinder blocks in my stream of consciousness.

Also, speaking of blog friends, the lovely Deb over at Kicking Corners is a busy lady making this writing dream come true, so she asked me to guest post today. Go check it out - not for my nonsense, but for her gorgeous blog.