My Date Night ...

It's Friday night. I light the candles and hit the piano music. My husband finishes bathtime and tucks Jeff, our 4-year-old, into bed. We pop popcorn, get beverages, and settle ourselves on the futon--surrounded by our daughters, Shannon (8) and Sarah (5).

It's reading party time, and to get an invitation, you must meet one criteria: you must be able to read a book by yourself. Jeff's working on it--he wants to stay up with his sisters on weekends. So far, he can read "the," "a," "off," "on" and "stop." Unfortunately, I haven't found any books with only those words. So we're gradually working through Hop on Pop, with Jeff reading one new word per outing. Plus, he gets a "family cuddle book" before he has to head to bed.

We settle into our books. I'm reading a linguistics text for my upcoming course of study. Chris is reading a military history reference book. Shannon's reading the third Harry Potter (and loving it). Sarah's reading any easy-read chapter book we throw at her--tonight it's The Frog Prince and a picture book of her choice. We munch popcorn. We drink soda. Somebody sneaks upstairs to sneak candy for everybody. Pages rustle. Kids cuddle.

By 9:30, Sarah has fallen asleep nestled next to me. Shannon is still engrossed in the world of Hogwarts. Chris and I look at eachother and sigh.

Other families have Movie Nights. We tried that, however, each of us likes a different type of movie. Personally, I can't stand Sponge Bob. Barbie bores me to tears. Shoot-em-ups … blech (plus, Jeff can't watch "beat-up shows," so they're pretty much out). This way everybody gets to read what they want--and we get to spend time together as a family. It's a win-win.

Now to work on that "hop" word …

World-Building (and PlotBunnies)

TB's starting to take shape. I'm still WorldBuilding and chasing PlotBunnies (hold STILL, dammit!), but I hope to be able to start writing early next week.

Part of me is REALLY looking forward to writing this book. I can SEE myself finishing it--something that's never happened before. Then I SEE a return to THE OTHER BROTHER, and FINALLY getting it to click. In that book, the Magic Item needs to go. It's gotta be organic. I don't quite know how that's going to work, but I'm ignoring those Bunnies for now.

The story that TREASURE BOX is based on, "The Golden Key," ends all official Grimm Brothers collections after the second edition. For me, it's the beginning. Then I plan on working with the other stories. THE OTHER BROTHER is the first. Then possibly a Snow White / Sleeping Beauty / Cinderella thing. Or something else. I don't know yet.

First, I've got to write THIS book.

And pray that the PlotBunnies wait their turn.

My Poor, Ignored Blog:

You have been mistreated. I started with the best of intentions, but life (and inertia-the object at rest part)have prevented me from showering you with the words you deserve.

I promise to do better.

I've jumped projects. I'm now working on TREASURE BOX, and it's going to be FUN to write / read. Tomorrow I start plotting and figuring out exactly who these folks are. I want this thing done by the end of November (at least Draft 1), so I've gotta get words on a screen soon.

I'll update you as I make progress. I promise. And when I update you 10 times, I get to bake brownies (the mix is on sale again--must stock up). Yep. It's time for the ol' Chocolate Carrot School of Motivation. And competition.

May the games begin. Even when the only one I'm playing is myself.

Ever So Sincerely,

Me

A Confession ...

I'll admit it. I'm addicted to Book Candy--in the form of David and Leigh Eddings. Granted, they use stock characters. Granted, the prose is laden with unnecessary adverbs and gerunds (and let's not even MENTION the dreaded "to be"), but despite the prose-level quirks, I always find myself falling into the story.

This leads me to a scary thought--what if Writing is more than blindly obeying Strunk and White? What are all the Creative Writing programs in the nation (and they're multiplying by the day) going to do? Will they (*gasp*) start teaching STORY instead of Perfect Prose?

I'm not saying that Perfect Prose doesn't have its place. Would Eddings' books be stronger without the over-done generic characterizations (such as Silk's "laconic" nature, or anytime he says something "sardonicly")? I say that they would, but at the same time, I'm not going to stop reading them because they have commit Prose Sins. Why? Because they're generally a whale of a ride from beginning to end. The Good Guys win, the World is Saved, and it's done in a very entertaining manner. This stuff is perfect for reading right before you fall asleep--you can put it down easily, but you still want to pick it up the next night.

Other writers, such as Ursula LeGuin or A.S. Byatt, require more thought. They address complex issues with a deft language that sucks me into their world. Their prose is polished and poetic but still fresh and new. This is the literary legacy I want to be part of.

But, damn, Book Candy is fun to read.

Attention, Kitchen Designers

If you have EVER put white flooring in a kitchen, I forgive you. The world needs those idealists who live not in the real world, but in a realm of fantasy. For the rest of us, with dogs and children and underactive cleanliness genes, please install something close to dirt-colored. Preferably hard so that it doesn't tear and with a matte finish so that only you know that it's dirty.

Yep. It's Cleaning Frenzy at our house. You know the drill: you have less than twelve hours until the Parental Units come to call. The house is a pit. The dishes aren't done. The bed hasn't been made since the last time you had guests. And you have to sleep sometime between now and then.

That's where we are now. Only on top of the kitchen floor and dishes and bed, we have THE BASEMENT, where the kids hang out, draw and color, and watch television. They're in charge of cleaning down there. If it's done before the local parade tomorrow morning, we're going. If not, we're staying home.

So far, so good. They've made a dent in the mess. I'll have to sweep and mop after they go to bed, but that isn't that big a deal. The really big deal is folding all the clean laundry on my futon in my office. It's piled high.

Oh, well. I've got more than 12 hours before the PU's get here. That's plenty of time.

Today is a tough day ...

It may be hormonal, but I'm very moody today. I feel bad for the kids. Ten minutes ago, I was in tears because I went through a tough time about 13 years where my folks moved and let me live in a house with only a microwave, and I wasn't working at the time. That meant that I couldn't cook anything because a microwave doesn't boil pasta well, nor is it especially good for raw cooking, and I couldn't afford frozen dinners. Not if I wanted to make it to school.

Not that I made it to school very often that semester.

I feel that I'm at the same point in my great cycle. Which means that I'm probably at about the bottom or coming up. One of the good things about having been through this before is that I know that there is an end in sight, and I know that I can pull out of this. However, today I'm wallowing in moodiness caused by both the weather and my body. And I'm out of bread. Why is it that I can go DAYS without eating bread, but the day after I run out (and before I make it to the store), I want a big sandwich or toast?

Ah, well. Such is life.

Happy Midsummer

On The Dawning Of The Dark

In about 32 hours (give or take), we'll hit the apex of the light half of the year. Midsummer. One of two points furthest from balance. From here on out (at least until late December), the days will be getting shorter. The year will wane. Planting is done. The fruits of the Earth will ripen, then fall dormant, only to re-emerge with the sun.

It is a day of great Magic. Nature celebrates the apex of the sun's journey. As beings on this planet, I think that we need to think about what the season brings--and what we bring the season.

What do I bring?

DIVINE!

Tonight we tried a new recipe. Spinach Artichoke Dip. I had tried it as an appetizer, and I wanted to try it at home, and boy, was it worth it.

We used fresh spinach, fresh artichokes, and lots of other stuff, and the result was something that we're going to do again and again.

Here's what we did:

Ingredients:

1 stick butter
1/2 onion, chopped
1 artichoke, chopped--all non-edible parts removed (if it's darker green or fuzzy, don't use it)
about 3 cups fresh spinach, chopped
8 oz cream cheese
8 oz sour cream
3/4 cup Grated Parmesan
8 oz Monterey Jack

Melt butter--sautee onion and artichoke chunks. When onions are soft, toss in the spinach and cover to wilt. Then add the Cream Cheese, stir, Sour Cream, stir, and Parmesan. Cook until creamy. Toss in Monterey Jack--stir until melted. Remove from heat.

Serve with thinly sliced bread, crackers, chips, or veggies.

This stuff is very, very good. I recommend it highly.

Father's Day

I'm lucky. My kids have the best Daddy in the world. I have the best husband in the world. There needs to be more people like my husband--caring, funny, responsible, and totally family-oriented. Oh, and he's also the most intelligent man I've ever met.

And I have a tough time taking him for granted. He's just there--ready to cook supper when I'm temperamental, ready to put the kids down when it's his week for kid duty. He's also the dishwasher in the house (partly because we bought a studly new dishwasher to replace our urinating POS and it's still a toy).

It's been over a year since we went out on a date.

That's too long. I'm going to have to remedy that. Soon.

Thoughts on Depression

Recently, I've noticed that most of the most psychically sensitive people I know are also prone to depression. Is a pre-disposition to depression part and parcel of the whole psychic game? If so, why?

Creative types have always been considered moody. Look at Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allen Poe, and Picasso. None of those folks were especially stable. Hemmingway shot himself. I could pull at least 100 more examples out of my hat, but I think you get the idea. What does this have to do with psychic sensitivity? Creative types tend to be more in touch with the Other--they take messages from a muse (i.e. Creative Spirit), and turn those messages into physical works of art.

In short, I propose that Creative Types are more psychically active than Non-Creative Types. If Creative Types are more prone to major mood swings (Manic-Depressive Disorder or just generic Clinical Depression), then perhaps it's a problem that all psychically sensitive folk need to be aware of.

I'm rambling in Academeze here, but that's the way my brain's putting this together. So, bear with me, and I'll get to the point.

Given:

The human brain cannot perform any action or receive any stimulus that s/he is not biologically capable of receiving.

Given:

Psychics seem to have a pre-disposition to chemical imbalances that cause Clinical Depression or Bi-Polar tendencies.

Hypothesis:

The uncharted regions of the brain are more active in Psychic sensitive, and because those regions of the brain are more active, it's far easier for the chemicals necessary for emotional stability to be thrown out of whack.

Right now I can't check this hypothesis (does anyone have a spare Electronic Impulse Imager on hand?). However, the prudent thing, in my opinion, for those who have a ear cocked to catch the rumblings of Other is to think about this and possibly take Ginkgo or some other mental stimulant (just make damn sure it's safe for long-term use--most anti-depressants are not). It might also be smart to keep an anti-depressant on hand for seasonal variations and for those curves life throws that can throw a system out of whack.

Who Am I?

What do I believe? Why?

Somewhere along the way, I've lost myself. I've been making excuses, but in actuality, there is no excuse. I'm not writing because I don't think I have anything interesting to say. Where is my original story?

How do I say what I have to say?

Why?

In my dreams of how things "should" be, I see myself as a well-centered woman who writes Things that Matter. But what matters? Where are my hot spots? Why do I want to tell stories in the first place? Because I'm better at that than others in the CW program? That's no reason to write.

I'm an ADULT?!?

Today, as usual, when I looked into the bathroom mirror, I was brought up short. There was this 30-something woman looking out at me instead of the gangly adolescent I feel inside. Who IS this woman? Is she the Mom that garners so much praise from my kids' teachers? Is she the recipient of the MA hanging on my office wall?

When I think about publishing, well, that's something that adults do. Kids, like me, just sit and write and it doesn't matter if it gets done or not. But then, kids like me don't have to support themselves, either.

The Outer Self appears sorta with it. I mean, she's raising kids, teaching College Composition, paying bills, and working on a novel. The Inner Self, however, isn't nearly as confident. She seizes any chance to take the day off. She doesn't believe that her work will ever sell. She wants to have somebody hold her and take care of her and do the laundry (and put it away, too). She doesn't want to feed the kids or get up on time to meet the school bus. She wants to sleep until noon and then putter around until suppertime, when food will magically appear on the table.

Did I mention that the Inner Self doesn't have a firm grasp on reality?

The truth is, I do spend a lot of time waiting for the laundry to do itself. The dishes pile up until I have to wash dishes to eat. The front room is cluttered, and I have yet to sort through the summer clothes so that the kids have something to wear to school. My Outer Self gets frustrated at the adolescent Inner Self who wants it all delivered to her on a silver platter. The Inner Self gets frustrated because the work isn't done.

Now, I've gotta go do some laundry.

Today's thoughts:

Full-body massages are Good Things, especially when given by somebody who knows what they're doing.

About Writing:

Beh. the tension was worked out of my neck. Now I'm struggling to find the urge to write. To top it off, it's sort of a dreary day, and my bowels have decided that they need cleansed this morning.

Perhaps this is prelude to doing something Imortant. Perhaps not. Whatever it is, I wish it would get here.

The muse is taunting me, thoguh. She's sitting on the edge of my realm of Being, whispering sweet nothings into my ear. Stuff like, "Do you know what it feels like to have your legs trapped in solid concrete, " and "Kids really DO grow with language, ya' know." Thoughts are simmering. They almost want to come out. But not yet.

Tomorrow is BIC day. I'm going to open my WIP and start working on it. Then I'm going to bring the laptop outside and see if that helps. The impatient part of me keeps saying, "Publish Now, or Perish." The depressed, lethargic part of me wants to hang it all up and just roll over.

And Jeff just said, "Magic rocks." There may just be a story in that somewhere.

On Living in a Vacuum ...

Writers can't output without input. That's a given. But so many places / people say that you MUST do the writerly thing--take a class, join a group, or patronize a web site--in order to be a writer.

To those people, I say bullshit.

You see, I've done the class thing. Yes, I learned a bit from the raw process of writing and the critiques I recieved, but I wouldn't say that anything I learned couldn't be learned anywhere else. A class is only as good as its teacher, and while there are exceptional teachers out there, no one teacher is right for every writer. Some teachers are flat-out wrong for a particular writer.

I've also done the reading thing. While it provides a social outlet among writerly types, it's not essential. I've met some facinating people at readings. I've also fallen asleep. Does attending readings make you more visible in the "literary" clique in your town? Absolutely. Will that get you published? Not unless you're submitting to their literary magazines. So, while attending readings may be fun, it's not essential. You might be better off getting a copy of your community's reading schedule and reading the books written by the guests of honor. Or go for the wine and cheese with a show thrown in. Or stay home and write. It's your call.

As to online groups--yes, they can help. But only if you're the type of person who can swallow other pople's angst and political shenanigans and idoits throwing gas on hot flames. Quite honestly, there are many, many blogs out there that will give the novice writer the advice s/he can get from these online groups. There are also books on writing, books on submitting, and books on living the writing life. Some of those same books say to get involved in the literary community. Take everything you read with a grain of salt.

What you DO need is a good reader. You also need to hone your reading skills. You need to be able to tell that your work still needs polished. You need to be able to tell where your lofty ideas didn't make it to the page. That takes practice. It may also require a clue x 4 to the side of the head a few times by your reader.

You also need very thick skin. It's not about the writer, it's about the work. When your reader(s) say that they don't get your protag's motivation in scene x, that's what they mean. You don't suck, your work just needs more attention. Listen to what others say. Let your manuscript sit for a week, a month, or a year. Then come back to it with fresh eyes.

Living your literary life doesn't mean that you have to live the sterotypical literary life. I must keep reminding myself of this little fact. Over and over again.

Time for Writing, Time for Self

Today, I woke up, made breakfast, showered, got the kids ready for their play date, went to the play date, ate lunch, visited for about 3 hours, then came home. Now it's 3:00, and I'm sitting down at the computer for the first time.

It's so easy to say that I don't have time to write. After all, I have books to read with the kids, games to play with the kids, snacks to make for the kids. My life is all about kids. I read "candy" books so that I don't get annoyed when the kids interrupt me. I have a list of "shoulds" that I'm not doing.

But I'm actually just sitting on my butt surfing or reading while the kids do something different. Granted, I really can't do serious, immersion-type writing while I'm on the job, but I can do some thinking and noting and reading. So why am I rehashing the same old stuff?

Part of it is fear. Part of it is that I really don't know who I am outside of the Mommy. Part of it is that making writing the center of my life, even when I'm doing other things, is hard. It doesn't pay anything. I'm not contributing to the household. But you know what--when I'm waiting for the kids' next page, I'm not contributing anything either.

There's also the fact that I don't know who or what I am right now. That's a harder pill to swallow. What do I WANT to write? What NEEDS to be written? How do I get that vision to the page? Sometimes I really resent the events that have conspired to get me here. I'm so damn tired of hiding, but I don't know how to come out into the open. I don't know how to get the inner me to come out and play. I'm so busy being the role, I've lost track of the inner core. I speak the language, but I've lost track of the Being.

Who do I want to be? What do I want to be remembered for?

Do I want to be remembered?

Why?

Confusion says ...

What am I supposed to be doing? Why?

That isn't the question I want to ask, though. The question is, "What do I WANT to be doing?" And the answer is, "I don't know."

Well, not really. I do have some clues, though.

I know that I'm happier when I have intellectual input. I know that I want to participate in intellectual discussions. I know that I'm good at setting my thoughts and ideas in text and when I finish a writing session, even if the writing his gone badly, I feel good. I know that I want to change others the way I have been changed by my favorite thinkers.

I also have many hang-ups about what I can and can't write.

In my classwork, I had a teacher who was incredibly resistant to writing with a metaphysical tinge, so I learned not to write what I think or believe into Story. When I was in seventh grade, my journal was used as evidence in a court of law--and the decision of that court was that my sister would be allowed to move out of the house where I lived and in with Mom. Yep, my words got my sister taken away from me. So I have a very hard time writing my innermost thoughts and feelings, especially if they aren't positive, into any forum, public or private.

Both of these have combined to completely hamstring me right now. You see, even if I'm writing for me, as I was in my journal, Bad Things happen. If I'm writing for others, any belief that's out of the ordinary (99.9% of my spiritual life) is out-of-bounds.

I'm hoping that by recognizing these blocks, I can bash them to bits, because I can only win if I have the freedom to write what I NEED to write, not what others expect me to write.

Starrise

I sit before the fire,
watching
stars come out of hiding.

Am I hiding?
Is it time for me to shine?

Somehow, I think it may be.

Kids and Apple Branches

Today my 7-year-old said, "I LOVE yardwork." However, I think I've found the difference between hauling branches when you're 7 and when you're almost 30 years older. The 7-year-old sees it as an opprotunity to pick the blossoms off the branches to sell to Grandma for a nickel.

I see it as work. A necessary evil.

It truly is all in how you look at it.

Words of Power ...

I sit in awe of the power of language. As Martin Heidegger says, "Language is the House of Being," and I can't agree with him more. Children come into their own through their mastery of language. When they can talk to you and communicate what they need / want / feel / think, they have the power of affect the world around them in ways they hadn't been able to before. They can get juice when they would have received milk. They can ask for cheese instead of crackers. They can tell you that they need a kiss or a hug or that they miss their Daddy when he's at work, then you can e-mail Daddy, he can call, and then they can talk and come away feeling loved.

Language shapes the world you live in. Writers create new worlds, then readers sometimes appropriate that world and integrate it into their own. One clear example of this comes from my fifth grade year. I was reading Lloyd Alexander, and one line in the novel I was reading (I no longer remember the name of the title or the main character) has stuck with me for over 25 years. That line (paraphrased): "I've heard of women's work and men's work, but I've never heard the work complain about who did it."

The message to me: you can do any damn thing you want to, and who cares if a man is supposed to be doing it. What a world-changer.

This is why I write. I want to create a world around me that is a world where everyone, myself included, respects the individuality of those around them. People are NOT a number, they are thinking, feeling, speaking beings, each with their own particular world-view. The world of the misogynist is as valid as the feminist, and both deserve acknowledgement. No, this does NOT mean that you have to agree with what they say. You just have to respect their right to say it and move on. However, you don't have to listen.

One of the great things about using language actively is that you can both affect change and be changed as you communicate with others. You can show the world your house of being and possibly offer them a new pillow or curtain to put in their own house. Your words may even be akin to a gallon of paint, and color the way they see the world.

Powerful stuff, isn't it.

It's Dandelion Season

Yep. It’s that wonderful time of year where young boys and girls pick yellow flowers and give them to the adults they love, who then fill cups and glasses with water to keep the lovely yellow blooms bright and fresh until tomorrow’s bouquet.

There’s nothing quite like the smile and the hug you get with the yellow flowers, though. It’s a child’s way of saying, "You're special. Thank you." It's also a way for them to cop a hug, and I'm all for that.

When does a dandelion become a weed? The greens are tasty and nutritious. The flowers are bright and cheery--and once the seeds pop up, it's a lot of fun to blow them hither and yon. But yet, as adults, we strive to kill the very flowers that we adored as children. My son sees a sea of yellow blossoms as a chance to pick flowers to give to somebody special. My husband sees that same yellow-polka-dotted patch as another item on the to-do list: must spread the weed-killer.

Maybe we'd all be better off if we skipped the weed-killer and picked the flowers ourselves. After all, it's not every day you can test to see if you like butter simply by rubbing a flower against your arm--and as this test proves, EVERYBODY likes butter.

WELCOME

This is a brand-new blog, created by me, Ali. What will I post? I have no idea. However, neither do you, so if you're interested, stop in, grab a cuppa, and stay a while. Who knows, we might even find something interesting to talk about.