Have you ever sat back and taken a good look at those around you? Maybe you see your circle of friends, maybe you see coworkers, or fellow college students, and you wonder why some people just seem to have it, while others don't?
I've had quick friendships before--"quick" here meaning "not very long-lasting, but very impressionable" friendships--with people who seem to have it all. You know those people? Good things just constantly seem to fall into their laps. They are the movers and the shakers of this life, if you will, and everything they do, they do with gusto.
Gusto is my word for the day.
There are certain people that you cross paths with and you can look back and say, "That person? So-and-so? Oh yeah. He (or she) is going to make it." You may not know exactly what their "it" is that they're going to make, but they are on their way to something big. This is why I say I've had "quick" friendships before. People like this are always just passing through, on their way to the next level. They stay in your life just long enough to teach you something about the world, or something about yourself, and then they move on.
This gusto, the way they approach life, is somehow contagious. You find yourself wrapped up in their lifestyle for a flicker in time. You hang out with them because everything they do is centered on one thing: having fun. Or maybe it's "being happy." Or possibly "squeezing every last drop out of this thing called life." For a brief moment, you forget your woes. You forget that you're "just a parent," or "just a wife," or "just a student." You realize that you can be whomever you want to be. You remember how good it feels to stay awake all night just to watch the sun come up, just to say you did. You remember freedom as you drive down the interstate with the windows down, belting out the words to whatever happens to be on the radio. Just for a moment, you forget how it felt to be "just you."
And then, suddenly, they're gone.
These people with gusto, they usually have a large circle of friends. Some terrific opportunity comes up ("A job in journalism in Borneo? I'll take it!"), they pack up their one-room apartment, put everything in storage, and they're out of your life as quickly as they came into it.
It's all about gusto, baby.
With a hug and a wave, behind dark sunglasses, they're gone. And you're left to pick up the pieces.
You let the pieces lay around for a while, hoping they'll come back.
They don't.
But when you finally do get out the broom and dustpan and you begin to sweep everything into a neat, tidy little pile resembling your neat, tidy little life, something catches your eye. A little scrap of this. A smidgen of that. And you remember those fun times, how incredibly cool and free you felt, and you pull those pieces out of the pile. All the rest, you toss, but you keep those little splinters of memories that existed outside your normal day-to-day. "I grocery shop," you think. "I pay the bills. I change diapers. I load the dishwasher, the washing machine, then I unload those same appliances. I taxi my children. I make dinner. I feed the dogs." But in your back pocket, you hold those little pieces of gusto. Maybe you begin to organize your life so that you actually have the time to kick the radio on and dance across your living room. Maybe now you find the time to go fishing one Saturday a month. Maybe you make the time to take a Zumba class or two.
And whatever you do with those few moments of your own, private time, you do them with gusto.
It's all about gusto, baby.
Adieu,
Cherstin
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Friday, April 6, 2012
F. I have no idea what the F "F" is for. Fiction? Fairy tales? Fantasy?
Despite the title of today's blog post, I'm not angry. I just can't come up with a suitable F word that doesn't involve something I have to whisper into the phone receiver when I'm really really really ticked off.
The novel is going well. Really well. Almost to the point that it's "out of control" well, so today is the day I'm going to do a little wrangling and a little timelining and start to get this thing in some sort of sensible format, rather than just interviews, descriptions, and a few random action scenes with dialogue sprinkled in the margins.
I've decided the best way to do this, and what I will do in future endeavors, is to number my notebook pages. I went through and numbered what I had this morning, and I'm astonished to see I'm already on page 66. Seriously. Sixty-six handwritten notebook pages. I doubt all the slop and scrawl, the backstory if you will, is going to make it between the covers of the final product, but there is going to be a ton of "fleshing out," too. I'm really doing it. I still can't fathom the whole thing.
What did it take to get me to this point? From the point of "I want to be a writer" to "F-it, I'm writing a novel"? Some of it had to do with timing, but the majority of my motivation came when a short story I submitted to an anthology was accepted, and I actually saw my name in print. It made it into a book.
There's nothing wrong with online publications, so please don't think I'm snubbing the likes of Chiaroscuro or any other awesome online mags, but there is something so satisfactory about holding a book in my grubby hands: a book that holds my story.
When I wrote, "In Eden," it was one of the easiest stories I'd ever written, but finding a market proved difficult. A zombie western is a hard sell. Another work of mine that is out right now is still proving to be a difficult story to sell, but it's the only other piece I've written that seemed to write itself. Those are the pieces that hit you, the ones where your hand leaves an ink trail across the paper because you simply can't get the story down fast enough. I know there is a market out there. I thought I'd found one recently as I'd perused their online fiction and saw a story with a similar premise, a take on an old fairy tale.
I received the rejection yesterday: "not a good fit."
Out it went again, off to bigger and better locales. You just can't quit. Ever.
My first piece of flash fiction that was published, I felt like the market was created simply for my story. I awaited the email not with trepidation, but with a fair amount of patience for a first time submission. I knew it would make it. I simply knew it.
But now, I find that I'm not writing for a market. I'm writing for the sheer reason that I have to see how these characters' stories end up. I have to see what happens next. I have to see where this goes. I can't stop. It's such a wonderful feeling.
So now that we're all in agreement on not knowing what the eff the F is for, I'm heading back to the numbered pages of my hot pink notebook. I'm sick today, went to bed under Nyquil and husband's orders last night. Hopefully it'll be a quick one.
Wishing you all a happy F day, filled with lots of, ... oh, that's just wrong. ;)
Ciao,
Cherstin
The novel is going well. Really well. Almost to the point that it's "out of control" well, so today is the day I'm going to do a little wrangling and a little timelining and start to get this thing in some sort of sensible format, rather than just interviews, descriptions, and a few random action scenes with dialogue sprinkled in the margins.
I've decided the best way to do this, and what I will do in future endeavors, is to number my notebook pages. I went through and numbered what I had this morning, and I'm astonished to see I'm already on page 66. Seriously. Sixty-six handwritten notebook pages. I doubt all the slop and scrawl, the backstory if you will, is going to make it between the covers of the final product, but there is going to be a ton of "fleshing out," too. I'm really doing it. I still can't fathom the whole thing.
What did it take to get me to this point? From the point of "I want to be a writer" to "F-it, I'm writing a novel"? Some of it had to do with timing, but the majority of my motivation came when a short story I submitted to an anthology was accepted, and I actually saw my name in print. It made it into a book.
There's nothing wrong with online publications, so please don't think I'm snubbing the likes of Chiaroscuro or any other awesome online mags, but there is something so satisfactory about holding a book in my grubby hands: a book that holds my story.
When I wrote, "In Eden," it was one of the easiest stories I'd ever written, but finding a market proved difficult. A zombie western is a hard sell. Another work of mine that is out right now is still proving to be a difficult story to sell, but it's the only other piece I've written that seemed to write itself. Those are the pieces that hit you, the ones where your hand leaves an ink trail across the paper because you simply can't get the story down fast enough. I know there is a market out there. I thought I'd found one recently as I'd perused their online fiction and saw a story with a similar premise, a take on an old fairy tale.
I received the rejection yesterday: "not a good fit."
Out it went again, off to bigger and better locales. You just can't quit. Ever.
My first piece of flash fiction that was published, I felt like the market was created simply for my story. I awaited the email not with trepidation, but with a fair amount of patience for a first time submission. I knew it would make it. I simply knew it.
But now, I find that I'm not writing for a market. I'm writing for the sheer reason that I have to see how these characters' stories end up. I have to see what happens next. I have to see where this goes. I can't stop. It's such a wonderful feeling.
So now that we're all in agreement on not knowing what the eff the F is for, I'm heading back to the numbered pages of my hot pink notebook. I'm sick today, went to bed under Nyquil and husband's orders last night. Hopefully it'll be a quick one.
Wishing you all a happy F day, filled with lots of, ... oh, that's just wrong. ;)
Ciao,
Cherstin
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Echoes.
I've always loved that word. Echo.
Just looking at it, shaping your mouth around it, gives you a feel for what it is. I'm pretty sure it's the most high-quality word in our English language. Echo. It's bad-ass, because it ends in an O. The word itself, that final vowel sound, carries on, because there's no consonant at the end to cut it off, ending the word. The word "echo" might just go on forever.
I'm hand-writing my novel. Hand-writing has an amazing feel. I'm working, moving my hand across the page, moving the pen up and down. All these little shifts of my hand, wrist, fingers, they all combine across the blank page, creating this story that moments ago didn't exist.
The writing part, the beauty of the language, hasn't come yet. Bits and pieces of it are scrawled across the margins, but for the most part, I'm getting to know my characters through interviews, by the lack of color I see in a mundane apartment, by watching them when they don't realize they're being watched. And already I'm more interested in them than I've ever been in any other set of characters.
Except maybe Roland and Susan and Eddie and Susannah and Jake and Oy.
But that's another story.
I can't wait to start with the language, the dialogue. And I love the fact that I'm already longing for it. Dialogue has never been one of my strong suits. I prefer to follow the action, treating it like a silent movie. It's wrong on many levels, but it is a place I've been stuck. It is easier for me to just narrate the details. What if my character wouldn't want you to know that she is feeling lonely, but it happens to be something important that will turn up later? I like telling. I don't want you to miss anything. I don't want you to misinterpret something, so I'd rather tell you exactly what you're supposed to see. I'm a Virgo. I'm also an only child. The "my way or the highway" mentality is a huge part of who I am. Leaving it up to my characters to show you how they feel by way of dialogue and action, well, that's going to take some faith, on my part.
Faith and practice.
But I'm up for the challenge.
On that note, adios adios adios adios adios adios.
Just looking at it, shaping your mouth around it, gives you a feel for what it is. I'm pretty sure it's the most high-quality word in our English language. Echo. It's bad-ass, because it ends in an O. The word itself, that final vowel sound, carries on, because there's no consonant at the end to cut it off, ending the word. The word "echo" might just go on forever.
I'm hand-writing my novel. Hand-writing has an amazing feel. I'm working, moving my hand across the page, moving the pen up and down. All these little shifts of my hand, wrist, fingers, they all combine across the blank page, creating this story that moments ago didn't exist.
The writing part, the beauty of the language, hasn't come yet. Bits and pieces of it are scrawled across the margins, but for the most part, I'm getting to know my characters through interviews, by the lack of color I see in a mundane apartment, by watching them when they don't realize they're being watched. And already I'm more interested in them than I've ever been in any other set of characters.
Except maybe Roland and Susan and Eddie and Susannah and Jake and Oy.
But that's another story.
I can't wait to start with the language, the dialogue. And I love the fact that I'm already longing for it. Dialogue has never been one of my strong suits. I prefer to follow the action, treating it like a silent movie. It's wrong on many levels, but it is a place I've been stuck. It is easier for me to just narrate the details. What if my character wouldn't want you to know that she is feeling lonely, but it happens to be something important that will turn up later? I like telling. I don't want you to miss anything. I don't want you to misinterpret something, so I'd rather tell you exactly what you're supposed to see. I'm a Virgo. I'm also an only child. The "my way or the highway" mentality is a huge part of who I am. Leaving it up to my characters to show you how they feel by way of dialogue and action, well, that's going to take some faith, on my part.
Faith and practice.
But I'm up for the challenge.
On that note, adios adios adios adios adios adios.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
D: Dedication
Something is happening to me. Something strange.
I woke up yesterday and began my novel, but that isn't the strange part. I kept my Writer's Notebook with me everywhere I went yesterday, even when I had to run my son's homework folder to the elementary school at 11:30am, finding it forgotten amongst the Taco Bell wrappers from the prior night's dinner.
I took my notebook and my Nook outside yesterday afternoon, pulling a chair over to the round table which sits in the shade of the Man-AH-tee-oh, and I wrote. I didn't necessarily write my novel, as in I didn't start with a jaw-dropping opening line and go from there, but I wrote. I wrote about my characters. I wrote about their problems. I wrote the truth of what hides within their hearts.
I watched them move, and I wrote it down.
Instead of writing them into some preconceived action, I simply wrote down what they were doing. They were doing it, not me.
As I was laying in bed in the darkness, I leaned over and placed my hand on my notebook, trying to remember where the blank spots were, and I jotted things down. Three different times. The first time, the pen fell off the nightstand and landed under the bed. Adjusting the dog, I reached over, fingers stretched into the darkness beneath the bed, and I wrote. It was as if I'd opened some tap in my mind.
When I leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp this morning, I grabbed my notebook and held it on my lap. I picked up my pen, held it just above the notebook. I sat in bed for a few minutes and collected my thoughts.
I don't do this. Ever.
Ordinarily, I leave rubber on my way out to the porch to start a cigarette, then motor to the kitchen to reheat some coffee. Then it's back to the porch to finish my cigarette, reminding the dogs to be quiet as the rest of the neighborhood is still asleep before opening the door to let them out. I check and respond to email. I check and respond to Facebook. I scroll through the news feed, checking out what I missed during the night.
I didn't do that this morning.
Instead, I sat at the table and wrote.
This new-found dedication? I don't expect it to last forever. I'm not that naive. The difference between this and Nano, however, is that I don't feel that I'm supposed to be writing. I don't feel the burden of expectation. I don't feel like I have to set the alarm clock to wake up and write. I don't feel like I have to rush to get to know these characters, because in thirty-days' time I need to have their story relatively complete. Sure, the whole "speed dating" thing might work for some, but I didn't get where I am by "speed dating."
I keep my Nook next to me. It's almost as if John Dufresne and I are having a little motivational song and dance.
Dedication. Just keep writing, no matter what.
How do you recover from pitfalls and remain dedicated?
I woke up yesterday and began my novel, but that isn't the strange part. I kept my Writer's Notebook with me everywhere I went yesterday, even when I had to run my son's homework folder to the elementary school at 11:30am, finding it forgotten amongst the Taco Bell wrappers from the prior night's dinner.
I took my notebook and my Nook outside yesterday afternoon, pulling a chair over to the round table which sits in the shade of the Man-AH-tee-oh, and I wrote. I didn't necessarily write my novel, as in I didn't start with a jaw-dropping opening line and go from there, but I wrote. I wrote about my characters. I wrote about their problems. I wrote the truth of what hides within their hearts.
I watched them move, and I wrote it down.
Instead of writing them into some preconceived action, I simply wrote down what they were doing. They were doing it, not me.
As I was laying in bed in the darkness, I leaned over and placed my hand on my notebook, trying to remember where the blank spots were, and I jotted things down. Three different times. The first time, the pen fell off the nightstand and landed under the bed. Adjusting the dog, I reached over, fingers stretched into the darkness beneath the bed, and I wrote. It was as if I'd opened some tap in my mind.
When I leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp this morning, I grabbed my notebook and held it on my lap. I picked up my pen, held it just above the notebook. I sat in bed for a few minutes and collected my thoughts.
I don't do this. Ever.
Ordinarily, I leave rubber on my way out to the porch to start a cigarette, then motor to the kitchen to reheat some coffee. Then it's back to the porch to finish my cigarette, reminding the dogs to be quiet as the rest of the neighborhood is still asleep before opening the door to let them out. I check and respond to email. I check and respond to Facebook. I scroll through the news feed, checking out what I missed during the night.
I didn't do that this morning.
Instead, I sat at the table and wrote.
This new-found dedication? I don't expect it to last forever. I'm not that naive. The difference between this and Nano, however, is that I don't feel that I'm supposed to be writing. I don't feel the burden of expectation. I don't feel like I have to set the alarm clock to wake up and write. I don't feel like I have to rush to get to know these characters, because in thirty-days' time I need to have their story relatively complete. Sure, the whole "speed dating" thing might work for some, but I didn't get where I am by "speed dating."
I keep my Nook next to me. It's almost as if John Dufresne and I are having a little motivational song and dance.
Dedication. Just keep writing, no matter what.
How do you recover from pitfalls and remain dedicated?
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
C: Get your Character on.
A little-known secret, even to my closest friends:
This morning, at precisely 5:45am, I began writing my novel.
I'll admit, I'm a three-time-Nano-dropout. Chris Baty and the gang could probably write a book based off the excuses I've come up with each year in order not to finish. Things like, "November sucks. The pacing of my novel sucks. My idea sucks. This bagel sucks."
Or, the ever-important "bathroom break," where I hide for three hours so as not have to face the disgusting jumble of mishmash I just spent the last two hours trying to get down on my computer, standing in the corner near the towels playing Angry Birds on my phone.
I can't Nano. It's just not my style. I've tried it--three times I've tried it--but the intensity and the pressure of the whole thing just doesn't work for me. The problem, My Problem, isn't that Nano doesn't work for me. My Problem lies in the fact that I have let the idea of National Novel Writing Month turn me into an "all or nothing" writer and that, my true writing friends, is where the failure comes in.
Mid-November, when I shut the lid on my laptop for the final time and walk away, I begin strategizing for next year's Nano. "Next year, I'll make an outline. Next year, I'll slow things down a bit. Next year, I'll wake up even earlier. Next year, I pinky-swear I will not get on Facebook."
So there becomes a void, the chasm I've created, in which I promise that I'll simply fix everything next year. In the meantime, I spend the next roughly 365 non-leap-year days in suspended procrastination. I call it "planning." I call it "revising my strategy."
It boils down to "I'm not doing shit along the lines of a novel, thanks for asking."
All that has changed.
Rather than reliving the frenzy associated with November, I spoke yesterday with a friend regarding pacing. Pacing seems to be the subset of writing that gives me the greatest concern. I still haven't reread the hodgepodge I so-delicately sloughed from grey matter to keystroke during last year's regal attempt, but I do remember having some concerned moments where I would be thinking, "Goodness gracious," except that's not really the term I conjured at the time, "I'm 27,000 words in and nothing has happened yet! They aren't doing anything!" This can be a rather frightful realization. Talking about needing to get to the point: I was sitting at my workstation while The Point was off on some Pacific Island getaway. The Point was more elusive than the Jersey Devil.
I was searching for The Point, or even its second cousin, The Action, but they were no where to be found.
I stood yesterday under a covered awning, discussing writing with my all-time mentor and amicus in scripto as a new name was brought to light: John Dufrense. Not a new name for my former Creative Writing professor, but a new name to me.
As I rushed home to my Nook Color, my handy credit card billing information stored safely within the confines of its little Nook walls, I began the planning stages of My New Novel. Oh yes, I imagined myself sitting at my workstation (this is the glamorous interpretation: in real life, I slouch over my laptop a la Quasimodo), steam rising from the coffee cup within reach of my left hand (another interpretation, as my coffee does not "steam" considering I get by on reheating yesterday's leftovers), cigarette dangling from my lip (this is true), pounding away at the ol' non-ivories. I imagine my characters suddenly coming to life, revealing previously unknown tidbits about their lives, all while I'm following along from the plush confines of my "I-bought-it-at-Target" grey fluffy bathrobe. Oh, in my mind's eye I'm gloriously laboring over the "tick tick tick" of the keyboard...
And then I read ol' John Dufrense's advice.
I'm not sure where John Dufrense lives in relation to my house, but it feels like he just kicked me in the head and took off running faster than I can catch him.
But he's right. From my Nook to your ears, John Dufrense wants me to start slow. He wants me to write my novel, oh yes indeed he does, but he wants me to write my novel in six months.
"Six months?" I holler to no one in particular. "Six months? Well shit, Mister Dufrense," (and I say it all snobby like that), "why don't I just go ahead and plan a vacation or something? If you give me six months to write my novel, I guarantee I'm going to use the first month finishing my hardwood floors and baseboards. The second month you can look for me outside the perimeter of the fence line, rehammering those pesky boards that have started to come loose. Around month three, Mr. Fancypants, I'll be caulking the panels in Aidan's room, getting ready to paint. Grab a brush, John. You can help me out. You do know how to cut in, don't you?"
Mr. Dufrense just stood there all akimbo, his French eyes waiting for me to shut up.
It was a Mexican stand-off right there in my bedroom. For every excuse I shot at John Dufrense, he just stood there, taking it. It felt like me against Sparta: I could sense John Dufrense and his band of writers increasing the tension of their bowstrings, on the cusp of releasing those arrows that would eventually block out the sun.
Or, in last night's case, the lamp on the nightstand.
So I stood there, John Dufrense and I, and finally I ran out of things to say. I picked the Nook up again and I started doing everything that John Dufrense told me to do. I sulked about it for a while, mumbling about how I just wanted to write, I didn't want to do any of this stupid planning, but ol' Dufrense just gave me that shifty Dufrense smile, put his hand on my head, tousling my hair, and walked away.
This morning, I woke to the sound of the alarm after giving myself two extra "snoozes." I picked up my notebook, came out to the porch, and began getting to know my characters.
I'm finding them pretty interesting. :-)
Much love,
Cherstin
This morning, at precisely 5:45am, I began writing my novel.
I'll admit, I'm a three-time-Nano-dropout. Chris Baty and the gang could probably write a book based off the excuses I've come up with each year in order not to finish. Things like, "November sucks. The pacing of my novel sucks. My idea sucks. This bagel sucks."
Or, the ever-important "bathroom break," where I hide for three hours so as not have to face the disgusting jumble of mishmash I just spent the last two hours trying to get down on my computer, standing in the corner near the towels playing Angry Birds on my phone.
I can't Nano. It's just not my style. I've tried it--three times I've tried it--but the intensity and the pressure of the whole thing just doesn't work for me. The problem, My Problem, isn't that Nano doesn't work for me. My Problem lies in the fact that I have let the idea of National Novel Writing Month turn me into an "all or nothing" writer and that, my true writing friends, is where the failure comes in.
Mid-November, when I shut the lid on my laptop for the final time and walk away, I begin strategizing for next year's Nano. "Next year, I'll make an outline. Next year, I'll slow things down a bit. Next year, I'll wake up even earlier. Next year, I pinky-swear I will not get on Facebook."
So there becomes a void, the chasm I've created, in which I promise that I'll simply fix everything next year. In the meantime, I spend the next roughly 365 non-leap-year days in suspended procrastination. I call it "planning." I call it "revising my strategy."
It boils down to "I'm not doing shit along the lines of a novel, thanks for asking."
All that has changed.
Rather than reliving the frenzy associated with November, I spoke yesterday with a friend regarding pacing. Pacing seems to be the subset of writing that gives me the greatest concern. I still haven't reread the hodgepodge I so-delicately sloughed from grey matter to keystroke during last year's regal attempt, but I do remember having some concerned moments where I would be thinking, "Goodness gracious," except that's not really the term I conjured at the time, "I'm 27,000 words in and nothing has happened yet! They aren't doing anything!" This can be a rather frightful realization. Talking about needing to get to the point: I was sitting at my workstation while The Point was off on some Pacific Island getaway. The Point was more elusive than the Jersey Devil.
I was searching for The Point, or even its second cousin, The Action, but they were no where to be found.
I stood yesterday under a covered awning, discussing writing with my all-time mentor and amicus in scripto as a new name was brought to light: John Dufrense. Not a new name for my former Creative Writing professor, but a new name to me.
As I rushed home to my Nook Color, my handy credit card billing information stored safely within the confines of its little Nook walls, I began the planning stages of My New Novel. Oh yes, I imagined myself sitting at my workstation (this is the glamorous interpretation: in real life, I slouch over my laptop a la Quasimodo), steam rising from the coffee cup within reach of my left hand (another interpretation, as my coffee does not "steam" considering I get by on reheating yesterday's leftovers), cigarette dangling from my lip (this is true), pounding away at the ol' non-ivories. I imagine my characters suddenly coming to life, revealing previously unknown tidbits about their lives, all while I'm following along from the plush confines of my "I-bought-it-at-Target" grey fluffy bathrobe. Oh, in my mind's eye I'm gloriously laboring over the "tick tick tick" of the keyboard...
And then I read ol' John Dufrense's advice.
I'm not sure where John Dufrense lives in relation to my house, but it feels like he just kicked me in the head and took off running faster than I can catch him.
But he's right. From my Nook to your ears, John Dufrense wants me to start slow. He wants me to write my novel, oh yes indeed he does, but he wants me to write my novel in six months.
"Six months?" I holler to no one in particular. "Six months? Well shit, Mister Dufrense," (and I say it all snobby like that), "why don't I just go ahead and plan a vacation or something? If you give me six months to write my novel, I guarantee I'm going to use the first month finishing my hardwood floors and baseboards. The second month you can look for me outside the perimeter of the fence line, rehammering those pesky boards that have started to come loose. Around month three, Mr. Fancypants, I'll be caulking the panels in Aidan's room, getting ready to paint. Grab a brush, John. You can help me out. You do know how to cut in, don't you?"
Mr. Dufrense just stood there all akimbo, his French eyes waiting for me to shut up.
It was a Mexican stand-off right there in my bedroom. For every excuse I shot at John Dufrense, he just stood there, taking it. It felt like me against Sparta: I could sense John Dufrense and his band of writers increasing the tension of their bowstrings, on the cusp of releasing those arrows that would eventually block out the sun.
Or, in last night's case, the lamp on the nightstand.
So I stood there, John Dufrense and I, and finally I ran out of things to say. I picked the Nook up again and I started doing everything that John Dufrense told me to do. I sulked about it for a while, mumbling about how I just wanted to write, I didn't want to do any of this stupid planning, but ol' Dufrense just gave me that shifty Dufrense smile, put his hand on my head, tousling my hair, and walked away.
This morning, I woke to the sound of the alarm after giving myself two extra "snoozes." I picked up my notebook, came out to the porch, and began getting to know my characters.
I'm finding them pretty interesting. :-)
Much love,
Cherstin
Monday, April 2, 2012
Day Two: B is for The Behbeh.
There was a commercial a few years back--a set of commercials, really. Tear jerkers, brought to you by Johnson & Johnson. The catch-phrase was something like, "Having a baby changes everything." Most of the commercials were filmed in a black and white filtered lens, so full of estrogen you'd almost feel like you needed a cold shower and a drink before whatever prime-time crap you'd been watching came back on.
I shuddered at the thought of ever having another baby.
Aidan was "a good baby."
The first few times people asked me that while I was plowing my buggy through the grocery store, I really didn't know what they meant. "Of course, he's a good baby," I'd think. "He's two months old, for Frith's sake. He doesn't even do anything yet. How could he be anything but good?"
As I became more a part of the Secret Underground Motherhood Club, I began to understand the meaning behind the question. Asking if a baby is "good" is some sort of code for the following:
It's like a goddamn job interview.
"Yes," I'd reply, finally a part of the club, "he is a good baby." And he was.
But that didn't mean I'd ever want to have another one.
Fast-forward to another sunshiney day, six years later. The garage has been cleaned out, every single baby-related item sent to the local Goodwill. I'm back in school, thinking about my career. My Future, a proper noun, is simply waiting for me at the end of my own personal Yellow Brick Road. All I need to do is follow the path and whatever I wish for will be waiting for me at the end. I know this. I am that certain.
No one told me about the tricky little fork at the end of the Yellow Brick Road.
No one told me to zag left.
No one told me to watch out for "the road less-traveled."
Oh, there was something waiting for me at the end, alright, but it sure as hell didn't look like Kansas. It looked like, well, like this.
Babies. They aren't for everyone. They shouldn't be. But if you should happen to find yourself carrying one--one you never knew you wanted--be happy you chose the path you never meant to choose.
The ruby slippers? Oh, they still fit. They're somewhere in the back of the closet. Sometimes I pull them out, dust them off, and try them on, but I realize they aren't for me anymore. Not right now. I haven't given up, per se. I'm still in school, still chasing the dream of getting paid to write terrific novels until my fingers bleed, but I'm not quite there yet.
And we're all okay with that.
Much love,
Cherstin
I shuddered at the thought of ever having another baby.
Aidan was "a good baby."
The first few times people asked me that while I was plowing my buggy through the grocery store, I really didn't know what they meant. "Of course, he's a good baby," I'd think. "He's two months old, for Frith's sake. He doesn't even do anything yet. How could he be anything but good?"
As I became more a part of the Secret Underground Motherhood Club, I began to understand the meaning behind the question. Asking if a baby is "good" is some sort of code for the following:
- Is he/she colicky?
- Does he/she sleep through the night?
- Is he/she on a schedule?
- Is he/she cutting teeth?
- Is he/she doing all the things the doctors tell you that he/she should be doing at this age?
- Does he/she give you hell if you put him/her down and walk away?
It's like a goddamn job interview.
"Yes," I'd reply, finally a part of the club, "he is a good baby." And he was.
But that didn't mean I'd ever want to have another one.
Fast-forward to another sunshiney day, six years later. The garage has been cleaned out, every single baby-related item sent to the local Goodwill. I'm back in school, thinking about my career. My Future, a proper noun, is simply waiting for me at the end of my own personal Yellow Brick Road. All I need to do is follow the path and whatever I wish for will be waiting for me at the end. I know this. I am that certain.
No one told me about the tricky little fork at the end of the Yellow Brick Road.
No one told me to zag left.
No one told me to watch out for "the road less-traveled."
Oh, there was something waiting for me at the end, alright, but it sure as hell didn't look like Kansas. It looked like, well, like this.
Sorry to bother you, but can you tell me if I'm still wearing ruby slippers?
And so it was.
But the thing is, the whole "baby" thing, the whole purpose of today's B word, is that my life is a zillion times better than I ever thought it would be. I thought I'd met the perfect guy for me in Richard, because I'd been told he'd had a vasectomy. And as crazy as it is when I look back on it now, I believed it like it was just a part of him. It would be like me questioning the fact that he worked in air conditioning, or that he was from Alabama. It had been an off-handed remark he made to one of the ladies he worked with and it just sort of snowballed from there, landing in my ear for the final resting place. I thought he was, well, "fixed."
And when I see my life now, with two boys and a husband, I guess he was.
Babies. They aren't for everyone. They shouldn't be. But if you should happen to find yourself carrying one--one you never knew you wanted--be happy you chose the path you never meant to choose.
The ruby slippers? Oh, they still fit. They're somewhere in the back of the closet. Sometimes I pull them out, dust them off, and try them on, but I realize they aren't for me anymore. Not right now. I haven't given up, per se. I'm still in school, still chasing the dream of getting paid to write terrific novels until my fingers bleed, but I'm not quite there yet.
And we're all okay with that.
Much love,
Cherstin
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Day One: Alarm Clocks, Accountability, and April Fools
It happened again, as it happened last year and quite possibly the year before that.
My automatic alarm clock reset itself for some time change that no longer exists.
I'm laying in bed this morning in suspended animation, wrapped in my some-Kelvin-degree blanket, when I decide to peek one eye at the clock. Of the three numbers from which to choose, I'm really only concerned with the first: a 7.
"Bullshit," I mutter. There is no way it is in the sevens. I'm an idiot before my coffee, but even I can figure that out. While one eye is on the clock, the other is now glancing toward the curtained windows. (I can do this because I'm a mom. We all know how to do this. Something loosens up during delivery, affording us the ability to look in all directions at once.)
Consider this: A scene from Friday night's dinner.
4 children and 2 adults sit on various chairs throughout the house, eating pizza off of paper plates left over from Caleb's baby shower ("It's a Boy!"). I'm in the house, knocking heads and taking names, when my best pal hollers out from the back porch something to the effect of, "How come you kids are so good for everyone else, but you don't ever listen to me?"
(My best pal, Becky, is the owner of two of the pizza-eating children.)
I decide to get to the bottom of this. She is absolutely correct. Why don't they listen?
I start with the 5-year-old girl. Being the only girl-child in residence, I figure she is going to be the easiest to break. Like dominoes, I imagine that once she crumbles, everyone else will follow suit.
From my invisible pocket I slip my invisible Drill Sergeant Mask.
(In addition to the wandering eye, this is another component to parenting that one absolutely must pick up. They are hard to come by new, but you can usually find them at garage sales, dusty and forgotten. You'll notice at these garage sales that the children of the house are usually around 8 or 9 years old and are running around spitting on the shoppers, trying to steal the change from their pockets. Their parents obviously still need these masks, but have given up wearing them, so you can get them at a pretty good price.)
I look her right in the eye. "Why don't you listen your mother?" I ask her in my most threatening tone.
She thinks about it for a second, pizza frozen halfway to her mouth. "Uhmm, I don't know?" She says it in the form of a question, like a Jeopardy! contestant.
Okay, okay. I messed up my strategy. Let me begin with my own oldest child, age 7. Once he breaks, surely the others are going to be easy.
"Aidan," I say, pulling his attention away from his feet, on which he's been focused since this conversation began. "Why don't you listen to Aunt Becky?"
He hems and haws, adjusting the pizza from his left hand to his right hand, then back to his left hand again.
"Well," he says, thoughtfully. "I guess it's because...," he adds. I'm thinking this is really going to go somewhere.
"Well, uh, can you just pass me? I'm going to pass. I pass. Just come back to me." Hmph. Like he's the host or something and can just call the shots. Whatever.
I try the third child. In response to my question, I get another "I don't know" answer. I point to Caleb, 14-months-old, sitting in his high chair. Oblivious.
"Listen, you guys. 'I don't know' is not an answer. If I were to ask Caleb that question, he'd just sit and smile at me like a doofus. He wouldn't answer me, either. If I ask you guys a question and you tell me 'I don't know,' it amounts to the same thing. 'I don't know' is not an answer! You haven't told me anything."
The only sound in the room is the chewing of their pizza.
Where is the accountability? Children don't have it. Alarm clocks don't have it. Ebay doesn't have it. Does anyone have it anymore?
I have it. I do. I get a rush out of telling the truth. Especially when it's difficult. Saying to someone, "Listen. I'm sorry I broke your face. I was upset with you, I just reached out, and bam! It wasn't the best decision and I realize that now. I, errr, oh boy. I hope you can get that straightened out, especially that crazy eye you have. What's that? Oh, you're a mom? Oh, then I didn't do that crazy thing to your eye? Oh, okay. Whew!" I throw in a chuckle for good measure. "So, can I ask you a question? What time did you get up this morning?"
My automatic alarm clock reset itself for some time change that no longer exists.
I'm laying in bed this morning in suspended animation, wrapped in my some-Kelvin-degree blanket, when I decide to peek one eye at the clock. Of the three numbers from which to choose, I'm really only concerned with the first: a 7.
"Bullshit," I mutter. There is no way it is in the sevens. I'm an idiot before my coffee, but even I can figure that out. While one eye is on the clock, the other is now glancing toward the curtained windows. (I can do this because I'm a mom. We all know how to do this. Something loosens up during delivery, affording us the ability to look in all directions at once.)
That wandering eye is going to make her a terrific mother someday.
Behind the curtains, the sun tells a different story: something along the lines of, "Kiss my ass, even I'm not awake yet."
The eye on the clock is certain that the first number is indeed a seven.
Eventually, I get out of bed, throw on my robe, and mosey to the kitchen. As if to quell my fears, the kitchen clock decides to tell me the truth. "Lady," I hear it whisper, "your alarm clock has lied to you."
I answer something unintelligible back to the stove, taking a cup of yesterday's reheated coffee out to the porch. Why? Why? Why do people lie?
4 children and 2 adults sit on various chairs throughout the house, eating pizza off of paper plates left over from Caleb's baby shower ("It's a Boy!"). I'm in the house, knocking heads and taking names, when my best pal hollers out from the back porch something to the effect of, "How come you kids are so good for everyone else, but you don't ever listen to me?"
(My best pal, Becky, is the owner of two of the pizza-eating children.)
I decide to get to the bottom of this. She is absolutely correct. Why don't they listen?
I start with the 5-year-old girl. Being the only girl-child in residence, I figure she is going to be the easiest to break. Like dominoes, I imagine that once she crumbles, everyone else will follow suit.
From my invisible pocket I slip my invisible Drill Sergeant Mask.
(In addition to the wandering eye, this is another component to parenting that one absolutely must pick up. They are hard to come by new, but you can usually find them at garage sales, dusty and forgotten. You'll notice at these garage sales that the children of the house are usually around 8 or 9 years old and are running around spitting on the shoppers, trying to steal the change from their pockets. Their parents obviously still need these masks, but have given up wearing them, so you can get them at a pretty good price.)
I look her right in the eye. "Why don't you listen your mother?" I ask her in my most threatening tone.
She thinks about it for a second, pizza frozen halfway to her mouth. "Uhmm, I don't know?" She says it in the form of a question, like a Jeopardy! contestant.
Okay, okay. I messed up my strategy. Let me begin with my own oldest child, age 7. Once he breaks, surely the others are going to be easy.
"Aidan," I say, pulling his attention away from his feet, on which he's been focused since this conversation began. "Why don't you listen to Aunt Becky?"
He hems and haws, adjusting the pizza from his left hand to his right hand, then back to his left hand again.
"Well," he says, thoughtfully. "I guess it's because...," he adds. I'm thinking this is really going to go somewhere.
"Well, uh, can you just pass me? I'm going to pass. I pass. Just come back to me." Hmph. Like he's the host or something and can just call the shots. Whatever.
I try the third child. In response to my question, I get another "I don't know" answer. I point to Caleb, 14-months-old, sitting in his high chair. Oblivious.
"Listen, you guys. 'I don't know' is not an answer. If I were to ask Caleb that question, he'd just sit and smile at me like a doofus. He wouldn't answer me, either. If I ask you guys a question and you tell me 'I don't know,' it amounts to the same thing. 'I don't know' is not an answer! You haven't told me anything."
The only sound in the room is the chewing of their pizza.
Where is the accountability? Children don't have it. Alarm clocks don't have it. Ebay doesn't have it. Does anyone have it anymore?
I have it. I do. I get a rush out of telling the truth. Especially when it's difficult. Saying to someone, "Listen. I'm sorry I broke your face. I was upset with you, I just reached out, and bam! It wasn't the best decision and I realize that now. I, errr, oh boy. I hope you can get that straightened out, especially that crazy eye you have. What's that? Oh, you're a mom? Oh, then I didn't do that crazy thing to your eye? Oh, okay. Whew!" I throw in a chuckle for good measure. "So, can I ask you a question? What time did you get up this morning?"
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