When Stars and/or Trains Align . . . or not
My baby takes the morning train. Don't know about yours, but this baby just missed her train--by 7 minutes.
So I'm sitting in the railway station, sipping a latte, waiting for the next train--which will depart in 145 minutes. I reached the station at 5:45, the train departed at 5:33. 12 measly minutes.
Google "Rail-Car" this pops up
I'm formulating the story problems in my head:
Or Color Your Own Train...
If my flight landed at 4:30, and it took me forever to get through the viper of an immigration line, and even longer in the customs line only to arrive at the Airtrain Station just as one was pulling out, what should I have done in order to shave 12 or 15 minutes off my time?
- Jumped the queue?
- Sprinted up the escalator?
- Not used the washroom?
- None of the Above
- All of the Above
There's a food court of sorts at Jamaica Station. It consists of 3 shops--one being the "Air Bar" (Opens at 11)--and a section with tables and chairs. I have jingle in my pockets, my IPad in my bag and the timer set on my phone. I'm one of the lucky ones. All around me, people surrounded by bags sleep with their heads on the "Customer Only" tables. Judging by the look of them--mouths open, slumped, if they were customers, it was hours ago. I wonder which train they're waiting for...or if they know? Or care? Or are?
While I sip my latte, I'm thinking of the hours this delay is costing me. If only I'd checked the train times sooner—last night in the departure lounge. If only I'd know the train left at 5:33...
Would knowing have made a difference?
Most definitely!
Would I have been able to catch that earlier train? Who knows . . .
I do know is what I would have been doing if I had known the train’s departure time:
Instead of stretching my legs, clicking through messages, and wondering about all the other people waiting with me in those lines, my insides would have been buzzing like a hot switchboard, I would have been feeling like the lady a few bends of the queue back who bellowed out, "Hey Number 15! 17! 22! Get to Work! You are on the clock! Stopping chatting and take care of business!”
In my case, ignorance was bliss and no busted brain vessels.
Noooo this is not my latte. Mine was in a paper cup. Good news, click the pic and it will take you to a site with more cool latte art and a How-To U-Tube.
In the meantime I'll sip my latte, and be grateful the NY Deli only had everything bagels--with rye seeds--so I am not tempted to order one (with extra cream cheese) and do another story question:
If I were two people and one of me had managed to leap immigration & customs lines, my suitcase had rolled down the baggage carousel sooner than later, I hadn’t stopped to use the washroom, I had caught that earlier Airtrain in time to make the 5:33 train, that one would be seated at my computer sipping coffee and clicking on my computer, what would the other of me be doing?
The other of me that didn’t catch the 5:33 morning is sitting in the station, sipping a latte and clicking on my IPAD while waiting for the 8:03 train to Ronkonkoma. Coffee vs. Latte, Computer vs. IPAD, Coffee-Latte, Computer-IPAD...
When Stars and/or Trains Align Playlist:
- My Baby Takes the Morning Train by Sheena Easton
- Homeward Bound by Simon & Garfunkle
- Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? by Chicago
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That Three Letter Loophole
“I try to…really I do… But…It’s just that…”
Almost every time I hear that word “try” (except when I use it, of course), the same memory springs to mind. I can’t recall where I was or when it happened:
"Try to lift it."
A man, perhaps a teacher or dinner companion, placed his hand on top if mine and said, “Try to lift your hand.”
I lifted my hand.
Shaking his head, disapprovingly, the man pressed my hand back down onto the table. “I said, ‘try to lift it.’”
Puzzled, I lifted my hand again.
He pushed it down again. “I didn’t say ‘lift your hand,’” he said. “I said ‘try to lift it.’”
Try. The three letter loophole.
Yes, this includes Mount Everest.
I tried to climb Mount Everest once—well, up to the Base Camp anyway. The plans were set. We had our gear. We had been training. But, at the last minute, our VISA requests were denied. It was a good try, and at least I tried. Spit in one hand, try with another, what do you get? One either climbs the highest peak in the world, or one doesn’t. One might start climbing and not reach the top. But that is not trying, that is climbing—doing. And yes, it is semantics. Some might say I’m “splitting hairs” even. That three letter loophole.
I do things. Lots of things. Most importantly, for purposes of this essay, when I say I’ll do a thing, I do it. For example, I said I would brush my teeth twice daily; floss; pay bills; babysit my grandson; eat leafy greens, and I do (except on rare occasion).
I try to do things, too: Return extra pounds to whomever owns them; exercise daily; stop using the word “cute”; call my mother . . . Try-schmy. Nobody ever does anything they “try” to do.
We do what we do. (Sally Bowles singing Mein Herr popped into my head as I typed that. I tried to resist, but…)
Where is this leading? To a confession: Since the beginning of the year I have been trying to finish several manuscripts. I’ve tried, really I have. And although I do spend several hours per day writing and/or on writing-related activities, despite all my trying, I have yet to succeed. After 10 frustrating months I have finally come to a decision: I am going to stop trying!
As of today, I am doing. One hour each day I am going to write. No excuses. No hall passes.
Mom’s Three Day Rule:
“If Mom’s three day rule worked to help her quit smoking, surely it will work to help me get back to creative writing.”
My mother always says it takes three days to make or break a habit. “Three days to make & three days to do & three days to set” she says (which is actually nine days, but somehow breaking it into 3 parts makes it easier.) If Mom’s three day rule worked to help her quit smoking, surely it will work to help me get back to creative writing.
And if, like me, there’s something you’re ready to stop trying, and start doing--and yes, I am talking to YOU! Writers who might be gearing up for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). And YOU, too! Everyone else who wants to stop trying. Why not join me? Let’s do it!
To Do List:
First Gather Tools. We’re on a Hero’s Journey and heroes needs tools!
- Calendar: Hang it in a prominent place.
- Happy Jar: Choose a happy jar/vase/pail to serve as your “Reward Jar.” Keep it on the smallish side so the vast emptiness of the vessel won’t be discouraging. (You can always upsize.)Decorate it, if desired.
- Reward Token: Decide on a reward token of choice. It might be money, chocolate, toffee, jewels, lotto tickets, marbles, shells (or a combo of several).
See my Happy Jar? It's smallish, the 30 days of Doing size. I can upsize!
The Plan:
- Set: “To Do” Goal.
- Commit: I will Do It each day. (Fill in the Do IT with your Do)
- Track Progress: None of this X stuff; mark progress with a smiley face (mine’s red) on the calendar each day you DO IT!
- Reward! (No hard work should go unrewarded): Each day of Doing It earns one token
- Accountability counts! Miss a day/Lose a token. Take one out of your Happy Jar (No, you may not eat it!) Most importantly, tell yourself: Tomorrow, I’m back! I will Do It!
Do It for 3 days, then 3 days more, and three days after that, just think what we will have accomplished!
Three Letter Loophole Playlist:
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Seeking Perfection
Healthy or not, I am a perfectionist. It is not a trait of which I am particularly proud. Yes, perfectionism has its place. In the operating room, in space, in manufacturing plants, and the like, we hope and pray whomever is doing the work pays strict attention to details. However in this imperfect world, living as or with a perfectionist is far from easy. For all of my adult life I have been battling against the need to be perfect. “Easy does it,” “lighten up,” “does it really matter?” I am constantly reminding myself—some times it works.
Sometime back, I was at the Ubud Writer’s Festival with my friend Laura. We had an hour between sessions and as girls do, went shopping. Laura was tired of her clothes and hoping to find a couple new items to perk up her closet. I was along for the ride. And, as sometimes happens when one isn’t looking, I found a delightful new dress. It was fun, unusual, and felt like a dream. The armholes were a little too large—aside from that it was perfect. “Wrap it up and charge it!” I told the sales team, just as Barbara Streisand sang in Funny Lady. “How lucky can you get!”
When I was packing to come on this trip, that dress caught my eye. Until that moment I had absolutely no intention of taking it with me. The dress is sleeveless and linen, definitely not an easy-to-wear item. But there it was swaying, fluttering at me from the closet rod calling “Take me! I’m fun! Think leggings and loafers. Think how trendy and cute you and I could be together!”
“Easy does it,” “lighten up,” “does it really matter?” I am constantly reminding myself—some times it works.””
I really really wanted to appear hot and trendy and cute. There was just one slight problem—those too big armholes. Trendy is not possible in too big armholes.
This is how I usually roll...
One fabulous thing you learn from living long enough is that you can get anything done if you know the right person to ask. A few days before leaving, I speed dialed my seamstress and told her about my fashion emergency. She nodded. “Ah, yes, those armholes are much too big.” Clucking around the pins in her teeth, she pinched the fabric in just so; assuring me she could quickly take in the sleeves and have it ready for me to tuck it into my suitcase.
I’m trying something new for me this trip. Something called “Packing Light.” I was going to be traveling for almost 3 weeks, but only planned to take five—no six—outfits, including what I wore on the plane.
This is my idea of "Packing Light" delightful!
And best, for once the weather was cooperating—everywhere was hot!. I managed to pack everything I needed into one suitcase and one carry on—and stayed within the weight restrictions.
First thing I did after arriving in NYC, was head to Macy’s. I’d been so busy packing light I had forgotten to pack the most important thing—my pillow. I don’t travel any place without my squishy pillow.
Along with a new pillow, and set of pillowcases—watermelon colored since I was buying them I decided to go for the gusto—I bought a pair of gray leggings to wear with my jaunty new dress.
I was so excited to try on my new outfit, I pulled it out that first night, to wear the next day.
My new dress, the one that has fallen so nicely and felt so good in the store . . .
the same dress that, aside from the too big armholes, had been fab when I tried it on for the seamstress . . .
. . . was so TIGHT, I could barely zip it.
My slip wasn't that thick, was it? (I always get puffy when I fly and gain a few pounds when I fly….but this much?) How many calories could 24 hours of airplane food have? I looked hot all right—like a boiled hot dog; grey, puckered and about to burst.
I ripped it right of. But...
Several times during the day--maybe more, my thoughts returned to that dress. (And yes, it stopped me from having gelato.)
It bugged me so much, about 3:00 am, I woke thinking about that dress. How could it have looked so great one day and so bad the next? Can a dress shrink in flight the way bottles expand and contract with the change in cabin pressure? Can people expand from the changes in cabin pressure? Or….Could this somehow connected to those armholes?
Shortly before 6, I finally gave up pretending to sleep. The suspense was killing me. I slipped out of bed, tiptoed to the closet, pulled out my dress and carried it into the bathroom. I turned on the lights and turned the dress inside out.
Yes, my lovely, speedy seamstress had indeed made the armholes smaller. And in the process, had taken in both side seams. Ah hah! So it wasn’t all me! The dress had shrunk! Feeling decidedly less puffy, I removed my handy-dandy sewing kit from my toiletry bag, took out my seam ripper and scissors and set to work. My thought was to simply remove the new stitching and the dress would be fine. So maybe the armholes would be back to the former, too big selves. I could deal with it for this trip.
Having learned another lesson about leaving well enough alone, the perfectionist in my may well have been able to cope with the too big armholes in exchange for hot, trendy dress, or not. We will never know. For, as it turns out, my seamstress is quite the perfectionist herself. Not content to do a quickie job, while making the armholes smaller, she had not simply stitched seams down the side, she had re-sewn the seams from the outside in and from the inside out, so rather than having a raw edge on the inside, the seam, from both sides looked finished—and used about an extra inch of fabric.
After at least an hour seated on the edge of the bathtub, picking out stitches I pulled the last thread, opened the seam and gasped—she had cut the seam allowance. Both side seams of the dress are now completely open, from the hip to the armpit. So much for hot, trendy, and cute… or perfect!
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Preflight: The Impetus for Change
Chances of flight delays must increase exponentially the more one flies. No doubt someone has calculated the statics. Still, I'm always surprised and irritated (to put it mildly) when it happens to me.
“Remember when flying was glamorous and sexy, even fun?”
“Remember when flying was glamorous and sexy, even fun?”
Chances of flight delays must increase exponentially the more one flies. No doubt someone has calculated the statics. Still, I'm always surprised and irritated (to put it mildly) when it happens to me.
We were dutifully lined-up for boarding when the United Airlines Rep casually announced that our non-stop, direct flight would now be making an unscheduled refueling stop that would tack 2+ hours onto our journey, because the fuel pump feeding one of our engines wasn't working, I took it in stride, really. . .
Imagine Matching T-Shirts
As it happened, the flight was packed with pre-teens headed for Summer Camp.
Think Camp Walden “Prank Scene” from Parent Trap (Haley Mills version, of course)
My seat, a dreaded middle seat, was mired in the midst of them.
Watching and listening to young teens bantering and bouncing, I speculated that the decision to schedule a pitstop rather than order a plane change might have been based largely on the thought of having to accommodate a busload of unescorted minors. A Rosalind Russell type exec from another Haley Mills classic, The Trouble With Angels, sprang to mind.
However, when the stop over resulted in an even longer delay because other passengers were not so complacent about flying on a jet with a faulty fuel pump, and the "paperwork which needed signing" took longer to sort out that expected, and something or else other resulted in every slim chance I once had of making my connecting flight being blown, I was done.
Along with food, drinks, showers & restrooms The Club reps can help.)
When we landed, I did what I had to do. After calmly waiting my turn to disembark, I scooted past the crowd waiting to find out what the heck they were supposed to do now? And made for the United Club.
(Now a plug for Club cards: In case you don't know it, what those airline premium credit cards buys you is access to The Club.)
Scared what I might say—scream---had I chanced trying to explain what had happened, I simply handed the United rep my boarding pass. The rep glanced at it and knew exactly what had happened. Then quickly, cheerfully, swiftly she rebooked me on another flight. Happy to have the flight rebooked, I dared the unthinkable. I asked for more: "May I have a window seat?"
“Upon hearing my request, she did the unheard of. She smiled.”
To be fair, United Reps deal with flight changes, seat requests, rebookings all day long. It's their job. And most of them do it pleasantly. But rarely, if ever in my experience, had a Rep rebooked or even completed a flight check-in with such delight. As this Rep clicked and rebooked and changed my seat and reissued my boarding pass manner suggested that there was nothing she would rather be doing that helping me. (It was so surprising, I pulled out my glasses so I could read her name badge: Chris Orr.) I couldn't allow such remarkable behavior go unnoted. As she was finishing the flight changes, I thanked Chris, making a point of saying how much I appreciated her pleasant, cheerful attitude.
Looking a bit surprised, Chris thanked me for the complement, saying it was her job. "Not everyone doing your job, does it so pleasantly," I remarked, adding how I fly often, and have had more experience that I like to recall with flight rebookings. She smiled then explained:
“It comes from being kidnapped. It made me change how I want to live.”
"Kidnapped?!!"
Chris then relayed a harrowing tale of her and a travel companion’s holiday gone bad in a big movie way. Of being abducted, blindfolded, beaten, tortured, driven out into the desert and almost dumped for dead. Of her broken nose and ribs, of being threatened with death and believing it. How, while their attackers were busy beating and torturing her, her companion, sneaked to the front of the car, snatched back his backpack—stuffed full of all their belongings, cameras, passports, wallets, and booty: rings, necklace earrings the kidnappers had pulled from her ears—and hid it in the darkness of the floorboards between his feet. How faced with certain death, her will to live was so strong and rage so intense she kicked open the door of a moving car, kicked so ferociously she busted three bones in her foot in the process, then she and her companion hurled themselves out onto the road, miraculously landing and rolling instead of being run over. How scraped and bloody, dehydrated she ran literally blinded, having lost her contacts, behind her companion, into a night market. How he bound her to him by looping his belt around her wrist. How in the market, with their kidnappers chasing, desperate to recover the backpack in pursuit, they ran. And instead of helping, wallahs hollered "thieves" and tried to stop them. How despite the belt, the two became separated, how she blindly ran on anyway until she ran around a corner, down a street and smashed into someone big, huge…
And it was him. And together again, they hailed a taxi. And even the taxi driver, seeing them hurt, battered, bloody, sensed their distress, their vulnerability, and so tried to gouge them for more rupee and more. How when they began recognizing their surroundings, knowing they were close to their hotel, they finally just tossed coins at the driver, and when he scrambled to collect the money, they jumped out and ran.
Now, years after, that kidnapping is with her. So vivid, she recounts it in detail on request. But rather than weighing heavy, like a cross to bear, Chris treats it like a totem, a gratitude rock, a reminder that life is a choice, a gift.
I boarded the flight Chris had rebooked and slide to the window seat she’d so cheerfully found, wondering: Is that what it takes? Does it take being kidnapped or otherwise beaten down somehow, and so badly, that we are left with one choice: fight with all we've have in us or quit? It that what must happen to make us realize it is our choice?
Photo by John Virgollina from interview with NY State Poet, Marie Howe
Where we walk may not be ours to choose. But how we walk is our choice.
Like Chris, I choose joy.
Preflight Playlist:
- Parent Trap, 1961 version starring Haley Mills
- Come Fly With Me, sung by Frank Sinatra
- Coffee, Tea or Me by Trudy Baker, Rachel Jones & Donald Bain
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Honoring Lucky the Goldfish
Lucky the Goldfish is long gone. If I remember the story correctly, Lucky was a carnival goldfish my editor, Sarah, won at a fair. You know those Toss the Coin in the Fishbowl & Win games? Hence his name.
A Carnival Goldfish’s early life is not an easy one: Moving all the time; Late nights; Loud Music; Constantly dodging flying coins; grubby fingers messing in your water; fingers poking at your bowl . . .
Even those fortunate enough to be WON and taken to good homes, don’t usually live long. Mine didn’t. Lucky was truly one of the “lucky ones.” So was Sarah.
I've been thinking much about luck since I learned Jumpstart had chose my fishy little story to be their Read for the Record® 2015 book. Imagine: from all the noteworthy picture books published in the last 10 years they selected Not Norman, my goldfish story, illustrated by the funny, creative Noah Z. Jones. From conception to now, ours--Lucky's, Norman's & Mine--has been a true luck story!
This is not Lucky. Nor is this Lucky's bowl! Lucky lived in a nice tank with bubbles!
For more than 9 years after Sarah carried her goldfish prize home from the carnival in its plactic bag, Lucky flapped and fluttered around in his bowl, blowing bubbles, gobbling nibbles. He made sure Sarah never came home to an empty house.
And, in his quiet, fishy way, Lucky was responsible for my story, NOT NORMAN, A Goldfish Story being published.
Several years back, say 2002 or earlier, my agent heard Sarah speak at a conference. During the Q&A following Sarah’s presentation some one asked the question everyone always asks editors: Is there any story you are looking for?
Sarah burst into her Lucky the Goldfish story and shared how she would love, love, soooooo love to receive a manuscript about a goldfish. (I’ll have to ask her how many goldfish manuscripts she's received since.)
As it so happened, I had goldfish—a pond full of them—and a Goldfish picture book manuscript: Not Norman. The rest, as they say, is history.
The Jumpstart edition, in English & Spanish support their efforts to help children read & succeed!
People who call themselves “real pet people” i.e. dog, cat, horse, snake, bird, lizard, hamster lovers poke fun at us fishy folks. They think the only good pet is one who crawls, slithers, climbs or claws. They need the tactile connection those types of pets provide.
We fishy folks are beyond all that. We appreciate fish for what they are and do: A lot of what looks like nothing.
Fish swim around in their watery worlds, drifting, floating, bubbling, dreaming fishing dreams while the rest of us are rushing, rushing, doing, wanting, driving and begging for more.
The only begging Lucky ever did was a meal time. And that wasn’t begging, really. That was more like a reminder: Hey! Yoo Hoo! Remember me while you’re stuffing that cracker into your gullet! How’s about tossing me a treat, too, while you’re at it?
Here’s to Lucky the Goldfish!
Join Jumpstart's efforts to combat the word gap! Here's how: Sign up to Read for the Record® on October 22, 2015 at readfortherecord.org. Pre-order your special edition of Not Norman, register to read, and download free activity materials and resources at Jumpstart.*
And, next time you find yourself at a Carnival, try your chances at the Goldfish Game. Who knows, you might get Lucky!
Honoring Lucky Playlist:
- Thank You For Being A Friend by Andrew Gold (Golden Girls Version, of course . . . Gold, Golden, Goldfish…get it?
*BTW: Noah and I do not earn royalties for this; Proceeds fund Jumpstart's efforts.
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I DREAMED IT . . . OR DID I?
Ever think so vividly about doing something that you believe you did it? Or have a dream so real, you wake thinking it really happened? I do. Sometimes, those night/day dreams gets me into trouble.
Just yesterday I was working through my email and came upon a note I was positive I answered. With my mind’s eye, I could picture myself typing it, actually clicking on the keys, watching the letters roll onto the page. When I saw that note still in my inbox I began to doubt. Had I dreamed it?
I keep a very tidy inbox, you see. I sort, respond, file emails daily (Sometimes more…it’s one of my favorite avoidance tactics.) I’ve devised an efficient filing system. Notes that need responses are sent to a file, along with my response, so I can refer back to the chain easily, if needed. That’s why that note in the inbox freaked me.
Stories come via dreams, too. The first time, was one of those the Ecstasy and Agony moments:
I dreamed I was in a glass & chrome, wall-to-wall white house. I was waiting for whomever to come out of a backroom, noticed a picture book on a white marble coffee table, picked it up and began reading. It was an absolutely original, adorable, rhyming story about a longhorn bull who finds a lost Holstein wandering in the desert, rescues her and later she rescues him. The last illustration on the last page pictured the smiling Longhorn and Holstein were standing together, in an expanse of was a wide open prairie, surrounded by fluffy white and black calves with tiny horns: Longsteins!
Imagine this holstein, but ball of wool plump with little horns
I woke myself up laughing at those adorable babies. And with a raging case of BOOK ENVY. I vivid recall turning the pages, thinking how delightful it was and sooooo wishing I had written it.
Then, I realized “I did!” That was my dream. My sub-consious working. Those were my Longsteins!
The opening lines were playing in my head:
“Way out west were the sweet sage grows,
Where tumble weed tumble and the Rio Grande flows
Lived a herd of cattle, big and small.
A rangy Longhorn named Louie was in charge of them all!”
On our walk and talk that morning, I shared the dream with my then writing partner, Ronnie. I told her what I could remember of the story—which wasn’t much—we walk and talked the rest. Over the next weeks and months, we worked on Longhorn Louie. Then sent it out to several publishers. None of them wanted it. They didn’t want rhyme. (Or our rhyme) They didn’t want “Cowboy”, they didn’t want, didn’t want, blah blah blah…
Ever since then, I’ve learned to pay attention to my dreams. Whenever I have one that vivid or interesting, I hold tight to what I recall and write it down. And, when I'm short on ideas, I flip through it. (If nothing else it reminds me I can be creative. subconciously, at least.) I keep a notepad and paper in my nightstand.
Friend and former critique partner, author Kathy Duval, keeps Dream Journals.
"My stack of dream journals comes up to my elbow," Kathy noted on her website info page.
Kathy’s upcoming picture book, A Bear’s Year comes out this October.
Kathy has this quote on her website:
“No one is able to enjoy such a feast than the one who throws a party in his own mind.”
Selma Lagerlöf
Makes me wonder: Do Kathy's picture books comes from dreams, too?
(Her PB Take Me To Your BBQ, about an alien visitation feels like it!)
Dreams
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
What of you?
What becomes of your dreams?
Do you let them slip away?
Oh yes, about that email response: I'll have to check on it...
I DREAMED IT Playlist:
- All I Have To Do Is Dream, The Everly Brothers
- Everything's Coming Up Roses, Ethel Merman, from Gypsy
- I Have a Dream, Abba, From Mamma Mia
- Video: Living the Dream: Edna Northrup. She dreamed of climbing Mount Everest and at 84, she did!
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Some Call it Grouting; Do I Call it Love?
You Busy? Me too. Always, lately. Too busy. Which is why last Monday stands out. (For two maybe related maybe not reasons.)
I woke to a anomaly: a full empty day before me. When I write "full" I mean: The maximum number of non-sleep hours before me; the sun was not even fully up before I was. Wallowing in that rare luxury of nothing-scheduled/nothing-planned, I showered & dressed. . .
Next thing I knew it was after 10:00pm, my it's-a-school-night-get-ready for bedtime.
As I groaned my way into a TV chair to watch a quick wind-down program, it dawned on me that I was literally sitting down for the first time all day.
But here's the weird part:
“ I have absolutely no recollection of how I spent all those hours. . . ”
I sat there trying to recall what I'd done with the day, how I'd spent those long, empty, unscheduled 16 hours I'd begun with, but couldn't. The last clear thought I had was standing before the mirror after showering that morning, overjoyed at the possibility all that unscheduled time presented and pondering what I wanted to do.
Flashes of meals, phone calls, messages, a trip to the post office and drug store, flitted to mind, like flashbacks in an amnesia movie. But none memorable enough, or long enough to consume an hour, let alone 16 of them. Where the heck had the day gone?
A couple of weeks ago, I read a blog post by author Fred Venturini, titled "The Accidental Novelist," in which he discussed how the key to his success could be summed up in one word: Luck. (Which, in Fred Baby's case, is the same as saying Ben Franklin's discovery of energy was a matter of being in the right place at the right time. Yeah right, everyone knows a key & kite are standard issue rain gear.) Blah-blah-blah, luck-schmuck.
Luck? Maybe. Just as Ben was lucky he was prepared when that mega electrical storm hit, Venturini was prepared. As he told the woman who scoffed at his "luck" answer, Fred had been writing, writing, writing and had several manuscripts to show for his efforts that fateful "lucky" day.
I'm not such a fan of "good luck" stories. They leave me hopeless. I don't like the thinking getting what I want, what I work so hard for, may hinge on random chance, whimsy, kismet, simple twist of fate.
I am a total fan of "Persistence Paid" stories. My take away: with all Venturini had going on--mega buzzy bee buzy --he could have written so much and had sooo many stories to show for it when his lucky break came struck me. And it's one reason why my lost Monday is so worrisome. In response to that lady--and my--amazement as his prolificness, Fred said:
“We find time for the things we must/need to do; we MAKE TIME for the things we love/want to do”
About Monday, one thing I know I did: I mopped my bedroom and all the upstairs bathroom floors, then sealed the grout in said bathrooms.
This has me really worried. As I piece together the remains of my yesterday, I have to ask, what the heck is my problem?
Do I really love stain-free grout so much that I'd spend my only in the foreseeable future free day, sealing bathroom grout? Do I love stainfree grout more than I love say, writing? Or sleeping? Or Fill-in-the-Blank ????
Or, am I so programmed to do what I must do that I do not Make Time for what I love/want to do?
What about you?
Some Call it Grouting; Do I Call it "LOVE"? Playlist:
- If You Want It, Here It is by Badfinger
- Wasted Days and Wasted Nights by Freddie Fender
- Where Have All the Flowers Gone by Peter, Paul & Mary
- Luck Be A Lady Tonight from Guys and Dolls
- Simple Twist of Fate, sung by Joan Baez
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Village Life
“It Takes a Village…” Bless Hillary for coming up with that title.
Fish Dance!
Like Harper Lee, I have files... While preparing for Not Norman's birthday celebration (break for Glugs and a happy fish dance!)
I happened upon this unpublished post. Portentous in that I'm making travel arrangements and filling in my 2015 calendar, to DO IT-the whole Why? How? Will I? When? Waaaaaaa!-AGAIN!
July 24, 2014: I’m just back from a month long visit with my village. My children’s book writers & readers village. It’s a mobile village. A global village. Despite that, connecting isn’t always easy. Especially living as I do with my feet and heart in many places: TT, WHB, NYC, TUL, RNO, CA, JKT . . . And while techno innovations have made staying in touch, connecting, even face-to-face almost-like-being-there conversations possible, virtual can’t compete with actual.
Alicia Johnson, a long time friend and champion arranged this visit to Conroe Central Library
First came the Why? Kids!!! 2 days of Library presentations at Conroe Central Library, organized by my friend and children’s librarian Alicia Johnson, let me get up close and personal with a couple of hundred children of all ages—all meaning 3 months to 20 years! Stand outs: 0-6 year olds: After reading NOT NORMAN we sang the “My Pet Says” song, which had us all wagging our tails, barking, clucking and almost left one little guy in tears because he wanted us to sing about his horse that said “neigh, neigh, neigh (no worries, we made him happy by singing one last verse just for him!) 6-9 year olds: Nothing better than that finger shaking No Bite! VAMPIRE BABY Chorus and loads of hugs after; creating a mystery with the teen group—which we got so caught up in that we ran over and they had to practically, physically pull us out the library so they could lock up but not before we managed to convict the chameleon and restore Mouse’s pilfered diary; and last—maybe best—Ideaphoria with 9-12 year olds who don’t let you get away with anything!
Don't be fooled by our demur pose: Wylld imaginings are in progress.
Then came the How? 4 days of intense picture book lock-down in Idywylld with 3 writer buds, Marty Graham, Sarah Tomp and Andrea Zimmerman, aka "The Wylld Bunch," which despite our names only had time to have wild imaginings.
After came the Will I? Back to VCFA for the Alumni Mini-Rez and retreat. As we have ever since they kicked us off campus a few years back (that’s another story) my classmates, The Unreliable Narrators, have rented a house where we all bunk up, plug in and recharge each July.
Summer of 2014 Unreliable Narrator retreaters (The rest of the pack missed out on the lips) L-R: Kerry Castano, me, Katie Mather, Tam Smith, Cynthia Granberg, Cindy Faughnan, Trinity Peacock-Broyles
This year our guest of honor was Katie’s son James. At 17 months, the toughest picture book judge ever…
James lounging with his UN posse
When Jame's mom was napping, I used him a guinea pig (I started to type “lab rat” . . . Katie would have laughed, but I wasn’t sure anyone else would have.)
The bright blue cover caught his eye. Lost it fast when he saw the inside (so that’s why they call them picture books?)
Reading to a 17 month old shows why short is best—I was cutting words willy-nilly, and adding sounds—especially animal-ish noises…no wonder repetition is big.
Last came the When?
When will it end? That was definitely the question my family was asking when after the VCFA retreat, instead of returning home, I rode on to Cindy’s house for more. Talk about a dedicated writer. Cindy makes sure she gets those words down every day—and she made sure I did, too.
Best, each night of every phase: How-Will-When came “PUT UP OR SHIP OUT” Time when we read aloud the work we’d done. No way did I want to be voted out, so I worked.
Now comes the Whaaaaaaaaa. I’m back again, facing the blank page, the revision notes, the What! But I’m not alone. . .
Bob Dole thought he was slapping Hillary in the face with it when, during his Rebublican Nomination Acceptance Speech for the 96 elections, he spouted, “I am here to tell you, it does not take a village to raise a child. It takes a family to raise a child."
What is a village if not an extended family? A community of individuals clustered together for similar if disparate reasons. Village. Family. Village. . . Potato. Pot-A-toe. Mash um up, add butter, salt, and a dash of pepper and it’s all the same—a blend that makes for good eatin’ and comfort which fosters creative living!
Village Life Playlist:
- We Are Family, by Sister Sledge
- Alone Again, Naturally by Gilbert O' Sullivan
- Do It Again, sung by Marilyn Monroe or Steely Dan (Listeners choice)
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