Hello, 4:30 AM: The Wake and Write Challenge

I woke up at 4:30 today.

Ok, I had some help.



This dude was doing weird things in the night, so when the alarm rang I grew concerned by his absence in the bed and sat up to check it out.

And then, when I tried to go back to sleep he kind of got in my face.

At that point I told myself that I had a decision to make. Every single day is just a series of decisions.

I made the decision to wake up and head to the computer. It was a good one.

We often don't give ourselves the props we should for our decisions.
Like, I decide daily not to get outrageously drunk and take my clothes off and dance in the street. I bet a lot of you make that decision daily too. How awesome of us. I am so proud.

I decided to write today, and I feel better for it. I didn't finish the ending because honestly, sometimes my imagination gets out of control and scares the crap out of me. I knew I needed to hit the sidewalk for some exercise, in the dark, around 5:15ish so I didn't write the ending.

I'm ok with that.

Tomorrow 4:30 will come again and I will make the decision to meet it.

Writing Summer

“Instead of saying today is the day I write my novel, I say, “today is the day I work on the Bloomingdales shoplifting scene or the eccentric dietary habits of Mona the mean boss.”

This advice, from a comedienne mother writer hybrid person, hits home.

Today is the day I’ll write more about Nora, because I like her. And maybe as I do I’ll learn more about myself. Or I’ll laugh; she’s hilarious after all.

I have this feeling lately that I am stuck in a rut. I think it might be—and this might be a little left field—because I have been just that; stuck in a rut of coming home to episode after episode of Lost and little else. I have been attempting to hide from my life and I’m over it. I’m ready to get back in the ring.

We sold the Ipod that was handed down to me for some moolah and I am thinking of buying my own MP3 player. I want to stock it with songs and start walking again.
On Saturday, we are refreshed with new, shiny paychecks which means it is time to grocery shop. I plan on finding my way down to second street market to buy some hearty, healthy bread and some fresh veggies.

And today, amongst the chaotic serenade of love, life, interview (Exclamation!) and sunshine, I will put some words to paper.


Word of the day:
Potlatch: A ceremony at which gifts are bestowed on the guests in a show of wealth that the guests later attempt to surpass.

WHY ARE YOU YELLING???

I just returned from the grocery store where a middle aged woman and her look-alike mother were running around the different departments screaming at each other. SCREAMING. And then the children ( I really couldn't determine who produced them, but they were definitely kin) would scream in unison about shredded lettuce and frozen entrees and bananas.
Oh my pelvis it was insane.

It has a been awhile since I checked in to the blog, which can tell you how productive my days writing have been. (sigh).

Last week was consumed with worries of a specific loved one who is being attacked by an illness. I can't really say more and in truth, I don't want to, because I have talked about it incessantly for weeks.I hope he gets better. I have done what I can.

Add to that about eight other things that Hubs and I have been juggling (very well I might add) and it becomes obvious I just haven't had the emotional energy to pursue my novel. I'm back though.

I hope to continue my reading and editing of a popular novel and to put some words down that have been brewing in my head of late. Our friends have been providing me with an endless supply of material and I am reading a somewhat crappy memoir that reminds me how words can be combined in an awesome and breath taking way that I live for.

I'll check back in soon.

Write emotion. The Right emotion.

They say that you need to dare to write raw things and in the spirit of that, I will share what I wrote this morning.

Someday, this story will go in my memoir and it will begin: "The day my father self-medicated by pouring chemicals on his head was the same day a sixty foot statue of Jesus caught on fire and burned to the ground 30 miles from his house."

but for today, all I have is this:
The hardest part might be the fact that my dad poured chemicals on his head in an attempt to get rid of bugs that may or may not be ailing him.
The hardest part might be that no one has or can stop him from such detrimental behavior.
The hardest part could very well be that he has stopped taking his medication—a sort of mental health maintenance drug that keeps his emotions stable—and no one can say anything because he is a mental health professional. He thinks he knows better. He should know better.
The hardest part might be that he is so terribly alone in this. Or it might be that I am allowing him to be alone in this because I can’t possibly think of a way to help.
But the hardest part is probably that I didn’t get the phone call. That my phone had slid between the seat of my car and the console and I didn’t exert the energy to find it before bed so that when the call came at midnight I might have actually answered…
Or
It could very well be—and I think this is it—that while he called me I was dreaming of his house caving in, of all of the dust covered newspapers and coffee stained dishes and hair covered couches just collapsing into the earth.
From what once was a home—ashes and dust. That’s the hardest part.

A picture tells a Thousand Words

I am currently reading Cleaving by Julie Powell. As movies usually do, Julia and Julie ruined me slightly for her writing.
Powell has an amazing voice—it is authentic, enveloping and sincerely funny. I fly through the pages with ease and excitement and am overall very satisfied.
Last night I had some friends over for dinner and we somehow landed on the subject of Powell, so I grabbed her book and happened to land on the back flap where I found her picture.
She stared back at me, her fist under her chin, her glasses out of style and her hair just… there. I felt so betrayed. I was looking at a stranger.
This wasn’t the bouncy red-head from the movie (Amy Adams).
Before you freak out on me I will say that I am not Amy Adams either. None of us are, after all, because we are real. We lead real lives, eat real food and don’t get enough sleep. I couldn’t really hope to open the cover and find a movie star because Powell’s talent comes from some place less material.
But I guess I still really wanted her to be…. Pretty? Appealing? Nice on the eyes?
I am thinking now of Jennifer Weiner. How freaking gorgeous and jubilant is she? She writes too. And she writes well. And she is overweight but she shines.
I just needed Julie Powell to shine a little more.
Now when I read of her sexcapades (yes, there is butchery and sex), I will picture this dopey picture of a dull woman when her writing tells me she is so much more than that.
I wish Julie Powell had a better picture. For her sake and my own.

Wright is so Right

The thing always happens that you really believe in; and the belief in a thing makes it happen.
-Frank Loyd Wright
3,257 words.
Over 15,000 characters.
Can you believe it? I barely can. Over three thousand words strung together to tell the story I have needed to tell.
I came to a realization recently that this novel doesn’t have to be just for sales. It can be hilarious and fun and rich and deep all at the same time.
Tonight I will go to the library and get Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood to look at how she introduces characters in her novel. I am also second guessing my point of view usage. Right now I am using third person omniscient with limited insight to my two main characters. I’ll be interested to see what other novels employ.
I’m not excited to rewrite all 3,000 words in another point of view, but I’ll do what I need to because I believe in this thing hard enough to make it happen.

Waking and Writing

Happiness does not consist in pastimes and amusements but in virtuous activities.—Aristotle
As a graduate student in a comp/rhet program, I have studied Aristotle enough to know that he is thick with theory and thin on application.
Despite his nearsightedness, I am thankful for his words today as it is the first day of the first week of freedom from classes. Do you follow? Dude, I have three months off from schooling.
Which means I get to be a student of the world.
I woke but did not get to my words right away. Instead, I took the dog for a walk and thought about my words.
True to Aristotles chiding, I did find comfort and happiness in these virtuous activities. There is solace in thinking, walking and breathing deeply.

I am still very excited about my memoir project and am still brainstorming ways to get people to tell me their stories.
I am also getting rather excited about an idea for a novel that is coming together slowly in my mind. It is like piecing a quilt—I gather these great little shiny ideas and they start to fold against one another. It’s magic. It’s sublime.

The Grin of a Cheshire Cat

There is no use trying, said Alice: One can't believe impossible things. I dare say you haven't had much practice said the Queen. When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.--Lewis Carroll

I woke this morning at 5:30 after pressing the snooze once. I woke and I knew what I had to do.
The words came easily. And then, as I walked the dog around the block it came to me: the impossible thing.

In fact, it came to me exactly as all impossible things do: as a fairy tale.

In the fairy tale I was a successful, published author of a book which celebrated the life of everyday Americans. I began every piece with the scene in which I asked them to "tell me your story". Most of the people were strangers, but I did a piece on my mother.

The quote inspired me to realize that it isn't an impossible thing. It is my dream-- and I have to pursue it.

I am still contemplating how I will get my "stories"-- an ad on craigslist? Creep around a local bar? I am bound to get some people who need to talk more than I can listen. How will I handle that?

And I am adding this project to my current memoir project of 1k words a day. It will be busy, but it will be fabulous.

It's good to dream impossible things. It's even better when they come true.

Dance! Dance!

"Whether you think you can or whether you think you can't, you're right."
--Henry Ford

On that note, I will announce that I am a writer. I have a job as a secretary that pays the bills.

I woke this morning and wrote and today the spirit moved me as I picked out my clothes.
I am rocking a gypsy look with khakis, a black shirt and great head scarf with dangly gold earrings.
You see,when you decide you are something, and work hard to become it, you suddenly just are.

What do you want to be?
How will you get there?

Henry on a Wednesday

Good Morning, World!
I started my quote project this morning. Last night I took a handful of inspirational quotes that were printed on colorful paper and cut them down into little pieces. I threw them all in this awesome porcelain tin I have that looks like a Chinese takeout box—on the front the word “dreams” is engraved.

Each day I will go to this jar and remove a quote which will guide me through my day as a creative, lively woman.

I planned to wake up this morning at 5:30 am but found the snooze button far too alluring. Despite waking at my normal time, I marched to my jar and got my quote. And guess what? My quote got me thinking, which got me writing and before I knew it I had 500 words!

So the quote did its job well.

I hope to share these quotes here with you, so that they will guide your journey as well. It is also really cool to get a briefing on the men and women behind the quotes.

Here is today’s quote:
“The ability to convert ideas to things is the secret to outward success.”—Henry Ward Beecher

Of all the quotes I found yesterday,this was one of the least tantalizing but closer observation opens my mind:

•Henry Beecher was a preacher. A preacher who was taken to court for sleeping with a married woman (ooooOOOOooo drama :)).
•His sister was Harriet Beecher Stowe, who I swore was African American, but apparently I got my Harriets mixed up?
•He believed Christians could purge the sins of society.
•He carried jewels around in his pockets which he referered to as his “opiates”. (did someone say “sins of society”?)
•He went to Amherst and a seminary school outside of Cincinnati (= dude got around.)
•He believed in Darwin’s theory of evolution (=dude was revolutionary)
•Mark Twain, Lincoln and Walt Whitman were just some of the greats who paid his congregation a visit.
•He held mock auctions where the congregation purchased the freedom of slaves
•And finally and perhaps most fascinating….. his last words were: “here comes the mystery”.

If you apply this quote to slavery, it is easy to see how Beecher attempted to convert the idea of freedom into a tangible thing.

This quote has value for my life. I have an idea of health and weight loss, and I am working to put it in to motion, so that it becomes a “thing”.

The same for my idea of myself as a writer.

What are some ideas you have that you want to come to fruition? Do you want to be a rock super star? A mother? An astronaut?

Wild, Weird, Wacky: Do the Tolstoy

Leo Tolstoy, author of Pride and Prejudice and Anna Karenina, believed removing meat from his diet was the key to becoming truly great.

So he ate this:



and this:



He stated: "The confusion and above all the imbecility of our lives, arise from the constant state of intoxication in which most people live."
Opting for a life of purity and chaste,one could reason he would not approve of this:



Have a happy and safe St.Patricks day!

Wild, Weird and Wacky Wednesday: Poor, Poor Charlie

Q:Why did this man write so many stories featuring neglected, deprived and over-worked children?

A:Because as a youngster, he was just that.

His Father, John Dickens, was thrown in to debtor’s prison when the boy was young—leaving him to slave away at a factory which put the black hue on boots. His main responsibility was to glue labels on to shoe shine bottles.
Sounds horrible, right?
This is probably what gave him all his fuel to write.

According to Wikipedia (a most trusted source of superior authority), the debtor's prison John Dickens was sent to looked like this:




It housed not only those that owed debt, but people who partook in behavior that was deemed socially inappropriate. We no longer throw people in jail for debt, unless they owe child's support, like this guy:





Desmond Hatchett, of Dayton Ohio, who has 21 children and is 29 years old. But that is a different story....

Memoir Monday: How to Walk in Heels

I should mention first, that I am an overachiever. In case you missed that memo somewhere in this blog.
I was not your typical undergraduate student. I was married, first of all, and I was older than my fellow classmates by one to two years.
I decided to apply for a part time job teaching a college success course for incoming freshmen. This is the same course that I still teach today, as a staff member of the Alma mater.
I donned a pair of heels, a skirt, and a new sweater and made my way to the interview.
I should mention that I was also a little misplaced, as my husband worked for the university I attended. So I had the experience of being a student and a spouse of an employee—which pretty much meant I had the dirt on almost everyone in the university—staff, student, faculty, and janitor alike.
So when I stumbled past the token transgender student of the university as I walked to my interview, I had the advantage of not being surprised by the way the light shone simultaneously off his beard and glinted off his patent leather heels. I simply smiled and nodded in his direction as if to say, “I accept you, friend” and “are you as uncomfortable in your elastic band skirt as I am?”
I should now give you some background on this (wo)man. He moved to Ohio from Alaska with his wife after they sold their trucking company. At some point during this transition, he decided that his true identity was actually female and changed his name to Gail. His wife was supportive, and this arrangement seemed to work well for them.
The odd thing about Gail was that some days he was female and some days he was male, keeping his beard no matter the day. He also frequented the women’s restroom no matter the day, which gave many reason to pause.

Coincidentally, it was my husband who often had to tell Gail that he couldn’t use the women’s restroom. My husband is brushing against 300 pounds and is solidly built. Gail, however, was not entirely dwarfed by my husband. I would venture to say he was a solid 250 pounds, and his beard and receding hair line made him somewhat oppositional. Gail did not like being kicked out of the women’s restroom, and my husband did not like being put in the position to ask him to leave. It was a lose- lose for all involved.
As I strolled to the front of the building, nodding at Gail, I stumbled a bit in my too-tall heels. I laughed at myself, inviting Gail to jump in for a Walking-in-Heels-Lesson.

“Oh child, you have to step on the pad of your foot, like this”, Gail demonstrated walking on his tip toes in his own worn out heels, his cigarette swinging around as if it was an extension of his arm.

I mimicked him, blushing and enjoying myself. The spring breeze swept through and ruffled our skirts.

“Where are you headed?” Gail asked me, putting his cigarette out on the bottom of his heel. I admired how gracefully he pulled his leg up towards his body, noticing the inch thick bedding of hair that covered every inch of his skin.
I told him my destination and just like that, Gail became my escort to my interview.
I caught brief glances of his side profile as we walked. His wig was cheap, and wisps of it clung around his head, creating a bird’s nest effect. His beard had highlights of lighter brown and gold and they contrasted with his red lipstick, which was slightly smudged around the corners of his mouth. I wondered why his wife didn’t help him with makeup, but then realized she probably didn’t wear it herself.
“The thing about heels is they make us women.” Gail told me confidently, between deep, desperate breaths. We were barreling down the hall, two large people on two-inch stilts.

“If you work it right, you can own the world in a good pair of heels.” He leaned in to my shoulder as he spoke and I could smell a mixture of chew tobacco and mountain dew on his breath.

I spent most of our time together smiling and nodding, avoiding the strange looks we received from others in the hall. I saw a classmate at one point, and she responded to my flippant wave with wide owl-eyes. I felt her gaze as she turned and watched us make haste down the hall.

“It’s ok though”, he assured me, “my wife can’t walk in heels either. Some women just can’t get the hang of it”. He winked at me, his short lashes caked with mascara.

When we arrived at my destination Gail squeezed my shoulder and departed as quickly as he had bonded to me in front of the building.

“Good luck, and keep working on those heels!” He chided me, pointing to my feet. He lumbered to the women’s restroom, swinging the door open wide. With a brush and whip of his ankle-length floral skirt, he was gone.

My interview went well. I saw Gail in the halls repeatedly after that encounter (he was hard to miss), but he never spoke to me again. He had given me the wisdom I needed, I imagine he reasoned, and I was on my own to apply his advice and become the woman he saw within me.

"A startled or surprised look from one of you when I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done, and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy."-- Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

How funny, Dear Ms. Alcott, that you can write a novel of such significance to so many women when you in fact hated children.

In fact, Alcott only wrote Little Women when her editor requested (some would say forced) her to write on the topic of children, to which she replied: "I don't really enjoy that sort of thing."

Little women, as we all know, went on to sell millions and adorns the bookshelves of young women everywhere.

It took her three months to write.

Memoir Monday

We were lying in bed, legs intertwined and arms flared across a deep purple sea of blankets and pillows. The dog had settled in near us, and he drifted in and out of sleep. The sun light fell through the window and brushed against us, as if keeping us alive.

“So we might not do it all then. . .” I asked, taking my fingers and placing them against his. His fingers dwarf my own. I bite his thumb and examine his flesh, the way the wrinkles build around his knuckles.

“I just can’t imagine sharing you”, he said, not looking at me, his eyes on the ceiling. “I am selfish. And I want to keep you all to myself.” He reached out, pulled me closer.

“You’re mine”. He said it nonchalantly, breathing the words into my hair where they rested on my curls. Later they would haunt me, falling from where they landed and wafting into my mind like the smell of perfume after a long day—equally my own and yet also from somewhere else.
It was the most romantic thing he had ever said.

Wild and Wacky Wednesday: The Drama of the Literate and Dead

Hello crazy kitties and foxes.
It is time for the hour of weird, wacky and wild:

This lady:

Gertrude Stein

and this guy:

Ernest Hemmingway

Used to have a very complicated relationship. It had something to do with this lady as well:

Alice Tolkas

You see, Gertrude Stein convinced a young Ernest Hemmingway to drop journalism and focus on his fiction. This worked out very well for him, and she reaped some of the rewards for that as he pushed and plugged her books left and right.

Speaking of pushed and plugged; word has it that Ernest was overly earnest to see more of Gertrude. He constantly encouraged her to “switch teams” but to no avail. Gertrude kept house with Alice Tolkas until the day she died.

Gertrude is also known for writing one of the first coming out stories and for having some floundering underground love affairs when she studied at John Hopkins.

No doubt this wild threesome had plenty to offer our world.

Stay tuned for next week when we talk about how child slavery bettered the literary world.

Revive Me

Whenever an opportunity for change is near, I get all antsy and I start to become dissatisfied with my life.
Do you do this as well, readers?
As soon as I make a decision about said opportunity (in this case, a job interview), I will settle back down within myself and all will be well.

But until then, the slightest thing will annoy me. I will be bitter and sharp and on the verge of cruel.

I think I just need a good nights rest with the boys. I always do better after some soul stewing: four feet, four paws, a blanket and pillows. Oh, I have things for which to be thankful.

I babysit tonight. I learn something new from her every time and I wonder what she will teach me today. The time flies as we play with toys and sing songs.

Until next time.

Sincerely,
Miss Bitchy Pants

Becoming who I want to be

"I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life-- and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do."-- Georgia O'Keeffe

Oh snap, Georgia. You do know how to tell it straight.
And so this begins the long process of becoming who I want to be. I am a scared little mouse at a times, and I have to take the dive into becoming who I really want to be.

Of course, who you are has ways of sneaking into your life whether you invite it or not. I have always stood for the under dog, have always felt the need to fight the enormous divide in society between those who got it all and those who have so little. And so it is no surprise that my research as a grad student brings me to critical pedagogy-- Every. Single. Time. And it is no surprise that I married out of my socioeconomic class. You see, you who you are no matter how hard you try.

But what I am talking about changing are those little things: how I spend my evenings, what I do with my writing (try to publish), what I read, who I spend time with. The first step is the little things: completing the to-do list, making the initial change no matter how hard.

I'll keep you posted on how it goes. May Georgia be with me.

Page 277, A glimpse of Love

Today was a half snow day. While I am grateful for the few hours-- I scrubbed my oven, ate, read-- I am not sure I am fully committed to such an idea. I think they should just go for the gold and close for the day-- from a business stance, you already lost some money and from an ethical stance, you are only cutting your chances of killing an innocent student who can't drive in the snow by half instead of obliterating it entirely.

Anyway.

I am reading Her Fearful Symmetry (as I have noted before) and aside from being PACKED full of amazing words I don't use regularly but really should, it is also entertaining.

It will live on my bookshelf for years to come.

On page 277, one of the main characters (Martin) explains love to his young friend Julia, who is half of the twin combo that the book is based on. He states:

"[love is] wanting to please, worrying that she will see me as I really am. But wanting to be known. That is... you're naked, moaning the dark, no dignity at all... I wanted her to see me and to love me even though she knew everything I am , and I knew her."

And although this is not a stunning piece of language that I want to hold to my heart and own (see Shakespeare, "When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun."); it actually has some real dept and truth to it that is haunting.

I especially like the ending. "and I knew her". Isn't that part of it? Real love is when you still love the person who knows all of you. You do not run and hide and hate them because they know your secrets. You pick your nose in front of them and then reach for a kiss and you go on. That's love.

And as for moaning naked in the dark with no dignity-- shit son. I am thinking of the times Art has seen me puking (self induced from vodka or just the flu) and I know that this quote has merit.

Alright, I am off to the land of work and school-- two places that actually fulfill me, and for which I am thankful. I know, gag me, right? Sorry, but I am good at optimism.

(Oh and I should mention that I think this would be an awesome assignment for an English classroom-- find quotes on love or life or etc, and make a collage of them and then write a response. Oh it makes me tingle inside.)

Up Past Eight, and Other Remarkable Feats

I am awake past eight and actually being productive. I am totally engrossed in my most recent book (Neffineker, Her Fearful Symmetry).

I made cookies (little turd things with peanut butter taste to them-- disasterous) and a cake, to make up for the cookies. I even took a phone call past eight from a friend. I am going to look over her resume.

Yes, I would say I am impressed with me.

I tried to sit down and remember a time in my ife in great detail and write about it. What I learned is that memoir writing has a whole lot to do with being able to laugh at yourself. When you're throwing your parental unit (i.e. "The Time Dad Weed Wacked the Tree) or significant other (The day My Husband Fell on His ass in the Snow)under the bus, life seems easy. But when you are admitting that you are, in fact, flawed-- things get a little tougher. Add to this remembering times in your life that (although they are hilarious) you would prefer to forget, and you have one messy night of reliving before you. And that is so not fun.

I am wondering if stretching the truth will help me on this. Maybe if I say that the other people were truly outrageous, I will forget while writing all those things that I now adamantly regret.
As we get older, we realize who we want to be. The best of us work to become that person. I don't think I give myself enough credit for such attempts, because certainly who I am today is a far cry from the disaster that ran around doing obscene things not so long ago.

Anyway, this is the path of memoir writing. This is the challenge. I accept it...but it won't be easy.

Evolution

As of today, I will become who I want to be.
I will embrace my literary nature.
I will read. I will write.
Corrections: I will read for pleasure. I will write to live up to my talent. I will not waste it.

I seem to have this school thing down pat. I know how to better myself in a very regimented, straight-forward way. If you are willing to give me credit for something, I will do it. But if the person I need to prove something to is myself, I often let it slide.

Today is a fluke, because it is a snow day. So today presents more opportunities for me to embrace such behavior without letting the dishes go or whatever else.

So, this is a great day to reinvent myself.

1. Less tv, more reading.
2. No more than 8 hours of sleep a night. (Sounds easy right? Not easy. Not for me.)
3. Write more days than not. (Ok, so the goal is not even everyday, but come on, this seems achievable and kind)

I commit to becoming the person I want to be.

Here goes nothing....