My oldest is going to be five in February, and hasn't napped with any frequency for almost a year.
I chose to ignore this fact and call two to three hours a day "quiet time." I banished him to his room with some books and toys, and told him that he couldn't come out until his little brother woke up from his nap.
This worked out marvelously for about a year. Baby slept. Oldest learned self-regulation. I got to write.
Alas, though, times have changed. For a variety of reasons too tedious to explain, Owen is now downstairs with me during Joel's nap-time. It was time.
I tired to write while he was downstairs for a couple of days. I couldn't concentrate.This may explain the preponderance of posts involving the Pope.
I found myself pecking at a screen while my son played by himself in the backyard. It was a breathtaking fall day---just a hint of chill in the air, sunshine, glorious light.
And here I was, answering emails and checking my Facebook account.
Such a waste. I will never have that afternoon again.
So, things are going to change. The computer will remain off during the day. After they go to bed, I will have a conversation with my husband before I log in. I will write at the end of the day, and I will probably post far less frequently.
I only get to do this once. If I'm going to write my life, I had better start living it.
***
That being said...I am the featured writer for the Red Dress Club. This is a wonderful group of women writers.
Their weekly red writing hood challenges have really kick-started my fiction. Please consider joining them on Friday. Also, go ahead and click over to read my profile. I won't mind that one bit.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Given Away: Friday Fiction
The red dress club's writing challenge for this week is to craft a short piece of fiction that focuses on dialogue. I welcome your comments--- good, bad, and ugly.
Given Away
"Dating's so damn expensive, " he said. "I mean, shit, you buy the dinner, the drinks, and that's, like, rent right there."
I listened to his voice as it sighed through the receiver.
"You're right," I said. "It's not fair. But there's no winning, unless you want to come off like a cheap-ass. Find a rich, feminist chick who is all empowered to pay for your sorry self."
He laughed, and I heard the exhale of his cigarette, "I'm down with feminists. You know what I'm not down with? All the bullshit." He inhaled again, and I yearned for that familiar burn, the delight in the hand-to-mouth motion.
He continued, "The other day, I met up with a girl. We had coffee, laughed a lot. She seemed cool." He coughed. "I was willing to give her a chance, but you know what happened? She texted me and said she wanted to be friends. I already have friends. I don't need another fucking friend."
I sat on my duvet, ordered online from Pottery Barn, and heard my husband give the boys a bath upstairs. "Well, Sam, what do you need?"
"I miss having a girlfriend," he replied, "I want a girl that's fun to talk to. She needs to be artistic. Funny. I wrote on OK Cupid that if she believed in creationism, that was a deal-breaker."
"Uh-huh." I twisted my ring around my finger. "Go on,"
"She has to be a Democrat. She has to live in Portland. No long distance shit. She---"
I stopped him. "What if you find an artistic, beautiful woman who wants to do nothing more then lay in bed with you, pay her own way on dates, and create beautiful things while listening to Arcade Fire---BUT...she believes in Noah's Ark. Would that work for you?"
I was proud of myself for mentioning Arcade Fire. I hadn't actually listened to them, but I heard about them on Facebook. I figured it would be something he would appreciate.
"No," he said. "Dinosaurs did not die because they didn't fit on the ark. It's bullshit, and if she believes in it, It's a deal-breaker."
"Look," I said, "People aren't lists. You can't rule out a person because of one thing. I mean, when I met Keith, he was into hunting. Like, he went into the woods and killed things. He listened to Howard Stern. He wore jean shorts. Jean shorts, I tell you! "
"Well, he doesn't now," my brother replied. "He's cool now. Besides, there's nothing wrong with Howard Stern. You're lucky he married somebody who doesn't like Howard Stern."
I listened to my sons giggle upstairs, and played with my response in head. As I moved the metal round phrases in the palm of my hand, I hoped for Zen clarity in my words.
"That's not my point," I said. "You can't be so picky. If you want to make a life with somebody, have children with somebody, you need to perhaps lower your standards."
He paused, shaping his own words, "You need to back up a bit. I don't want kids. I just want to have fun. Not everybody wants kids."
"I know," I said. "I wasn't trying to say that."
"I'm not done," he said. "I don't want to compromise. I would rather be alone than lose my integrity. So many people just...give themselves away."
The silence sat upon us like a lead blanket. I thought of my oils and pastels, stored in the basement, next to my easel. I had moved them to make room for the boys' train table last fall. That was right after Keith sold his motorcycle.
I heard my husband drain the bathtub, and the soft thumping of the boys' feet overhead. I forced a laugh, "I guess you better avoid trolling for hot dates at Tea Party rallies, then."
"Thanks, Sis," he said. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Hey," I said, "You'll find the right girl. She might not be who you expect, but she'll be the right girl."
"We'll see," he said. "At least it'll be summer soon and I can take her to free concerts, hiking. Shit like that."
"Exactly," I said. "Look--I gotta go---I love you."
"I love you too. Bye."
I held the warm receiver in my hand, and placed it on the dresser.
I stood up, and walked towards my family.
As I headed upstairs, I considered the fragile alchemy of compromise and choice.
I wondered how much I had given away.
Given Away
"Dating's so damn expensive, " he said. "I mean, shit, you buy the dinner, the drinks, and that's, like, rent right there."
I listened to his voice as it sighed through the receiver.
"You're right," I said. "It's not fair. But there's no winning, unless you want to come off like a cheap-ass. Find a rich, feminist chick who is all empowered to pay for your sorry self."
He laughed, and I heard the exhale of his cigarette, "I'm down with feminists. You know what I'm not down with? All the bullshit." He inhaled again, and I yearned for that familiar burn, the delight in the hand-to-mouth motion.
He continued, "The other day, I met up with a girl. We had coffee, laughed a lot. She seemed cool." He coughed. "I was willing to give her a chance, but you know what happened? She texted me and said she wanted to be friends. I already have friends. I don't need another fucking friend."
I sat on my duvet, ordered online from Pottery Barn, and heard my husband give the boys a bath upstairs. "Well, Sam, what do you need?"
"I miss having a girlfriend," he replied, "I want a girl that's fun to talk to. She needs to be artistic. Funny. I wrote on OK Cupid that if she believed in creationism, that was a deal-breaker."
"Uh-huh." I twisted my ring around my finger. "Go on,"
"She has to be a Democrat. She has to live in Portland. No long distance shit. She---"
I stopped him. "What if you find an artistic, beautiful woman who wants to do nothing more then lay in bed with you, pay her own way on dates, and create beautiful things while listening to Arcade Fire---BUT...she believes in Noah's Ark. Would that work for you?"
I was proud of myself for mentioning Arcade Fire. I hadn't actually listened to them, but I heard about them on Facebook. I figured it would be something he would appreciate.
"No," he said. "Dinosaurs did not die because they didn't fit on the ark. It's bullshit, and if she believes in it, It's a deal-breaker."
"Look," I said, "People aren't lists. You can't rule out a person because of one thing. I mean, when I met Keith, he was into hunting. Like, he went into the woods and killed things. He listened to Howard Stern. He wore jean shorts. Jean shorts, I tell you! "
"Well, he doesn't now," my brother replied. "He's cool now. Besides, there's nothing wrong with Howard Stern. You're lucky he married somebody who doesn't like Howard Stern."
I listened to my sons giggle upstairs, and played with my response in head. As I moved the metal round phrases in the palm of my hand, I hoped for Zen clarity in my words.
"That's not my point," I said. "You can't be so picky. If you want to make a life with somebody, have children with somebody, you need to perhaps lower your standards."
He paused, shaping his own words, "You need to back up a bit. I don't want kids. I just want to have fun. Not everybody wants kids."
"I know," I said. "I wasn't trying to say that."
"I'm not done," he said. "I don't want to compromise. I would rather be alone than lose my integrity. So many people just...give themselves away."
The silence sat upon us like a lead blanket. I thought of my oils and pastels, stored in the basement, next to my easel. I had moved them to make room for the boys' train table last fall. That was right after Keith sold his motorcycle.
I heard my husband drain the bathtub, and the soft thumping of the boys' feet overhead. I forced a laugh, "I guess you better avoid trolling for hot dates at Tea Party rallies, then."
"Thanks, Sis," he said. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Hey," I said, "You'll find the right girl. She might not be who you expect, but she'll be the right girl."
"We'll see," he said. "At least it'll be summer soon and I can take her to free concerts, hiking. Shit like that."
"Exactly," I said. "Look--I gotta go---I love you."
"I love you too. Bye."
I held the warm receiver in my hand, and placed it on the dresser.
I stood up, and walked towards my family.
As I headed upstairs, I considered the fragile alchemy of compromise and choice.
I wondered how much I had given away.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Blatant Self-Promotion
I don't often talk about writing in this blog. More specifically, my aspiration to be a writer.
You see, there are lots of good writers. Tons of 'em. When you think about the talent out there, it is easier to drink some gin from the cat dish and watch another episode of The Real Housewives of New Jersey than to take that step into the unknown.
I mean, putting yourself out there? That takes ovaries.
***
Recently, I was out with a friend and she said, "What would you tell your teenage self?"
"Oh," I replied, "That's easy. I would tell her that she's smart and she's funny. I would tell her to stop caring about what other people think and to trust herself. I would also tell her that she should wear sunscreen and more sleeveless tops."
My wise friend then asked, "What do you think you'll tell yourself ten years from now?"
The answer, once again, was obvious. "I would tell her that she's a good mom. I would tell her not to worry about what other people think and to trust herself. I would tell her to be fearless."
My friend said, "Why do we keep telling ourselves the same things?"
Why, indeed?
***
About a month ago, my friend Coby sent me a link for a call to submissions. I've been burnt by the submission game in the past year. Every rejection slip felt like a paper-cut. After awhile, I was too tattered and raw to try again.
Then, I remembered my friend's words. I stopped asking myself the same questions. I submitted a piece.
I wrote about this guy:
Some of you know that Joel was airlifted to the NICU when he was two days old. He was on oxygen briefly, and spent his first ten days of life in an isolette, surrounded by pic lines and beeping sensors.
He was a eight pound baby in the NICU. He looked like Godzilla.
I wrote about the experience, and how it brought me closer to my mother.
I'm very proud of the piece.
Well, folks, the piece is going to be published.
***
Here's the information:
From the Heart: A Collection of Stories and Poems from the Front Lines of Parenting will be available for presale on May 22nd. The ISBN for this title is 978-0-578-05737-8 and will be available through various distribution channels.
Inside the pages of this book, dozens of authors have given of themselves to share their unique perspective on the journey of parenthood and to make a difference in the lives of children along the way. The result is a collection of stories and poems that track the fun, the challenging and the truly phenomenal aspects of parenting.
From pregnancy worries and the miracle of birth to tough times and growing up, each unique triumph and challenge through a lifetime of parenthood palpitates on the page.
From the Heart: A Collection of Stories and Poems from the Front Lines of Parenting was created to raise money for children’s charities. With this collaborative effort, we will help every child get the medical care that they need and find cures for some of life’s most devastating diseases.
With inspired stories and poems from a group of extraordinary writers, this volume will leave an impression on the heart of any parent.
Proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to children’s charities.
***
If you are interested in buying this book, email me here or here. You can also learn more about the book here.
Thank you for your support. I will mention this again, but will try not to annoy or be too blatantly self-promoting.
Off to find the cat dish, the remote and the gin...
You see, there are lots of good writers. Tons of 'em. When you think about the talent out there, it is easier to drink some gin from the cat dish and watch another episode of The Real Housewives of New Jersey than to take that step into the unknown.
I mean, putting yourself out there? That takes ovaries.
***
Recently, I was out with a friend and she said, "What would you tell your teenage self?"
"Oh," I replied, "That's easy. I would tell her that she's smart and she's funny. I would tell her to stop caring about what other people think and to trust herself. I would also tell her that she should wear sunscreen and more sleeveless tops."
My wise friend then asked, "What do you think you'll tell yourself ten years from now?"
The answer, once again, was obvious. "I would tell her that she's a good mom. I would tell her not to worry about what other people think and to trust herself. I would tell her to be fearless."
My friend said, "Why do we keep telling ourselves the same things?"
Why, indeed?
***
About a month ago, my friend Coby sent me a link for a call to submissions. I've been burnt by the submission game in the past year. Every rejection slip felt like a paper-cut. After awhile, I was too tattered and raw to try again.
Then, I remembered my friend's words. I stopped asking myself the same questions. I submitted a piece.
I wrote about this guy:
Some of you know that Joel was airlifted to the NICU when he was two days old. He was on oxygen briefly, and spent his first ten days of life in an isolette, surrounded by pic lines and beeping sensors.
He was a eight pound baby in the NICU. He looked like Godzilla.
I wrote about the experience, and how it brought me closer to my mother.
I'm very proud of the piece.
Well, folks, the piece is going to be published.
***
Here's the information:
Inside the pages of this book, dozens of authors have given of themselves to share their unique perspective on the journey of parenthood and to make a difference in the lives of children along the way. The result is a collection of stories and poems that track the fun, the challenging and the truly phenomenal aspects of parenting.
From pregnancy worries and the miracle of birth to tough times and growing up, each unique triumph and challenge through a lifetime of parenthood palpitates on the page.
From the Heart: A Collection of Stories and Poems from the Front Lines of Parenting was created to raise money for children’s charities. With this collaborative effort, we will help every child get the medical care that they need and find cures for some of life’s most devastating diseases.
With inspired stories and poems from a group of extraordinary writers, this volume will leave an impression on the heart of any parent.
Proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to children’s charities.
***
If you are interested in buying this book, email me here or here. You can also learn more about the book here.
Thank you for your support. I will mention this again, but will try not to annoy or be too blatantly self-promoting.
Off to find the cat dish, the remote and the gin...
Monday, November 30, 2009
The Annual Notes from a Narcissist
Okay. I've done my absolute favorite part of the entire Christmas Season.
Break bread with beloved family members? Provide holiday cheer for less fortunate brothers and sisters? Frost cookies with the youngins'? Sing Christmas carols? Drink eggnog? Add more rum to the eggnog?
All of the above are nice. But, as a raging narcissist, it should be no surprise that my favorite part of the year is...writing about myself.
It looks kinda bad when it's just...sitting there. But, in the spirit of total honesty, I must say it:
I love, love, love writing the annual holiday letter.
I start thinking about my annual theme around August. I edit it religiously, and nitpick over little words and phrases ("Is it appropriate to say 'batshit' in a Christmas letter?").
I actually considered starting a business where I would interview other people and subsequently write their Christmas letters for them. For an additional fee, I would do the stamping, addressing, and mailing.
Then, as with many of my ventures, (see: Making my Own Organic Detergent, Composting, The South Beach Diet, Digital Scrapbooking, Showering), I got distracted. Maybe next year. (And, level with me: is this a good idea?)
****
I know that people hate holiday letters. They're braggy or boring or too long or too self-indulgent. I argue that for many people, this is the one time a year that they choose to reflect on their experiences in writing. Those who write regularly know that written reflection can be a mental massage, working out the kinks and knots that impede our growth. So, I argue that even the most self-indulgent holiday letter is a gift to the writer.
I've finished my first draft. Because Paul says that I am not allowed add one more name to our growing list, I am going to send a virtual card to those of you who know me via blogging.
And, as an added bonus, since you are all writers, I welcome any feedback or suggestions you wish to share before the print version hits the post office. (Be nice-ish, but honest).
If you know me in real life, DO NOT READ THIS LETTER EARLY UNLESS YOU WANT TO TOTALLY RUIN CHRISTMAS. Or something like that.
***
Break bread with beloved family members? Provide holiday cheer for less fortunate brothers and sisters? Frost cookies with the youngins'? Sing Christmas carols? Drink eggnog? Add more rum to the eggnog?
All of the above are nice. But, as a raging narcissist, it should be no surprise that my favorite part of the year is...writing about myself.
It looks kinda bad when it's just...sitting there. But, in the spirit of total honesty, I must say it:
I love, love, love writing the annual holiday letter.
I start thinking about my annual theme around August. I edit it religiously, and nitpick over little words and phrases ("Is it appropriate to say 'batshit' in a Christmas letter?").
I actually considered starting a business where I would interview other people and subsequently write their Christmas letters for them. For an additional fee, I would do the stamping, addressing, and mailing.
Then, as with many of my ventures, (see: Making my Own Organic Detergent, Composting, The South Beach Diet, Digital Scrapbooking, Showering), I got distracted. Maybe next year. (And, level with me: is this a good idea?)
****
I know that people hate holiday letters. They're braggy or boring or too long or too self-indulgent. I argue that for many people, this is the one time a year that they choose to reflect on their experiences in writing. Those who write regularly know that written reflection can be a mental massage, working out the kinks and knots that impede our growth. So, I argue that even the most self-indulgent holiday letter is a gift to the writer.
I've finished my first draft. Because Paul says that I am not allowed add one more name to our growing list, I am going to send a virtual card to those of you who know me via blogging.
And, as an added bonus, since you are all writers, I welcome any feedback or suggestions you wish to share before the print version hits the post office. (Be nice-ish, but honest).
If you know me in real life, DO NOT READ THIS LETTER EARLY UNLESS YOU WANT TO TOTALLY RUIN CHRISTMAS. Or something like that.
***
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