Simpatico (Writing Wednesday)

When you're stuck as a writer, sometimes the best thing to do is ask a question. I'm a big fan of questions. I've found that they can clarify, encourage elaboration, and/or send the writer on a new, unexpected journey.

I recently asked people to ask questions about  this post. People could ask any question they wanted. And, as always, the questions did their job.

Barbara asked, "Why do you take out your contacts before finding your glasses?" This is a clarification question. If I decided to revise the original piece, I could go back and explain that I removed my contacts because I assumed my glasses would be where they always were, and I wasn't expecting a hunt. This addition, if worded more eloquently, could add to the humor and/or build tension.

Several people asked about the children's sermon. If you want to know the specifics about that, I addressed it in yesterday's post. This is an elaboration question. People specifically wanted to know more about that point. Clearly, it stuck out, since several people asked about it (or, perhaps, I have a holy readership.) As a reader, I need to weigh the purpose of my piece---would it add to the overall mood if I elaborated on the sermon, or would it bog the piece down? I felt that it would bog the piece down, since my focus was Joel's tomfoolery. My next question should be: Should I cut the reference all together? Elaboration questions help the writer see what needs more information, but it also reveals what information distracts from the "big picture."

I received all sorts of wonderful questions, but one from Coby really stayed with me: "What are your kids' endearing habits?" This is a journey question, because it's related to the piece, but it is open-ended, designed to send me a new direction. I carried this question around with me, and I wrote a snapshot from my observations. The result is below. 

Your prompt: 

1) Take something you have written and ask a person, or several people, to ask some questions related to the piece. Don't give the questioners too many parameters--just let them ask what they ask. (If you don't have something written, tell a story out loud and ask for questions).

2) Choose the question or questions that strike your fancy. If they are eloboration or clarification questions, blend them into your orignial piece to make a second draft. If they are journey questions, complete a freewrite or draft a snapshot based on that new question. See where the query takes you.

3) Review-Revise-Share

4) For inspiration, check out Paul, Corrie, and Coby's work from last week. (Join the party! It's fun, I swear.)

Simpatico (My Example)
Inspiration Question: "What are your kids' endearing habits?" (I decided to focus just on Owen)


Joel is still a painting in process. There are certainly splashes of color on his canvas, and the strokes are bold and confident. There is lots of manic orange and vibrant splashes of yellow. He's happy. He's fearless. He makes me smile. But because of his age, he is more of a Jackson Pollack at this point---you have to look hard, and guess at the images.

Now, Owen's painting is incomplete at this point as well, but it like an Impressionist piece---up close, it's a lot of beautiful dots, but stepping back, a stunning image comes into view. Owen is coming into his own, and I could not be more delighted.

Looking at Owen, I'm looking at myself. He and I are simpatico. It might be a first-born thing. We're both bossy, convinced of the virtue of our worldviews. When I asked Owen for one of his chicken nuggets, he thought about it, and finally made his decree: "No, Mommy. Too much sugar."

He doesn't limit his micromanaging to his mother. I was getting dressed, while both boys were playing in the adjoining bathroom. I heard Owen say, "Joel! Enough with the tampons! Put them away." The pieces fell together, for Owen had specifically asked me all about tampons just two days earlier.

Owen likes to know what's coming. Today, at the park, he asked me to play on the spider web (a collection of ropes) with him. He then asked me to sit next to him, on a particular rope, sitting with my hands folded in a certain way. I've known dictators with more flexibility than this boy of mine.

While on the spider web, I started making monkey noises, scratching my head and my armpits. HILARIOUS. He frowned and said, "You're not a monkey, you're just Mommy."

I pressed on, "Am I allowed to dance?"

"No."

"Sing songs?"

"No."

I sighed. "What am I allowed to do then, Owen?"

His answer was quick, "You're allowed to hug me."

Oh, could I love this kid any more? Of course, I relate to his control issues---I lose my mind if naps end at 3:30, when I really want them to last until 4:00, at a minimum. If my coffee-paper-puttering routine is cut short, I'm breathing fire. So, I can relate to a kid who wants his family to run with the predictability of a Timex.

And, I relate to his need to get and give love. When I sat on a yellow jacket at the same playground, it stung me on the butt. It still hurts as I write this, sitting on an ice pack, over two hours later. Owen immediately walked over when he heard me yelp, held my hand and said, "It's okay, Mommy. Do you want me to kiss it?"

I considered it, an opportunity for my son to literally kiss my butt, but I just kissed him and said, "It's okay, sweetie." He nestled his head against me, kissed me on each (facial) cheek, and said, "I love you so much."

On the way home, Joel was saying "Da-Da," and Owen leaned over and said, "Joely? Can you say Owen instead?" This is Owen in a nutshell--wanting to control, yet looking for new ways to show his love.

He's a pleaser, like me. The start of preschool is bringing out my perfectionist tendencies. I already made my monthly play dough, and asked the teacher for more projects. I want her to know that I'm on-top-of-things, a helpful, resourceful mother in this educational team. I haven't quite figured out that she cares about Owen, and I'm not getting a grade. It's hard to accept this.

Owen is also trying to impress the teacher. He coughed in his elbow, like his teacher taught him. He smiled, eyes bright, and said, "Miss Speck (not her real name, but that's her blog name, as of now) will be so happy!"

Things are not always sunrises and roses. Two strong personalities are bound to butt heads. Just an hour ago, Owen declared, "Don't ruin my fun!" I'll try not to, Buddy, but it's bound to happen.

I look at my son--the leader, the thinker, the dreamer, the snugglebunny---and, like a painting, appreciate his beauty with each gaze, each perspective, each shifting of the light.

Q and A

In an earlier post, I asked people to write questions for a future writing prompt. I'll use a few of those questions tomorrow, but I thought I would answer some today. Just cause.

Game: Some questions are real and some I made up. Figure out what's what and win a fantastic prize: a bag of magic beans.


1. Do you get dressed/shower/do hair/put on make-up every day, or some combination of those things?

I get dressed, without fail, every day. I may be wearing the cut-off sweatpants of doom and a T-shirt advertising NAU Homecoming, circa 1994, but I am not wearing my pajamas. Just clothing that looks like pajamas.  

I take showers, unless I don't feel like it. I would say I don't feel like it 2-3 times a week. However, I never go more than one day in a row without showering.

I rarely do my hair. Now that I have my new haircut, I've attempted to flat-iron it, but I'm sure this urge will quickly pass.

I always wear lipstick. I may have dirty hair and pajama-clothes, but my mouth is kissably soft and brilliant red.  


2. What did you teach  in the message for children? How old are the children listening to the sermon?

It was the first day of Sunday School, so I talked about spiritual gifts.  The kids got to open little bags that had different spiritual gifts--knowledge, music, skilled crafts, leadership, teaching---inside and we talked about these gifts and who has them in the church. We talked about how everybody has spiritual gifts and how we can use these gifts to love God, love each other, and serve the world.

I'm not sure how much they got, but they enjoyed opening the presents.

The kids are mostly kindergartners or younger. They are a fun group, but the kids in the second service (the "contemporary" service with the guitar band) are feisty. One girl told me that she gets presents for "Hatch Day." I immediately made a connection to the show Lost---the hatch? Dharma Initative?--and got a solid wall of silence. I feared that the clown from the Apollo Theater would come out with his broom and sweep me away.

With that same group, a girl was kind enough to tell me that Owen "Didn't have his eyes closed" during the prayer. I refrained from asking her how she knew that. (Confession: I'm approaching my mid-thirties and I still peek during prayers to see if anybody else has their eyes open.)

3. Who picked out these wonderful glasses?

Joel's ophthalmologist from Children's Medical Center recommended the MiraFlex frames because they are virtually indestructible.

We're happy with them, except that a lens will occasionally pop out. That's a lot of fun to find, as you can imagine.

4. How many cells are in an Excel document?

I just happen to know that because I'm taking an Excel class so I can teach English to middle schoolers again someday. I'm also paying 25 dollars for the privilege, along with the cost of babysitting.

The answer? 16,777,216.

5. Since this post is really boring, why don't you reveal a few embarrassing tidbits to shake it up a bit?

Righty-O! 

I have so much hair on my toes that Paul calls me "Bilbo Baggins." 

I miss having a dog, so I can blame the farts on her. 

My mother once tried to make me eat a beetle because I was "bugging her."

I once got into a stubborn snit and told my parents that I wouldn't go to bed until they said "Boogers." They wouldn't do it, and this was the most epic standoff of my eight-year life. Today, when I'm trying to prove a point, my mom or dad will sometimes cut me off with one word: "Boogers." 

My brother popped a hole in his waterbed with a butterfly knife. Twice. 

When my brother and I were supposed to share a bag of gummy worms, he would spit in the bag so I wouldn't eat any more. 

I always wash my hands after using the bathroom, but I hate doing it, and resent it silently, every time.

 

The Right Words

There are people in my life who are going through some hard things at the moment. I'm not going to share the specifics, because when they shared their issues with me, they weren't saying, "I'm sharing this confidence with you, but, by all means, broadcast it to the Internet for general comment and derision."

That's my guess, anyway.

It's times like this that I sometimes wish I was a man. There's the obvious---I would love to write my name in the snow just once (okay, full disclosure: I tried to do this once when I was in college, during a ski trip. Unsuccessful.) Additionally, I would like to be able to pass along words of wisdom, man-style.

It seems to me that men deal with tough issues one of the following ways:

1) "That sucks, man."
2) "Do you wanna get a drink?"
3) "I think Ice Road Truckers is on."

This is not to negate the helpfulness of these remarks. Men, as a general rule, acknowledge, avoid, deflect, and deal. There isn't a lot of "processing" or "emoting." That is, unless, you're Robert Smith of The Cure. Or these guys.

For most men, a hearty "That sucks, dude," is sufficient. 

Women, on the other hand, talk through their problems. It's hard to say the right words at the right time. 

 

My tendency, at times, is to share my own experiences to shed light on a specific problem or add a different perspective. I fear that this is not helpful, but yet another way to feed my narcissism.Yet, I know that I have had life experiences for a reason, and God has put people into my life specifically. So when do I share, and when do I shut up?

 

I offer prayers, but I do not take this time to evangelize. Should I? I don't want to add stress to a person, nor do I want to close the door on an opportunity. 

I listen, and listen, and nod my head, and cry with friends. But when it comes to words, I feel like the best I can do is, "That sucks," or a slightly kinder version, "I'm so, so sorry." 

So, what do you do? What are the right words when  friends deal with illness, disorders,  fear, death, miscarriage, divorce, abuse, infertility, broken relationships, hospitalization, accidents, or any other BIG THING in this sometimes cruel and relentless world?

Are there right words? How do you know what to say?

Hide and Seek

Oh, you.

I know you think you're pretty cute, with your cool glasses and smirky little mouth.

I know that, up to this point, you have lived on a steady diet of cooing and smiles and kisses.


I know that you think the world is surrounded by good people who will bend over backwards to meet your every need.


Well, guess what kid....



...the party's almost over.


You see, dear child, you've developed a new, very annoying habit. You'll open the bathroom door, then proceed to open a cabinet. You'll take out the interesting contents, and then you'll walk away with them. Eventually, you'll be attracted to something else, like a shiny spatula or your father's used socks, and drop the comb or the container of floss onto the carpet.

No, love of my life, that by itself is not the annoying habit. The truly extra-annoying, bordering on evil habit of yours is when you decide to hide especially interesting objects from your parents. Like Mommy's glasses.

After a long day of tending to your every whim, Mommy's eyes were screaming for release. She removed her contacts and wandered around the house like the village idiot, running into walls and stubbing her toes, looking for her glasses. She looked (as best as a legally blind person can look) in the normal places--the toy kitchen, the laundry hamper, the recycle bin, the trash cans, under the couch, under the coffee table. She even dug through Mt. Lego, to no avail. She was faced with the difficult choice of going to bed at 8:30 PM or putting her contacts back in her bloodshot eyes. She choose the later, and it felt like 9,000 papercuts on lemon-soaked skin.

And yes, she found the glasses case the next day. In the dishwasher, naturally.

And today, once again, Mommy found something to be missing from her bathroom. Her makeup case. Normally, this isn't a huge deal, but today, your mother was planning on talking to actual adults. She was doing the children's sermon, and giving a talk about a writing workshop (more on this another day). She was also going to a meeting for your brother's preschool.

You, child of my heart, may wonder why your mother cared about impressing a bunch of preschool mothers with her lined eyes and blushed cheeks? Because, Roly Poly Joely, she would prefer to not TERRIFY her new drinking buddies, potential new friends with her ghoulish under eye circles. It's not her intention to be "Goth Mom," or, worse yet, "Tired Mom."

Give a girl some dignity. Give a mother her lipstick.

As of this writing, Joel-Joels, Mommy's makeup remains missing.

Do the right thing, Joel. Stop hiding your mother's toiletries. Otherwise, things could get very, very ugly.

 

(You would stay pretty cute, though.)

***
Somewhat related digression: For a future writing exercise, could you do me a favor and ask me a question about this post in the comments section? Ask anything you want.

A post that will be interesting to about five people

A few years back, when Owen was about fifteen months old, I decided to train for a "big race"--the Bolder Boulder 10K. I did a training schedule, dutifully putting in my miles. I cross-trained. I did tempo runs. I completed long runs. I felt good.

I was asserting my independence, separating my body from the baby-carrying, milk-producing vessel it had become over the last two years. Owen was weaned, Joel was just a blurry idea, and I was going to take my body back.

The altitude in Colorado is about 5,000 feet higher than my stomping grounds here in Maryland, so, suffice to say, I was feeling it  around mile five. I lurched my way up the final turn, heading into the stadium at the University of Colorado. As I ran around the track, towards the finishing corrals, I heard the hoots and hollers of the crowd, felt the beating of my heart, and surged my way towards the finish. I sunk my hands on my knees, and caught my breath.

I then stood up, and saw a large banner advertising Pearl Izumi shoes: "There is no such thing as a Jogger's High." I rolled my eyes, because this stunk of macho running whatever.  But then, I saw another T-shirt, advertising the same shoes. It said, "If you're running anything less than a 30 minute 5K, you are a jogger." And, I'll admit it, I felt a bit defeated.

I recognize that there is an elite, or at least, more elite group of runners that scoff at walk breaks and get frustrated by the hordes of slower runners. Even I've been in races where I've darted around the people leisurely chit-chatting or, Heaven forbid, texting, when they are supposed to be running. (Basic race etiquette--if this is you, head towards the back of the start.)

But I'm not going to tell anybody that they don't belong out there. Make no mistake--the advertisement is intended to mock joggers. I think if you're wearing sneakers, and you're moving your body, you're doing more than most of the population. You don't deserve to be derided---not by me, not by shoe corporations, not anybody.

Go on with your bad self. And remember---you are a runner.

By the way, if you're looking for a fantastic (and not-at-all mean spirited) ad campaign showing how runners are different, check out this campaign from Adidas.

I've seen Paul do this snot-rocket technique more times than I care to admit: 

Paul and I have both been liberal with the Vaseline/Body Glide to prevent chapping. I think we have a picture similar to this somewhere in the embarrassment files.

And, finally, I don't know who took this picture of me, but I'm still awaiting my compensation...

Send this to seven other friends or get seven years of bad luck

My blog-friend Corrie sent me a virtual blogging award. This is a chain-letter type deal, where you're supposed to:

• Thank the person who has given you the award. (Thanks, Corrie!)

• Copy the logo and place it on your blog. (I linked it, but I cannot post it in good conscience because it does two things that I consider borderline evil. First of all, it misspells the word "creative" as "Kreativ." Secondly, it uses a K when a C is supposed to do the job. Other perpetrators of this atrocity include: Kountry Kitchen, Kwik Sew, Krazy Glue, and Kool Aid. Krispy Kreme gets a pass because of sheer deliciousness).

Corrie, please don't be offended by my persnickety ranting.

• Link to the person who has nominated you for the award. (Corrie)

• Name 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting.

1. When one of my children has a scab, I have to fight the urge to pick it.

2. The baby, in a terrifying new development, can open doors. My sacred BM time was interrupted this morning by the booming slam of the door, and a lumbering 13-month old approaching me, arms outstretched like Frankenstein.

3. When I was in high school, I wasn't cool and I wasn't a dork. People mostly didn't notice me at all. A common signature in my yearbook was, "You're so quiet, maybe I'll get to know you better next year."

4. When I read an editorial this morning suggesting that the representative from South Carolina heckled the president because he was black, I must admit that the thought never occurred to me. Does this make me a racist or not a racist? Am I color-blind or simply blind to the continued racial struggle? My white guilt suggests that I still have much to learn.

But then again, John McCain fell asleep during one of President Bush's speeches, and that just confirms my belief that as a senator, he is awesome, but when he runs for president, he loses his Maverick-y deliciousness. (That, by the way, is the closest I will ever get to a political posting).

5. I still judge a person by his or her taste in music. I judge silently, but I do judge.

6. I've lost count of the number of times people have said, "I know that you must cringe when you read my writing because of my bad grammar." (Not true).

7. When Owen and I were sorting out his toys for an upcoming garage sale (all proceeds go to adoption/foster care services--contact me if you're local and interested in donating!), I would donate two toys for every one he insisted on keeping, when his back was turned.

• Nominate 7 other bloggers. I'm going to nominate bloggers I haven't already named. Here's the original link of additional writers I love. If I listed you before, consider yourself nominated as well.

Bloggers: The New Class

Paul is a friend from high school, who is now a pastor in California. I agree with some of his ideas, disagree with others, but I appreciate the intellectual discourse. He's very smart. Kinda scary smart. I'm not married to this Paul, and will henceforth refer to him as "California Paul."

My cousin, David, is good at everything he tries. He's also one of the kindest people I know. Check out his blog to learn more about welding and animal life, amongst other things.

My aunt, Alice, is so very thoughtful. I'm grateful for this window into her life.

Sarah is a friend from college. I'll always remember celebrating her 21st birthday in Hong Kong. She is a therapist and musician and mother of two, living in Bisbee, AZ. She's so incredibly funny and insightful.

I used to work with Brian, who is both humble and scary-intelligent. He's raised thousands of dollars running marathons to fight Leukemia and Lymphoma. He's also funny and notices absurd and beautiful details.

Jen is another friend from college, and I just recently re-connected with her via Facebook and her blog. She kinda lives my dream life---living in Montana, writing a local column for the newspaper. She gardens. She drinks coffee, quite snobbishly, I may add. She refuses to clean the deer her husband hauls home each season. She's my kind of girl.

Finally, I love reading Kim's blog because I'm looking for inspiration. She's half my age, and a better mother than I could ever hope to be. I wish, someday, to be as grown-up as Kim.

• Post links to the 7 blogs you nominate. (Uhhhh, I just did that).

• Leave a comment on each of the blogs to let them know they have been nominated.(I will do that at some point soon).

That's it for now. How to end this blog in a witty, thoughtful manner?

Forget it: I'll just do it the Owen way: WEASEL!

Building a Scene (Writing Wednesdays)

I step outside myself sometimes, and wonder what that deranged crackhead is doing with my face. I mean, there's no way that I, a reasonable, educated adult would pin my child on the ground and force him to try on a giraffe costume.

It's just not possible.

Which, in a roundabout way, brings us to this week's Writing Wednesday: Building a Scene.

A scene is made up of three elements: Snapshots, Thoughtshots, and Dialogue.

Snapshots are little pieces of description that set the tone or establish character. We've worked on snapshots when we discussed snapshots, setting, and zooming in. Snapshots can be long, but are often especially effective as short attachments to the dialogue.

Thoughtshots are a quick picture of the narrator's thoughts. These can be reactions, reflections, feelings, or commentary. Again, they work especially well when they are attached to dialogue.

Finally, dialogue, is what people say. I'm occasionally asked how I remember dialogue. If Owen or somebody else says something especially memorable, I try to jot it down on paper. I've been known to call myself and leave a voice-message so I don't forget.

However, much of my dialogue is re-created. Since I'm dealing with real people, I don't put words in their mouths that they wouldn't say. It's possible that I'll piece together several conversations into one. Also, since I'm writing, it's far more concise and focused than the rambling meanderings of real-life conversation.

Let me show you an example so that this makes more sense. I'll bold the snapshots and italicize the thoughtshots. Hopefully, the dialogue will be self-explanatory.

"Hey, Owen," I called, lifting the costume out of the box. "Come here, please."

Owen walked in the room, and looked curiously. "What is that?" he asked, inching closer towards me.

What that? I thought. That, my boy, is cuteness. One hundred percent bona-fide cuteness. A giraffe-print body, with a poochy little tummy, and a hood, complete with a mane and giraffe ears. "This, Owen," I answered, "is your Halloween costume."

He smiled nervously, touched it, than darted his finger away as if he had burnt it. "Is it a horse?"

"No, Buddy. It's a giraffe. Come here, let's try it on." Inwardly, I quivered with excitement. One of the greatest things about parenthood is dressing your children in ridiculously cute Halloween costumes. The late nights, the tantrums, the verbal abuse---it's all forgiven when your child is wearing something fluffy and hooded.

Owen, however, did not share my excitement. He curled himself into a ball, and said, "I don't like it! Take it away, Mommy! Now!"

This was the moment that a sane person would put the costume away, perhaps trying again after with a full tummy and a good nap. Of course, I had proven, time and time again, that I lacked sanity, or even basic common sense.

"Owen, if you try on the costume, I'll take a video of you." There's nothing my narcissist loved more than watching himself on TV.

Owen chewed him lip thoughtfully, and said, "NO!"

"But honey," I answered, "Grandma Judy got you that, and she really wants to see you in it." Yes, I attempted to exploit the pure love between grandmother and grandson. I did.

Owen turned away and mumbled, "I don't like it."

A surge of anger flashed through me. Good grief, this child thanked God for Trick or Treating and Trick or Treating bags EVERY NIGHT FOR A YEAR, and yet, he won't give his mother the small pleasure of wearing a stupid giraffe costume?

I sighed and said, "Owen, just try it on. It will be so cute." And yes, I was now whining.

Owen laughed to himself, clearly reveling in this new-found power. What would this crazy woman say next?

I cursed my terrible parenting,yet forged ahead with it, saying, "Owen, I'll give you a marshmallow if you put on the costume."

He gave it a moment's thought, his eyes bright with scheming, and retorted, "Two marshmallows."

"Owen," I replied, eyes narrowed. "This is not a negotiation."

"NEGOTIATION," Owen screamed. The walls shook. The fixtures rocked in the ceiling. Babies in a five-mile radius awoke prematurely.

"STOP SCREAMING," I screamed, my jaw clenched, teeth grinding yet new valleys in my molars, "And please, please, please, put on the costume."

"NO!"

At that point, I tackled him. I started to stuff one leg into the costume, and looked down at Owen. His face was red, and his eyes were glassy and near tears. He puffed out hot, terrified gasps.

I put the costume down, gave him a hug, and said, "You don't have to wear the costume."

After I put him to bed, a guilty affair involving extra snuggling and lots of stories, I picked up the phone and called my husband.

"Paul," I said, wearing my shame like a lead blanket, "I really need to get a grip."

Reflection:

I am concerned that people will think I'm a bad mother by publishing this. I know that we're all imperfect, but I'm not proud of this. It could be somewhat funny, if I just knew when to quit. I crossed that line, and I need to learn from this experience.

Writing wise, I think this was heavier on the thoughtshots than the snapshots, which is a tick of my writing. I find that I try to focus thoughtshots on just one character, to avoid confusion. Overall, I think it has promise as a piece.

The Prompt
1) Think about a conversation you've had recently.
2) First write the dialogue.
3) Then, add in the appropriate thoughtshots and snapshots as needed.
4) (Or, do what I do and write it all at the same time, being mindful of the snapshot/thoughtshot balance).
5) Revise-Share-Publish

*If you like, you can use this sample dialogue and create snapshots and thoughtshots around it.

1) We're going to stop here.
2) What are you doing?
1) I'm stopping for gas.
2) Why?
1) Why do you think?
2) What are we doing next?
1) Going to the gym.
2) Why are we going to the gym?
1) Why do you think?


Writing Wednesday Hall of Fame!
Check out these awesome selections from last week's zooming in Writing Wednesday.
Thanks, Coby, Paul, and Corrie!