Flashdancetastic

To live like you were dying

2011-05-24T10:55:00.000-07:00

May 22, 2011

    Yesterday (Saturday May 21, 2011) the world was supposed to end. Clearly, it didn’t. But Friday something rocked my world… more than the idea of the whole world coming to an end was the idea of something awful happening in my own little world. Don’t think I’m so self-absorbed but I the end of the world reports were pretty far fetched, whereas this was very close to me. Like, in my right leg close. I was at my normal doctor’s appointment, a 38 week prenatal check up. And everything was not all right.
    I guess it’s part of human nature, or maybe the height of hubris, to go through life feeling like nothing bad is really going to happen to me or my loved ones. I worry enough about it, of course-- about all the possible car accidents, germy germs, anvils to fall on my head-- but never in a real, fear-gripped way. It’s abstract. It’s out there somewhere. Not here. Not in my world.
    Having a baby-- well that seems like a pretty safe, natural thing to do. Normal. Usual. Somewhat mundane even. No one goes into it thinking about fertility problems, or having a child who isn’t perfect in the traditional sense, or having a miscarriage, or having problems giving birth. If we considered all the risks I think we would probably never do it. I wouldn’t, anyway. It’s riskier than skydiving. Less risky than driving to the supermarket though. Curious how things get compartmentalized and the more dangerous things are shuffled into the necessity category, while things with the adrenaline rush of danger are sometimes statistically safer.
    So while all these dangers are lurking, I walk though life in ignorant bliss, assuming everything is just fine and dandy. Until my doctor looks at my right leg. As anyone who has been pregnant knows, things swell up. A lot. My foot and leg didn’t seem more swollen than would be normal in pregnancy. But I watched my doctor purse her lips, shake her head, and frown a bit. I started breathing harder and felt a stab of fear in that place that feels physical, way deep in your chest, though it’s probably just some kind of emotional response, like blushing or cringing in embarrassment.
    She noticed my look and immediately assumed that calm demeanor so familiar in doctors and nurses and flight attendants. Stay calm, it’s just a bit of turbulence.
    “I don’t like this leg,” she said. It sounded strange but I knew what she meant. “I’d like to have a Dopplar done on it, just to be safe.”
    When medical professionals are worried but they don’t want to show it to the patient, things happen fast. Normally you wait for 45 minutes on a freezing table wearing nothing but a paper napkin while they take their time. That day, I was in radiology within 20 minutes. Shortly after that I was having another calmly smiling ultrasound tech rubbing cold gel on my leg. Again with the lip pursing, the slight frown, the subtle head shake.
    “Right there,” she said, pointing to something indistinguishable to the untrained eye on a screen of wavy gray lines.
    She explained that there was a clot behind my knee, only a partial blockage, and at least two more completely blocked veins in my calf. Being a professional hypochondriac and a dabbler in all things medical, my brain immediately translated: deep vein thrombosis. A diagnosis that can lead to pulmonary embolism (clots in lungs), heart attack (clots in heart) and aneurysm (stroke, clot in brain). And oh yeah… all three potentially fatal. And left untreated, eminently fatal.
    I’m 32. No history of blood clots. Perfectly normal, healthy prior pregnancy. I drink my milk. I eat my five servings of fruits and vegetables. I take vitamins. I try to do what I can to stay healthy.
    And there is a baby boy in there, not quite ready to come out. My medical dabbling left me no idea of the danger to him, though I assumed that me dying wouldn’t be a good thing for his survival-- and no idea of the long term effects of all this. All I knew was something was wrong and I could die. I could die.     That thought wouldn’t leave my head. I could die, he could die, and I could miss out on the rest of my life.
    I’ve always said that I feel okay about my future. I’m prepared-- life or death, I feel like I know the outcome. Not all the details, but I believe there is a heaven, a home, a place for my soul to go when my body is done. I’m not afraid of death. I used to be terrified, but I feel now like it’s something we all have to go through to get to the next step. I believe firmly that I’m headed to heaven someday, to be with God, Jesus, and everyone else who’s gone before.
    But I forgot about how much I love my life, too. I know it’s temporary and I know we all have to leave sometime. But I don’t want to go yet. I will if I have no choice, but I want to have my baby. I want to live to feel his fingers wrapped around mine. I want to see my son Isaiah play baseball and graduate college. I want to see my little Madelyn play soccer and have dance recitals and I want to worry when she goes on her first date. I want to live and love my husband for the next sixty years or so. Maybe it’s wrong to be so attached to life here. But I can’t help it. And I was terrified.
    I am still in the hospital, having treatments and waiting. And making promises to myself. Two years ago I made promises to myself when I was diagnosed with a malignant melanoma. I spent six or eight months remembering, reminding myself to do all the things I wanted to do, because you never know when you’re at the end. And here I am again, making vows. I vow to love my husband every day, and make sure he knows he’s loved. I vow to love my children and help them the best way I know how, to grow up to be people of substance, men and women of character and depth and compassion and quality. I vow to help strangers and show kindness instead of spite . To not waste time complaining, but to look for the good side of every situation. I vow to keep my word, to not be wishy washy. I promise. I promise. I promise.
    Maybe it takes a few near death experiences to make a person remember the really important things. I don’t know. I hope for me this does it. As much as I appreciate being alive more than I did on Thursday, I hope to not have to survive many more reminders like this. I will remember how this feels.
    A good friend of mine told me once that the times that she feels down and overwhelmed and in despair, she remembers her brush with death. She remembers the feeling of permanence that accompanied the fear, and she keeps that feeling close to her. Because really, any time could be the last time.
And it’s encouraging.
    I know that sounds weird, but facing death makes you feel like anything goes and experiences are what counts. Because really, why are we here on this earth except to learn? If this is just a holding cell that we have to survive, to get through, to pass the time until we go to our “real” home, then what’s the point?     My theory? We’re supposed to be down here learning, soaking up experiences, living, loving, finding out what it’s like to be human. Isn’t that how Jesus did it? I mean, he had a more specific mission than most of us are aware of, and a little extra help because he actually knew he had said mission, but to me that doesn’t mean that we should all just assume we don’t have a purpose for being here. Until we figure it out I think we need to have that open minded attitude.
    We have to go through our experiences soaking up as much information as we can. I’m treating it like a fact-finding mission-- to boldly go where no man has gone before. Well, not no man, but boldly go where I haven’t been before, anyway. I am Jean-Luc Picard. I am Captain Kirk. I am Ahab, obsessively searching for that white whale. I want to know more, feel more, live more. Not only just in case I die soon. But because I’m alive now.
    We all have an expiration date in mind, and I want to get what I can out of this experience, whether my date reads tomorrow or in fifty years. I want my children and my family to know who I was and what I stood for. I don’t want them to have to guess. A little mystery is good sometimes, but I plan to live like an open book. I will make mistakes. Many, many mistakes. But I will take that information and learn from it. I have to.
    And I may not do it perfectly the first time, or the second, or the seven hundredth time. But my goal is to do my best. Not to try-- “trying” is a set up for possible failure. My plan is to shoot for the best I can do. You only get out of life what you put into it. I plan on putting a whole lot more into it from now on. I will keep this experience close to my heart, and always remember what it felt like. And not in a bad way. I’m not going to walk around being sad and morbid. Or force myself to enjoy things just because it might be the last time I’ll get to. But I will remember this feeling.

Song lyrics so romantic, you'll have a physical reaction to them....

2011-05-18T10:10:00.000-07:00

Your Love

Woke up this mornin'
There was a hurricane warnin'
Went to the store to get some supplies
Can goods and wata, but there as not a
Single roll of toilet paper inside
And it made me think that a oooh

Your love is like a good toilet paper (good toilet paper)
It never falls apart when the going gets tough I said uh
Your love is like a good toilet paper (good toilet paper)
When its stormin' outside, I cant get enough
Said uh I can't get enough

Baby when I think about you
Can't think of something that I want to
I know I couldn't live without you in my life ooh-o-o-oh
I gotta have you near me (near me)
Don't want your love to disappear see (see)
Don't know what else I can say for this next line
But it makes me think that uh ooh

Your love is like a good toilet paper (good toilet paper)
It never falls apart when the going gets tough I said uh
Your love is like a good toilet paper (good toilet paper)
When its stormin' outside, I cant get enough
Said uh I can't get enough

Rap

Oh yo oh yoy
Can you hear me now good!
If you ever wonder why I say what I say
Da good toilet paper keep me clean everyday
You stay by my side never ever go away
And never running out is what I hope and I pray
Your lovin' is so fresh and so clean and so strong
Girl like a roll of Charmin girl your lovin' last long
Your love is so good and you girl are so pretty
With your love behind me girl I never feel shhh LORD!

Back to the drawing board...

2011-05-16T18:22:00.000-07:00

I had an epiphany today. I am a good photographer. I've won awards for photojounalism. I'm no slouch on any sports photography venue. But I also need to evolve.

I moved back to California after enjoying a lot of success as a photographer in Hawaii. I thought I could pick right up where I left off. The problem is that as a self-taught wedding/portrait photographer, I forgot something really important. I'm not in Hawaii anymore.

Hawaii was beautiful and I never had many issues shooting there. The light and backdrops were always ideal. I seldom had problems finding nice, soft, diffused light. California is different. Not only is it much more competitive for photographers here, there's the challenge of finding just the right shooting location, the difference in light, and all the aforementioned competition to deal with. Yes, I need to build my portfolio, figure out a new angle. Mostly, I just want to shoot. I miss taking photographs. I want to experiment. And I want to find new ways to take photos and make them art. I've seen a lot more of this lately and I am really excited to try my hand.

I'm a realist and I realized that I need to get back on the training track. There are so many incredible photographers out there doing so many fantastic things. I watch their blogs and progress and I really enjoy their work.

Mariea Rummel Photography is one, and I've recently also discovered Jessie Lee O'Ferrall, of Rustic Barn-- both great. My cousin-in-law Sara has SaraJane Photography also fabulous.

So I'm back to training. I am committing to learning everything I can about studio photography and portraiture and locations and shooting in California. I am inspired. I am rejuvenated. I am ready to build my portfolio and get down to work.

So.... if anyone is looking to have portraits done, I am ready to start the process. Well, give me a few weeks to have a baby and THEN I am ready. I am looking for candidates with newborns, infants, babies, children-- actually, anyone with a face will do. Thank you to my friends who have already volunteered, and anyone else interested, hit me up via email.

How Disney Malignes Stepmothers

2011-04-25T15:11:00.000-07:00

    Why do fairy tales, particularly Disney stories, have the bad guy be the evil stepmother? Okay so it’s not all of them… but notably, Cinderella’s stepmother and Snow White’s stepmother (the Evil Queen). They are some first class baddies, no denying it. Why do stepmothers get such a bad rap? The way Disney puts it, stepmothers are hell-bent on destroying the hopes and dreams of any children not naturally related to them.

    My stepdaughter, Madelyn, doesn’t seem to make the connection or care much. When we read Cinderella we sometimes call the stepmother the “bad lady” and the stepsisters we refer to as the “mean sisters”-- this is more for me than for Maddy, to whom I am her Julie, as if that is my title rather than my name. Maddy and I got acquainted two years ago at our church’s Easter Egg-stravaganza. Justin and I weren’t even dating yet but he brought her to the event and they hit my bounce house station first.

    It took Maddy a good thirty seconds to decide I was about her most favorite person in the world, at least for that moment. She was just a little over three, blue eyed and chubby cheeked, and there was nothing cuter than the pair of them, Daddy and his little girl, to melt my heart completely. At the time I was once again a single mom of my own little blue-eyed monster, who hadn’t had the smoothest road when it came to stepparents. My son was a lot older, eight, when he met his now stepdad, but it was clear from the beginning that though he was prepared to love Justin as “the guy married to his mom”, he was not going to be as easy to transition as Maddy.

    Life as a stepparent is hard and Justin definitely faced more challenges than I did, despite the lack of Disney step father villains. He and Isaiah are doing really well. Isaiah loves Justin and looks up to him, respects him, but it’s definitely a different dynamic and a tougher road to bond with an eight year old than a three year old. Luckily Isaiah is also at that stage when he’s craving male role models and drawing back a bit from “mommy” so Justin fits the bill in that respect quite nicely. I don’t worry as much about their relationship though-- they’re guys, and it seems like they communicate through sports and video games pretty well.

    Throughout the past two years Maddy and I have made great strides. I love her so much and there is no difference in my mind and heart or my treatment of her that indicates we are not as close as if we had been able to be biologically related. Still, the “stepmother” stigma bugs me sometimes. I hate the idea and I worry that someday in the future I will hear those dreaded words-- you’re not my real mommy. Because of course, I’m not, nor do I have any delusions that I will ever be. There is a delicate balance between stepparents and biological ones, and it’s a balance I have no desire to upset. She has a mom, and she has a Julie. I just want there to be room in her heart and her world for me. Hopefully exposure to Disney movies won't be detrimental to that desire.

    There is a temptation to be softer on her than I would on my “bio” kids, to court favor and make sure those horrible words never emerge from her cute little mouth. But to do that would be a reverse favoritism that would only damage, and I know that as well as the next person. There are words that “bio” kids are capable of spouting that are just as hurtful -- “I wish you weren’t my mom,” or “I hate you”-- that’s a great one-- or one of my personal favorites, which I just heard from my son last week-- “I’d rather go live in an orphanage.” That was classic and I can only imagine he got the term from a book-- kid reads a lot. I don’t even think there are such facilities anymore, at least not in the U.S. We have something that can be much worse called foster care-- I shudder to think of my sensitive, precocious boy in a foster care scenario. He didn’t realize what he was saying, obviously-- but words like that are only meant to hurt.

    They do. Someday Maddy will figure it out too-- whether she draws parallels from the evil characters in her beloved fairy tales or just one day figures out that she can hurt me if she chooses. These days, at five and a half, she mostly goes the other direction-- wanting all my attention, wanting to do things with me as much as Daddy-- it’s a girl thing-- and accepting me as a parent figure without question. It may continue like that forever-- after all, she really doesn‘t remember life before I was in the picture.

    I’m hopeful that we will always have a good relationship. She doesn’t love being told to make her bed and the occasional time outs I dish out when behavior warrants, but she’s not eating poisoned apples, being locked in towers or being forced into slave labor while the prince wonders where she is. Although when it comes to princes hanging around, that’s a whole other worry. One I hope we won’t have to face for years to come.

Baby Beats: Biological Inequality

2011-04-14T19:43:00.000-07:00

It Begins:

Never watch birthing videos at 8 months pregnant. Just don’t do it. It’s scary and violent and you begin to fear greatly for the future of your lady parts. For me I also hate hospitals-- particularly the one I’m going to deliver at. They are filled with sick people, for one-- diseased and germy people around my nice new clean baby. Who will come out all covered in goo though... hmm.

There’s the other stuff too-- epidurals and IV’s and monitors… aye. It’s not looking good. The videos where people are giving birth naturally at home-- aye again. Not for me, either. Yuck. I have no idea where I’d really want to give birth, and at this moment the entire idea both disgusts and scares the hell out of me. It’s awkward and embarrassing, messy, there’s yelling and it’s just not very dignified. You lose all your sense of modesty.

And giving birth is just the end game of this awkward process. Sex-- the thing that got us all into this mess-- that's a whole other can of worms. It reminds me of a part of Lady Chatterly’s Lover, by D.H. Lawrence. Constance talks about the visuals of sex, how ridiculous it is to see and hear. She’s totally right. They reference it in the movie Dogma as well-- as a big celestial joke that God and the angels all have a good laugh over every time they see humans going at it-- it’s just that. Awkward and embarrassing, with rude sounds and things slapping and flapping around grotesquely.

But as that's what got us into this in the first place, it’s only fitting that another like act would get us out of it. And it doesn’t happen to men-- as with out social status and capital, women lost the equality lottery biologically, big time. Talk all you want about the miracle of birth and the things we get to experience that they never do, but the fact is that the burden isn't split fairly by biologically. We got screwed. It's a fact. I’d so much rather be a woman than a man, no question, but you have to admit we got the short end of the stick. We’re physically weaker and easier to overpower. The whole pregnancy thing is on us-- men have the power to pull a conceive and leave whenever they choose, and we’re stuck holding the bag.

Even in the Bible women like Hagar had to just take it from the men and if things didn’t go as planned. She had no recourse and she and her kid were left to die in the dessert by a supposed man of God. It’s a little frustrating. We’re the ones with The Scarlet Letter and good old Dimmesdale just sits by and watches without taking any responsibility in the matter. Sure, he gets it in the end courtesy of fate and poetic justice but if he had his way he would have just sit there forever and let Hester take the brunt of it for their joint crime.

I’m just saying. We all know about social capital-- where men get more appealing and better looking as they age and women tend to go down hill, along with their social capital. Single older women become “cougars” -- older women who prey on young men-- while men become George Clooney and Sean Connery. They're matched up against Catherine Zeta-Jones while the women get to be mom's and grandma's in movies even when they're still gorgeous-- Anette Benning does not get to play the love interest of Robert Pattinson.

And all the slang vernacular associated with female genitalia deals with weakness and cowardice (i.e. a “pussy”) whereas if you have balls you are quite brave and strong. Well, I have ovaries, thank you, and I’m saying it takes a lot more courage and strength to be a woman. We might get the short end of the stick but we stand up to it with more tenacity. I'd like to see men be responsible for perpetuating the species. They're just not built for it. So next time you want to give someone a compliment, tell them they've got ovaries of steel. Because yes, we do.

Not abandoned... I promise!

2011-04-13T18:28:00.000-07:00

I know I promised to update more and that I was back to blogging for good... and I am. I have good reason for being MIA lately... I'm writing! Not that this online column isn't writing-- it is-- but I've been frantically working on my novel and my brain needs rest at the end of the day. Apparently it's true that in the third trimester of pregnancy, your brain cells actually lose mass. Don't worry, I'll gain it back after the baby is born. For now, though, my focus is on making the babies-- the one currently under construction in my belly, and my baby novel. The good news is I'm nearly halfway done with the novel, and the baby... well, he's about seven weeks away from joining us all in the real world. Until then, I feel like this blog is going to take a backseat. A temporary hiatus. A sabbatical, if you will.

But I will be back, make no mistake about that. I have an upcoming series in the works, on the way-- going to try to hone my topics a little, instead of being all over the place, and do a four part blog series on being a mom and a writer simultaneously. So keep an eye out in the future for "Baby, Ink"-- it may be a completely separate online column though, so that I can keep this one for my more esoteric, abstract, subversive ventures. Man, I sound cool. And anyone who reads this should feel cool too-- misunderstood by the world, totally involved in a hidden universe that only a select few are a part of, and just very, very cool. I'm excited.

Love you all and stay tuned! :-)

Polymaths, dilattantes and the Renaissance Woman

2011-03-29T00:27:00.000-07:00

    My great grandmother could do anything. At least that's what I thought at eleven years old. She crocheted afghans. She could gut fish, can tomatoes, and make the best peanut butter cookies in the universe. After so many years my memory of her is dim and probably colored with inaccuracies and stories that aren't true memories, but I always thought she was somewhat remarkable in her versatility and the things she could do.

    I'm a dabbler. I know a little about a variety of subjects, but I would probably fall in the category of loving many things, mistress of none. It's shameful to me, the fact that I haven't ever stuck with anything long enough to master it. I dabble and flit between activities, taking up one thing for a few months and dropping it when something shiny catches my eye.

    A few months ago I came in contact with a woman, we’ll call her Beatrice. That’s not her name but it’s interesting. Beatrice shined with an ultra-violet light. I was immediately drawn to her personality. She was a woman who had lived. We started chatting and it seemed like she had experience in every subject that came up. She had just finished hiking Mt. Whitney, making the 22-mile trek-- in one day. I did it in three days, with a full posse of guys to set up and break down tents, cook, carry gear, and fetch water. Beatrice climbed the highest peak in the contiguous United States at 62. I was 23 and nearly collapsed.

    She shared delicious gourmet recipes with me, which included ingredients I’d never heard of, like endives and shallots. Endive is basically a kind of lettuce used in salads, and shallots are onions. They sound so much more exotic. She brought cuttings from her garden of plants and knew the biological names for all of them. Beatrice hiked with her dog almost every weekend. One day, Beatrice showed up in painter’s pants because she had what she called an “outdoor day” planned-- painting, finishing cabinets she was building, and changing the oil in her car.

    Before she retired she was a teacher. For five years she taught school. Then she got bored. She started her own line of couture. She sold her business when she was ready to move on and with the proceeds she bought a motorcycle, some new camera gear and took herself on a a trip to Europe. She got a job at the post office. She worked for a senator as an administrative assistant. She was a docent at the museum of natural history. She was a photographer and her work was shown at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. She was married and had four children and eight grandchildren.

    Her husband died, so she moved to Japan for a year and taught English. Then she moved to San Francisco. She lived in New York for a year. She was fluent in Italian, Spanish, and Japanese.

    I realized after a few months of knowing Beatrice that she and I are not so different. She was a dabbler too, a jack-of-all-trades. Only she would be what’s referred to as a Renaissance woman or polymath. A person well educated or who excels in a wide variety of subjects or fields. I know a little about a lot of things. Beatrice excelled in a lot of things. But the world wouldn’t criticize someone like her. She’s not so different from me. She skipped around from career to career, never settling on a single option. She did things that she wanted to do and when she got bored, she switched.

    Despite this seemingly drifting nature, she developed her skills as a part of her life and made it work for her. She told me once that she didn’t want all her eggs in one basket, so with a teacher’s pension and a post office pension, she was covered. Plus she saved by doing things for herself instead of hiring people whenever she could. She was efficient and thrifty without losing out when it came to comfort and style. She stayed healthy and trim and in style-- she didn't look her age, despite her long silver hair. She sometimes wore men’s shirts and work boots and she still looked as cool and stylish as she did in her Seven for All Mankind jeans or yoga pants. She pulled off a lot of different looks-- her personal style was as varied as her life.

After meeting her I realized I am not as much of a “failure” as I have sometimes thought. I am an aspiring Renaissance Woman. There are so many things out there to learn, so many interesting subjects to invest time in and master. It's thrilling and I feel the energy surge every time I think of the things I want to do. I don't think life has to be limited to just one passion, one commitment.

    My first commitment is always going to be to my writing, but I have plenty of second best affections to bestow. It's liberating to know that it's okay to be multi-faceted-- to realize I don't have to apologize anymore for my interests or be ashamed if I express a desire to start a band or become an astronaut or learn to write shorthand. I can do it all if I want-- no holds barred. I can blog and still write novels. I can learn to ride a motorcycle and play the guitar and fish and garden and knit and build model airplanes if I want to. My only caveat-- and it's a newer ideal-- is to master each skill I commit to. If I want to learn to play guitar, I will work until I can do it. It’s a pretty exciting idea and I’m ready to get my hands dirty.

    So here's to Great-Grandma Jean, to Beatrice, to new adventures, and to never, ever settling for ordinary. Cheers!

Reboot

2011-03-28T12:30:00.000-07:00

    I’m back. I have neglected this blog for the past two months, mostly because I was pouting. I started to feel like no one was reading it, like I was just talking to myself and the sparse handful of loyal readers who are always there for me. I tried brevity. I tried shock value. I tried to entice readers in with cheap tricks and over posting on Facebook.
    I started this blog (let’s call it an “online column”, shall we?) to gain credibility and attention as a writer. I hoped that the column would gain popularity, and then when I submit my stories and manuscript, editors might say hey, I recognize that name. Right now I have no other way of building up a frame of reference, aside from actual publication. I am vigorously collecting rejection letters to that end. Still, I’m willing to keep trying the online column thing in an attempt to get my name out there. Obviously it only works if I have readers, but I recently read something on Penelope Trunk’s blog that made perfect sense-- if you write it they will come. I’m not getting a lot of readers right now, but then I’m not posting anything new either.
    So I’m back and I’m done pouting. To the few of you who are my ever-loyal readers, thank you from the very center of my heart (because the bottom of my heart sounds like a place where the dregs collect, whereas the center is the source of the lifeblood and very much more valuable). This is just a notification that I will commence writing and not let myself give up just because of reader-greed.
    If you loyal few do feel like being supportive though-- you can help by posting on Facebook, forwarding links via email, subscribing to the blog-- every little bit helps. I will post a “real” blog first thing tomorrow so if you feel helpful please do what you can to forward it along. I will keep writing regardless. But helpfulness is appreciated.
    Love you all!

Are Christian women too dumb to read literature?

2011-02-07T12:25:00.000-08:00

It’s a question I asked myself while reading a novel by a popular writer of Christian fiction. I don’t think it’s true-- I know many Christian women who are quite literary and enjoy well-written works of fiction. So why instead of C.S. Lewis are we getting this kind of insulting effort on the parts of so-called Christian fiction writers? Do they just not care or do they feel like Christian women are so dumb we won’t know the difference between Shakespeare and Diane Steele?

I started reading this book on a mission-- to see what is out there. I haven’t decided exactly what genre I’m writing or who I’m specifically writing to so I wanted to see what Christian fiction looks like these days. As a young adult I read a lot of Jeanette Oke books but that was about it for adult Christian fiction. Not great but not horrible either. She’s a fair writer and not too preachy-- not someone I aspire to be like but not someone who’s work I would be ashamed to see on the shelf next to mine, were such a lovely thing as publication to occur.

Does Christian fiction need to contain in every other sentence some reference to God and prayer and what is happening in the characters’ spiritual lives? This writer certainly seemed to think so, but I wouldn’t want to be like her for all the published novels in the world. I won’t name names but I certainly felt at the end that if Christians were anything like those portrayed in her book, I would not want to be associated with them at all. That writer must live in a very sad Christian community, a world peopled with hypocrites and sanctimonious preachers and gossips. Either that or she only knows how to write those kind of characters, and assumes that most of us only want to read about Christians like that.

I read a story about the Salem witch trials once-- historical non-fiction, but moving all the same. In the midst of all the accusations a woman was fingered as being a witch. Her husband publicly denounced the accusation as absurd. The fingers then pointed at him as an accomplice, and later even as a witch himself. He denied it. He was told if he spoke out against his wife he would be acquitted and released. He refused. So the righteous people of the town hung his wife and sister-in-law in front of his eyes and again asked him to recant and denounce his wife as a witch and he would be saved. He refused.

They laid boards on top of him and piled more and more rocks on the boards, slowly and painfully crushing him to death. They asked him before each rock was added if he would recant and place blame on his wife. I think if it were me I would have been thinking that she was already dead so what was the harm? But he was a better person than me, and he refused. The only thing he would say was “More weight!” He stood by her to the end, through death, and pronounced her innocence.

That a live human person could have such faith in God and in their spouse as to die that way, and as to live that way, spoke volumes to me. Yet in this book all the Christians immediately turn on an accused woman, including her own husband, when an obvious police agenda points an evidentiary finger at her. The one man, a preacher, who does believe her, does so in the most sanctimonious way and only with the blessed intention to save her, a lost woman. It made me sick, the narrative pat on the back he was given in the book.

I kept reading, thinking the author was simply setting her readers up and at the end would address the fact that this community of Christians were just awful people and they would see the light, change their ways, have an epiphany-- something that would redeem them. But no-- in the end the heroine magnanimously forgives them even though they were so horrible to her, and they excuse their way out of it easily and with an aw-shucks manner and no actual apology to her whatsoever. Yes, her extreme faith buoyed her up and kept her from holding grudges against her family and friends, who apparently learned nothing from the situation.

There are many hypocritical, sanctimonious, judgmental, gossipy people in the world who claim to be Christians. I don’t know their hearts so I couldn’t say whether they are or are not. I certainly don’t want their behavior to be exalted though, or identified as how Christians behave.

I know a lot of wonderful Christians. They are certainly flawed individuals. Their faith is real and goes through the same peaks and valleys as mine does. Some are more generous, loving and forgiving than others. Some are fake. Some are lost. But they are all real people. They would all make interesting characters and none of them speaks only about their good deeds, their faith in God, and how He’s working in their lives, in every sentence.

They don’t even speak that way at church all the time. They manage to talk about the weather and their struggles to lose weight. They talk about their kids-- not usually about how perfect they are but about their struggles in raising them. They talk about their spouses and their finances and car troubles and how fun it is to find a forgotten twenty dollar bill in a pocket while doing laundry.

I think I’m going to write a story about these people. Not a story centered on their Christianity but a story about their lives and how as Christians they deal with real issues. They will be flawed. They will most usually do the wrong thing and realize too late their mistake. They will not always remember to turn to God when times are tough and their Christian friends will let them down. They won’t always come out on the other side whole and well and with a new perspective on life and renewed faith in God. But sometimes they will. And that is real.

Dedicated to the one I love

2011-01-30T13:37:00.000-08:00

Jan. 18, 2011

I touched him three times that morning. The first was accidental, my hand brushing his knuckles as I reached for my coffee. The second I think I just wanted to feel the warmth of his skin, know that he was really sitting there and this was really happening. The third was to make sure he wouldn’t forget me.

Not that I was really worried that he would forget me. I was pretty confident he wouldn’t. After all, he’d known me most of his life. That wasn’t the reason I made an impression that particular morning. It was more than that. It was like suddenly realizing what we'd spent the past ten years missing out on.

Of course neither one of us realized it with that much clarity that morning. All we knew is that we were two old high school friends meeting up for coffee and to catch up. Two damaged, divorced single parents just looking for old pals to maybe connect with. It wasn’t an intentional date. It wasn’t supposed to be destiny.

Three hours went by in a blink. I studied his eyes, his hands, his smile, surreptitiously, as we sipped coffee slowly. He’d changed a lot since high school, since the last time I’d seen him. Gone was the slim, clean-shaven boy with the light in his dreamy, smiling eyes. In his place was a man, one with broad shoulders and a five o’clock shadow and something else. The past ten years played across his face as he talked, turning his cup absently. I saw heartbreak and experience. His eyes now showed a man who had seen too much but managed to keep a handle on himself despite something inside screaming against injustice and hurt.

I wondered as I played with my own coffee cup, shredding the liner and a napkin in my distraction, what he was thinking looking at the changes in me. An older, somewhat thicker version of the girl he must have imagined. A woman now, with dark hair replacing the natural blonde, and a smile tinged with regrets. Blue eyes darkened by the loss of innocence and the passage of time.

As two new old friends we talked for hours and left wondering what had just happened. Later we compared notes from that morning and realized that despite ourselves we spent the next few days thinking about the other, about what they were doing and thinking and feeling. Later he told me that he realized immediately that his life would never be the same.

I was slower in figuring things out. Newly single, I was enjoying the dating life. I wasn’t looking to get involved and it was still so strange to me, to be thinking in any real terms of romance with my old high school friend. A friend I never quite connected with enough in the past, that much was certain. I couldn’t get enough of him in some way-- I wanted to talk to him on the phone, to text and email and hear what he had to say about everything and tell him all my deepest secrets. On other levels I was completely cold to him, locked in frozen confusion as to what it all meant.

I’m sure those first few weeks and months were frustrating to him, especially being so much further along in the progression of feelings than I. Me with my rules, my unbreakable rules, rules meant to protect me from repeating past mistakes. Rules like no military guys, no cops, no guys with young children, no recently divorced men-- a funny one because I myself was recently divorced. He fell into every category in some way. And yet, despite all my infallible methods of protection, he managed to become necessary to me. Inescapable.

Once he put an end to it all. He got some bad news, unrelated to whatever was happening between us but with my resistance to anything beyond friendship, he had had enough. After all, he deserved to protect himself from heartbreak too, and he had enough other problems without adding unrequited love to the list. He was agitated, upset, and decided that with all the other issues, pursuing someone not interested in him wasn’t on his to do list. He called for radio silence.

This silence lasted nearly ten minutes. Ten minutes of a cease fire of communication that had been constant since that morning coffee. We hadn’t stopped talking or texting since we’d reconnected, and that silence nearly killed me. I felt like I had lost a limb. I think then I knew, on some level, if not in my head, that I would never exist without him. Not just live-- one can live without something they love, like a diabetic giving up chocolate or an alcoholic who’s taken his last drink. But to me he wasn’t an addiction, he was a need. It was like asking me to live without oxygen, without water, without food or light or heat.

And heat, as it turned out, was my final undoing. After all the weeks of my resistance I returned from a week-long trip to find myself wanting to spend time with him in person. In the flesh, in real life, with no electronic barriers of phones and emails and safe miles between us. If he was my oxygen, I wanted to know it.

The first time he kissed me I felt the heat. It spread over my entire body as soon as our lips met, warming me to my core. I felt numb and alive all at the same time, shocked into disarming cardiac arrhythmia. He was gentle, undemanding, but there was something so sensual and compelling about his kiss. I wanted more-- I couldn’t stop myself from falling into his arms.

The first kiss was like the first time seeing the ocean. The marvel of size and vastness and sheer depth-- it changed everything for me forever. From that moment on, even though it wasn’t until a few days later that I told him, I was his. Mind, body, and soul, I knew he was the last man I would ever kiss, the only man I have ever loved. It sounds like comical hyperbole to say that, to throw words around that are used so commonly in the language of romance. Words like soul mate, forever, til death.

I don’t think I ever really believed in soul mates, not really. To me it was a concept created by Hallmark to suck in gullible saps. Nothing a jaded divorcee would be capable of believing in, at any rate. I knew without a doubt that in this life and any before or after, he and I were sealed and connected in a way that perhaps God had intended, and in a bond that no human could break.

Maybe I’m an extremist or a romantic. Maybe the world has sucked the meaning out of love, until it’s cold and dark and common. I don’t know. One thing I do know is that forever love, the kind I have with my soul mate, doesn’t happen for everyone. It’s a rare and precious thing, and one I will always treasure and never take for granted. Yep, I used the word never. And forever.

To the man I love, Happy Birthday

2011-01-30T10:31:00.000-08:00

Every mom has a birth story, the one about the day their baby was born. Justin’s mom isn’t here to tell his, and she’s the only one who really could tell it in detail, recounting the feelings of the moment, 32 years ago, when her first baby was born.

But I’ve seen his baby book. I’ve read her journal from the year that he was born. And one thing I know for sure-- he was a miracle to her. She loved him so much. No matter what happened the day after or the week after or for the rest of his life, on this day 32 years ago he was the most special baby every born.

She doesn’t get to be here, either, to tell him happy birthday or how proud she is of the way he turned out. I know she is proud though. She would tell him that he grew into a man of integrity, of compassion, someone dependable and trustworthy and loving and considerate. She would tell him how proud she is that he’s come so far and made a successful life for himself and his family. She would dote on the grand-babies he’s given her and be so excited for the one still to come this year, his son that will carry on his family name. She would tell him that she loves him more than anything and that even as a grown-up man he will always be her baby.

I know this because she wrote down everything about him in her journals--the things he could say when he learned to speak, how soon he rolled over, how he looked when he laughed. She wrote down every detail-- songs he could sing, his sleep habits, how very smart he was even from a tiny baby. Every time he had a birthday party she wrote down the name of every single guest, what presents they brought, and how much fun he had. She kept track of the little things-- how he rocked himself to sleep on his hands and knees as a baby, and how he knew the words to every single commercial jingle he’d ever seen, and could sing them perfectly in tune and timing.

It doesn’t take a mom to tell you how special you are, but it does mean a lot to hear it from that one person. She didn’t get to be here long but while she was alive she gave the world an incredible person, and made sure he grew up with the best character traits and the best heart. The world would be an awful place without him.

I thank her, my mother in law Annette Denise Watson, a woman I only got to meet very briefly, in passing, many years ago. I thank her for bringing Justin into the world, my soul mate, my best friend. I thank her for helping him grow into a man I want to have children with, and a man I want my children to grow up to be like. Thank you, Mom. You did well. I love you, Justin David Wixom. With all my heart, for the rest of my life and beyond, as long as I am capable of it. Happy Birthday.

Not Applicable

2011-01-27T21:36:00.001-08:00

I feel guilty. Pursuing a writing career is an idiotic, selfish endeavor. A fool's errand. Pure torture. Sounds fun, eh? Every day I check the classifieds and glean out four or five jobs I am qualified to do-- office work, or taking care of other people's children, or taking care of old people. I do not apply. I can blame this lack of career ambition on my burgeoning belly-- what employer in this economy would be eager to hire a pregnant woman-- or the stiff competition but the reality is that I am sticking to my dream, my goal of being a published writer.

With everyone struggling and our bank account draining I look again to the want ads. Taking yet another ten-dollar and hour job is an option for sure. I did the math once and figured out that I net about fifty dollars a week when I subtract my expenses. And that doesn’t include time away from my husband and kids and wear and tear on my body.

With submission deadlines looming for pieces not guaranteed publication, I think back longingly to a time I had a paying, slightly respectable writing job. That’s the thing with writing-- no guarantees. No certainties that anyone even cares about what I write. And yet, like a moth flying blindly and repeatedly into a porch light, bound for death, I continue the masochistic journey. Following the dream.

On days like these it seems particularly hopeless. Between moving kids about from one place to another, making breakfast, lunch, and dinner, plus dishes, laundry, bedtimes, vitamins, homework, it seems like there’s not even time to write. No writing, no publishing, no dream. I wonder what the point is of having children if I don’t get to spend time with them, care for them, love them, read to them, and become increasingly more annoyed with their endless questions. Ultimately, despite my complaints, I love my children so much. I’m even in the process of making another. It’s pretty nervy of me to continue pursuing writing with so many other responsibilities.

And yet: hope. I don’t know why I believe, but I do. I don’t know why every day I don’t give up on writing and seize an opportunity to be a receptionist or cashier or waitress. I am a writer. I’m holding fast. Every day, I have to give myself a pep talk. Today is the day I will write something compelling, remarkable, undeniable. Today is the day.

Short and Silly

2011-01-26T13:32:00.000-08:00

I have no bathroom door. It sounds strange but the way the house is laid out the master bedroom goes right into the bathroom. The shower doors and walls are clear glass. Locking the bedroom door is a must for anyone who wants to shower in privacy.

Today I forgot to put the dog outside while I showered. I didn’t think much of it until he planted himself on the bathroom rug and stared at me. It was unnerving. I started wondering what he was thinking. Perhaps he was trying to figure out what I was doing. I certainly wondered what he was doing.

He got up suddenly and disappeared, hackles raised. That actually did freak me out-- I was alone in the house and no one was expected back for hours. The doors were locked but still... I was in the shower. If someone decided to break in I think I would be more embarrassed than anything else.

That's one of my fears- ridiculous though it seems. Having someone break in when I’m showering, or maybe the house catching on fire while showering. Something that involves me ending up naked in public. I like my privacy. I don't get how strippers do it.

And I think now I’m going to need therapy from all the dog-staring. Or maybe the dog will need therapy, I don’t know. Either way, we now have a very awkward relationship. He hangs his head when he passes me in the hall and I can’t quite meet his eyes.

What ifs

2011-01-25T19:01:00.000-08:00

I think at some point everyone asks a what if question. Even a small one-- what if I had been five minutes early instead of twenty minutes late? Would I have made a better contact or been involved in a horrible car accident? What if I hadn’t eaten that last doughnut? Would I have more energy or is it just an extra 20 minutes tacked on my run?

I have a dark what if on my mind these days. It’s not something pregnant moms are supposed to think about, not something anyone is ever supposed to talk about, and I’ll warn you now that some of my thoughts are downright offensive and perhaps even sacrilegious. But I persist in letting them wander across my subconscious from time to time.

The question is what if this baby is born and there’s something wrong with him? I never thought this with my first baby. I always just assumed he would be perfect and “normal” and healthy. Babies are, right?

And I never gave it a second thought as to how I would react if he weren’t perfect-- every parent assumes that as soon as their baby is born they will love it no matter what. And they do and I will too. But I wonder if deep down, there would be that moment of disappointment and despair. Of horror and shame and the awful thought that someone made a big mistake, and I got the wrong baby. How could a parent think that?

I’ve been hearing a lot about autism these days-- lots of people suddenly seem to have kids with this condition. It makes me wonder if God is preparing me to have an autistic child. I saw an article on hemifacial microsomia and thought maybe that will be the case-- one half of the baby’s face is deformed.

Spina bifida, cerebral palsy, congestive heart failure, leukemia, Down’s syndrome… there are so many things that could go wrong. And I’ll bet any parent with a child that has any of those conditions loves that child fiercely, would do anything for them, and wouldn’t trade them for the world. And they mean it-- the words aren’t just lip service. I just wonder if any of them had that moment of anger at God. That tiny, fleeting second when maybe the what ifs creep in.

Neither of my children are perfect, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything, and I love them both fiercely. Outwardly though, and when it comes to disease and deformities they are both sound and whole. Their imperfections lie in the same place my own do-- “normal” issues like having a bad attitude or a penchant for procrastination.

My son has a lot to deal with emotionally, being a little over sensitive like his mother. My daughter has a distinct proclivity for sassiness and backtalk which is probably an age thing. Their issues are mild and common to all children.

A child with one of those other issues would most likely be the same-- just because they are born with a cleft palate doesn’t mean they will have perfect attitudes. Children born with leukemia can still disobey, draw on the walls, try to flush the kitten down the toilet. They will still be sassy and emotional if that is their bent, and fight with their siblings and mouth off and spill things and talk back.

I think those wayward thoughts, if they do cross a parents' mind, are stifled by the reality of their child and the love, so deep and full, that casts out any imperfections in an instant. I think I will be the same. I will see the perfect gift in their smile, lopsided or not, and the love that lights up their eyes when they look at me.

No, I don’t think parents with disabled children feel sorry for themselves or angry at God or regretful for their fate or think about the what ifs. I think they feel blessed and happy that they have such a precious gift. That moment when the news sinks in that their child will always be different must be fleeting at best, before they look at their sleeping baby and love him more than life itself.

Every morning I wake up with a gentle but persistent fluttery kicking in my abdomen. This baby is an early riser, I can tell already. I lay in bed for a few moments with my hand on my belly, feeling him kick and turn and tap out messages from the inside. I love him so much already.

In my mind I already know him-- he has a name and a face, though the face is rather indistinct and exists only in my imagination. He has hopes and dreams and a life ahead of him and all the good things I wish for him are already coming true. He is alive and well.

In the year before I became pregnant with him I lost two other babies. People say all kinds of things meant to be comforting-- maybe they weren’t meant to be born-- maybe they would have been sick or horribly deformed or wouldn’t have lived long. I know they mean well and there's nothing good to say to a mother who has lost a baby, but I loved those babies--I still miss them and ache for them and I can’t be philosophically cheerful about losing them.

I wouldn’t have cared if they’d been born like that-- I wanted them so badly. I wanted them to be born. It scares me to think of losing this baby, every day I’m scared. Every day I’m still pregnant I fall more in love with this baby and thank God that he’s coming.

When I think what if he is sick or deformed and won’t live long, I think of those lost babies. I've wondered if I would have a moment where I curse God and get angry at the unfairness and wish he’d never been born. I think of my two babies in heaven and I know that I won’t. I will be thankful and happy to get to see his little face and count his fingers and toes. And I know that if he’s short a few digits or has a lopsided smile, he will be my sweet baby forever. I don't believe there are what ifs in parenting. Only what is. Love.

Defeating myself (not self-defeat)

2011-01-24T10:46:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamed a person I don’t get along with very well had died in a car accident. No, it’s not you, stop being neurotic. However, I think we all have people in our lives that, while we don’t hate them, are definitely the proverbial thorn in our sides.

I always thought if something bad happened to this person-- we’ll call him Sid-- that I’d be happy. A world without Sid seemed like a very nice place to be. In my dream, I wasn’t involved or responsible for Sid’s death, but when it happened, it affected me. Deeply. I found myself comforting Sid’s little son, having to be the one to explain to him that his dad wasn’t ever coming back.

In the dream, I had to take responsibility for this child, and every day he would ask when he could see his dad. I always had to tell him never, and see the tears streak down his little sad face. I found myself eulogizing Sid, and in my eulogy I though of all the things Sid is to other people and how his existence in the world is actually valuable. I found myself feeling sad and wishing fervently that Sid was all right, that he wasn't dead. I awoke with a start and tears on my cheeks.

Everyone is something to somebody, right? Even if they’re a Sid to you, do horrible and annoying things, and make your life hell sometimes, they’re something else to somebody else. I guess I forget that sometimes, when I’m so focused on disliking Sid.

I realized-- all the energy and time I spend disliking him are completely wasted. What does Sid care that I sit home and wonder if he’s cooking up something to make me miserable? Does he even know? If he does, he gives no indication. Sid doesn’t care what I do. I care what Sid is doing, which is why he’s such a problem for me.

I spend much more time than is healthy wondering about what he’s thinking and doing, even having imaginary conversations with him, where I of course always come out on top and get him to realize the error of his ways, see where he’s wrong, apologize and accept my point of view as his own.

These conversations are totally useless because even true friends and loved ones don‘t behave that way-- they may see my point of view or apologize when they‘ve done something horrible, but I never get all that open-minded enlightenment and conversion to my way of thinking. It just doesn’t happen for any of us. Life is a constant struggle to understand and be understood, and rarely do those two walk through the door holding hands. Most of us are far more interested in being understood than in understanding.

Which is what my dream made me realize about Sid. He’s just a person, with his own life and his own little worries and issues, whose occasional interaction with me is minimal but doesn’t occupy his time. He probably isn’t off cooking up ways to torment me. Most likely, when things occur, it’s as much of an annoyance to him as it is to me.

We’re often at cross-purposes and unable to see each other’s point of view, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that his point of view isn’t as valid as mine. It’s just much more annoying to me because it’s not mine and I’m not eager to make things work out nicely for him, if they’re not working out for me.

I really do want to be a better person. If I can’t completely like Sid, I want to have a positive relationship with him. I want to let go of my obsessions, to stop caring about the things he does that don’t matter and don’t affect me. I especially want to let go of the awful things he's done in the past. I want to stop obsessing over those wrongs, which I can do nothing about and which have already been dealt with.

I’m doing something new now--focusing positively on people who I dislike in order to improve my own mental outlook. I want to conquer the past demons learn to get along with those that drag me down in life and who I can’t avoid dealing with.

I don’t want to have enemies in my life. It’s not worth it. I can’t change their behavior but I can make myself happier by not letting my focus on them disturb my own inner peace. Yes, I realize I just said inner peace. Deal with it.

This is me, letting go of the resentment and hurt they’ve caused and just dealing with the present. I am a person for whom the past is important-- I have issues letting things go. There, I said it. I need to stop. The white-knuckle grip I have on old issues is tiring.

I’m done caring about all those little hurts. I'm over obsessing about those wrongs and wondering what Sid is up to and how he's going to be an issue, especially when he's not being an issue except in my own mind. I’m ready for the here and now, where I can just…be. Cheesily living and letting live. It's not happening instantly, much to my chagrin, but every day I make progress. It feels good.

Lists

2011-01-13T17:23:00.000-08:00

Lists. I love lists. Somehow I feel so much better about the world in general if I have a to do list or a grocery list or a list for sanity. I am not making that up-- I actually have a list for sanity. Ways and reasons and things I can do to keep myself sane.

Today I lost my notebook containing all my lists and notes and things. Information that not even DaVinci could decode. Only my twisted brain would know what “Sunday theater pants coffee spill kitten nachos” means. Likewise my lists-- totally indecipherable to everyone but me. There are items on there like “dog happiness” and “kid bubble” which could probable mean anything, and items listed simply as “computer” which only I would know means that I need to take my old dead computer to be e-cycled and it’s in my trunk waiting for that errand to occur.

So having this information fall into the wrong hands would not be fatal-- someone might laugh but otherwise it’s harmless and unimportant to everyone but me. And to me, it is lifeblood. It is oxygen. It is absolutely necessary to my survival. When I realized it was missing I tried not to panic, but I checked in one of the two places I knew it wasn’t before freaking out. I mean, I knew exactly where it was-- in a shopping cart at Safeway where I’d left it after unloading my groceries. Probably getting wet and rain sodden, the precious lists running together in a river of blue ink and my soul’s despair. I nearly screamed aloud.

And yet-- hope. A simple solution. I called the Safeway lost and found and viola-- it was there. Some kind savior, some good Samaritan, some hero among humans saved my sanity and turned it in. I was saved. It was a miracle.

And now I feel like a complete headcase. Who goes to pieces over a notebook? My husband offered very kindly to help me recreate my lists, to remember the items and rewrite it all. But it cannot be done. It’s too much-- I forget things the moment they fall into my brain. Which is why I write them all down. Losing my notebook is like losing my mind. It cannot be recovered with a simple reboot. It can’t be rewritten. It makes me want to put my precious notebook under lock and key and never let anyone near it.

Does happiness make you boring?

2011-01-10T08:30:00.000-08:00

I’ve always been vaguely suspicious of happy people, or at least people who claim to be happy. I mean, is anyone really happy? Don’t they have bills to pay? Kids with runny noses and snotty attitudes? A wall in their house which they painted a slightly regrettable shade of green? And then there are those with happy marriages and relationships. What’s their deal? They talk about being married to their “soul mate” and best friend. They don’t complain about their mate’s bad habits, when everyone knows all men leave dirty socks lying around, little tiny hairs in the sink after shaving, and forget to feed the dog or take out the garbage, leaving you running the overflowing can to the curb in the freezing cold rain wearing pajamas and no bra, hoping it’s too dark for the garbage man to see unbrushed hair and threadbare socks?

Yes, I used to be suspicious of these people until I joined their ranks. I realized then that all those things still occur, all the time, but when you’re really happy with your life and your mate, they don’t bother you that much. You’re busy focusing on the way the sky is blue even when it‘s gray, how beautifully birds chirp- basically living in a forest straight out of a Disney movie. You still have bills to pay and snotty children and hairs in the sink but somehow though those things are minor and annoying, they don’t really touch the deeps of happiness.

This all makes me wonder about my favorite authors and artists, creators of the most inspiring, poignant, interesting, and dark works. They were not happy people- at least, I don’t suppose they were. No one thinks Sylvia Plath or Ernest Hemingway or Edgar Allan Poe were particularly happy and content with their lives. Kate Chopin, Virginia Woolfe, Mary Shelley…. They had angst beyond creditors and progeny. It’s doubtful that Charles Bukowski walks around writing sonnets to the sky. It’s doubtful Diane Arbus did, either.

There have got to be several talented artists out there who aren’t also clinically depressed alcoholics but as a group writers particularly seem to trend towards darkness. Does a sunny positive outlook cause writer’s block? Does it cause prose to come out flat, lifeless and dull on the page, full of clichés and inane drivel? I really hope not.

Sometimes though when I’m having a particularly happy, contented day-- which happens often-- my writing does seem to suffer. I’m not in the mood to explore my characters’ dark sides. I don’t want to kill people off in a tragically ironic way, leaving their loved ones baffled and grief stricken. I want everyone to be happy and in love and I want all my characters seem to wind up married to the man of their dreams living in a house with a white picket fence, having hugely successful careers that are satisfying and fulfilling while easily maintaining a meticulously clean house and vacationing in the Bahamas. Might be a fun way to live but it’s not very interesting to read about.

I feel like I may have found an artificial solution. I’m almost ashamed to say it because it sounds… well, wrong. Just wrong. But here it is-- stark honesty, feel free to judge at will. I was thinking the other day about acting, how some actors use a certain style of acting which isn’t very popular anymore. I can’t remember the term or find it on Wikipedia. But in drama we used to call it the Dead Puppies method. It basically involves focusing on something sad that makes you feel sad so you can cry during a scene. It’s an artificial way of conjuring up tears-- picture a dead puppy and you’ll be sad, for example. Hence the terminology attached to the method. It’s not exactly the same as method acting, because as I recall the dead puppy didn’t have to be your dead puppy, whereas method actors usually channel emotions and events from their own lives that make them sad.

There are plenty of ridiculously sad, ironic, awful stories out there--news, blogs, wherever-- which normally I avoid because I like to live ostrich land where ignoring the existence of sad and awful things makes them nonexistent. I admit it’s quite a cowardly approach to life but it also helps stave off clinical depression. I’m one of those annoyingly empathetic types who cries when I hear other people’s sad stories, though they are not about me. And walking around all day feeling other people’s pain and crying over it is something I’m actually fairly keen to avoid. It’s the reason I am not a therapist and the reason I dropped out of nursing school. I like that happiness, the boring contentment, to anchor me to solid ground and keep my mind from fixating on the sad and morbid aspects of life.

But I figure a little taste, a peek into Pandora’s box, can’t hurt from time to time. And that glimpse infuses a much truer layer of conflict and complex feelings into my characters that my own happiness can sometimes prevent me from delving into. It’s a win, really-- albeit a mighty strange way of channeling angst. Inspiration from real life makes characters more real, right? And there’s really no such thing as happily ever after, except in fairy tales. Maybe I should switch genres.

If you like Pina Coladas at 5 a.m....

2011-01-06T06:14:00.000-08:00

Insomnia is boring. People think it’s interesting and somewhat funny, but it’s not. It just hours of laying awake in the dark, wondering if maybe aliens exist or if there might be a spider in your bed or how you’re going to get through the next day on only three hours of sleep. For me, I wait a reasonable amount of time before turning on a light and trying to find something to quiet my brain-- books, television, crossword puzzles, staring contests with my dog… it’s all futile.

I mean it’s good getting a chance to finally watch Beverly Hills Cop II for the first time in two decades, and waking my husband up by crunching on slightly stale Cheerios as a five a.m. snack is always entertaining-- misery loves company-- but at the end of the hour I feel like I should be doing something productive, since I happen to be awake. And not Facebook quizzes or Farmville, people. Something really important and dramatic and fabulous, like, say, writing.

The sad and ironic part of insomnia is that when you’re sleep deprived your normally sharp, witty brain takes a hiatus. There is nothing remotely clever floating even on the periphery of my brain. And as an added disclaimer I should say-- blogging at this early hour is probably not a wise choice. At all. Seeing as my alarm clock just went off (it’s finally six a.m., thank goodness) and I’ve been watching the minutes tick by since two. I foresee a hazy day in which I should not be allowed to operate heavy machinery, but alas in which I am also committed to helping 28 kindergarteners on their journey through education.

I feel good when I do parent volunteering in my daughter’s kindergarten class because I get a chance to see what they’re doing and watch her in her school environment. The downside is I leave vowing never to have any more children and wondering how saintly kindergarten teachers survive teaching those adorable five-year-old monsters for hours on end-- a new batch every year, year after year after year…. I think Maddy’s teacher has been at it for something like 21 years. It kind of makes me want to see if she needs a psychological evaluation. Because that is just nuts. Oh and in case I’m rambling and off on strange tangents here, refer to the above sleep deprivation experiment my body is performing on me.

I once found a notebook with something written in it that I had no knowledge or recollection of writing. I have a history somnuscription, just so you know. I have a feeling later on when I’m completely conscious I will feel that way about this blog. Being pregnant, even a nice Valium of a shot of bourbon (okay I don’t drink bourbon but doesn’t it sound like a delicious idea, something a decadent Southern belle type from New Orleans or Savannah would drink?) is not acceptable. Nor, apparently, is attention to or concern with grammatical or literary rules of any kind. I am all sorts of rebellious this early. Or late; I’m not even sure anymore.

One thing I found to do-- after I woke my husband up and tortured him for a while-- was to join Twitter. I kind of have always thought of it as something of a cultish website-- something I would feel vaguely guilty about getting involved with, like admitting I read People Magazine or watch reality television. Things people do but never talk about. But I found a whole new world at my fingertips that made me love the internet and want to write a sonnet to its beauty and grace.

I mean, I found Margaret Atwood on Twitter. Margaret Atwood! I’m sure it’s not actually her, some publicist or assistant or something but still. I am still in shock. Margaret Atwood! I want to dig out my copy of The Blind Assassin and read it while watching Margaret Atwood’s Twitter updates (tweets? I’m new). I realize this is completely insane-- I’m not a crazed fan type of person. I don’t collect autographs or attend personal appearances and I haven’t got a clue who’s wearing what on what color carpet at any given time. But geez! Margaret Atwood! Okay I’m done. I realize my excitement over that is ridiculous but still…. Ooh, I wonder if I can find Anne Lamott on there. I think I would probably pass out. Which, I guess, would in turn cure my insomnia….

I think it is time to sign off this potentially brilliant glimpse into my life as a crazy person. No doubt it will turn out like an ill-advised drunken phone call to an ex in the middle of the night… not so good. And still I post. Incorrigible.

Unresolved

2011-01-02T19:23:00.001-08:00

I wonder how many people have blogged about New Year's resolutions or lack thereof. Probably millions. Nothing is original anymore. But it's something that everyone talks about at the beginning of a new year-- we all vow to be better people-- wiser, healthier, more loving. Hardly anyone resolves to gain weight, watch more television, stay indoors more, work out less. Although those resolutions would be far easier to keep...

Traditionally I have been as anti-resolution as I am anti-Valentines day or anti-diet pills, or anti-SUV's or anti-conservative. There are certain things I just don't do but guess what? I've changed. Shocking, but true. I like chocolate on February 14. I haven't wavered on diet pills but I do drive the Tahoe occasionally without freaking out, and I'm starting to see the point to some of those conservatives after all. Mostly I think it's very dangerous to say never, and that includes about resolutions.

So I guess one resolution is never say never, right? But then again, there are times when I want to say never. Never quit. Never stop reaching for goals. Never lie. Never stop hugging, or kissing, or tickling-- even when the other person is hacking up germs. Never be afraid. Never lose sight of what you want. Never lose faith.

I really do want to stick to some important goals, not even considering the time of year it is, just the time of my life seems right for setting and following up with goals. One is for Candid Apple Photography. I just got laid off and my only other option is going to a job that I abhor. So I'm going to book ten portrait sessions per month. I can do it. I will do it.

Also writing. I will write my ten thousand words per day. It's a lofty goal, I know. But seeing as how I have no job except housecleaning (which in this house is done in two hours on Monday, leaving the rest of the week free) and my children. The children do get a considerable amount of attention but I'm confident I can get my writing done while they're at school. It's not unreasonable, and if I'm really going to be committed to being a published writer that's what it's going to take. I can do it. I will do it.

I'm sure there are more but those are the important ones. I can do it. I will do it. I'm actually very happy about it all. It's nice to have goals. I hope you all do too.

Hemingway or Michael Crichton?

2010-12-28T13:38:00.000-08:00

I don’t know how often it’s appropriate to blog but I foresee these first few weeks being jam-packed with emotion filled, deeply fascinating endeavors to engage eager readers before petering off to a trickle of guilt-ridden obligatory posts fraught with grammatical errors and apathy. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen and sally forth once again.

Neuroses of the day-- I’m in quite a pickle. Two major issues plague my writing and I find myself staring at a blinking cursor which holds my destiny in its tiny electronic hands. Who do I want to be as a writer? My husband and I have been discussing it and he argues that I don’t have to choose before I’ve even published anything whether or not I shall end up a pulp writer, feeding the frenzied masses with melodrama, murder and mayhem, or whether I will be a literary goddess, comparable to my favorite literary gods and goddesses, with my name published alongside Lewis and Tolkien, Austen and Hardy.

So while working on my current piece I obsess, even during the shitty first draft phase (I’m only ten thousand words in) as to whether or not this first venture will define me as a mainstream author or a literary author. And it’s a ridiculous obsession but it haunts my dialogue, my plot choices, my characters… I cannot escape my own hubris. I am envisioning my press clips before I’ve even written ten chapters. It’s ridiculous.

My secondary dilemma has less to do with my own ego and more to do with actual writing. I have three strong main characters in my story. They are all very interesting to me and I completely love each of them with my whole heart. I started out writing in first person narrative and soon discovered that my secondary and tertiary main characters each have as strong of a voice as the first. I want to tell their back stories in their own words.

Several options have come to mind in order to accomplish this. One is to switch narrators each chapter, so that they all get a chance to speak in first person. I’ve seen this used as a technique-- it’s a trademark of author Jodi Picoult, for one. But do I want to be like Jodi Picoult? Is it perfectly legitimate to borrow her technique, even though Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy never did anything so blatantly outside literary rules? Would it make me a bad writer or a mainstream writer or a hack?

Another choice is switching the whole thing to third person omniscient. I’m not nearly as comfortable in this form of narration and it still wouldn’t give my characters a true opportunity to speak in their own voices, unless they go off in some sort of a thoughtful tangent which is italicized for pages on end. This doesn’t seem like an exceptionally good option.

Or I could have them tell their back stories outright to my main narrator. They don’t know each other so it works with the plot. I just don’t know if I wish to have them talk even on, ad nauseum either. I think that would be tedious. I could gradually reveal each one’s story but I think the stories themselves are so much more powerful in each character’s own words.

I’m just going to say screw the rules and write it however I want without thoughts of where it will end up, published or not, or how it looks to the public if I break literary rule or two and give each of my characters a voice and a feather boa if I so choose. That’s what I need to do, right? Feedback on this one would be much appreciated.

Thank you all so much for all the wonderful supportive comments, especially Tiffany… It’s pretty fantastic to hear encouraging words from someone you admire so much.

And now back to your regularly scheduled neuroses.

Do, or do not. There is no try...

2010-12-27T14:16:00.000-08:00

I dare to call myself a writer. Identifying with such a proud and esoteric group is a little brave, or maybe just crazy. Maybe I'm heading for a giant fall for all my pride in daring to label my unpublished self as a writer. I don't know. But I am coming out, as it were, as a writer, and I need a place to vent, commiserate, and share all those useless and often unpublishable tidbits that filter in and out of my subconscious like snowflakes. When it becomes a blizzard, I will be on here blogging out all that noise to the whoever wants to be a part of my neuroses. It may give my very supportive husband a bit of a break.

The blogging was inspired by reading my favorite blogs and feeling left out. I follow Erica Brooks' blog from Scotland, More to life than weather -- http://erica-brooks.blogspot.com/ -- and also Tiffany Griggs Caubin's beautiful girly-embracing, chocolate-consuming, high-heels-wearing treatise on all things woman, Fearlessly Female http://www.fearlesslyfemale.blogspot.com/. Those are my favorites and I admire these girls so much that I just had to have a blog of my own. So here I am.

I heard some words of wisdom today which are inspiring me even further to continue my commitment to writing. "Trying is having the intention to fail. You have to scrap that word from your vocabulary. Say you’re going to do it, and you will." Great quote right? I wish it was by Sartre or Hemingway or someone I truly admire as a writer, but no, it's a line from the movie "I Love You, Man" with Paul Rudd and Jason Segal. Maybe they stole it from someone more profound... I hope. Either way, I'm making it my new official motto. Oh and the blog title quote, which is from the ever-wise Yoda.

I've been reading Bird By Bird, by Anne Lamott, for the three thousandth time and there are a million inspirational things she says in there which are really helpful. Probably the most useful is repeated often... just keep writing. I think I'm also going to steal (or say, adopt, it sounds nicer) Erica's Rules for the Leap, that's her commitment to writing and it's been helpful these last few days. It's mostly a good way to stay off the distraction track and forget about the to do list while writing. Except for blog breaks I think that's a good way to go.

So here I am. Taking the leap. I am writer, hear me roar.