Running With Letters

Pinnacle Moments 2

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 04:27:00 +0000

Once, a friend of mine described the pace of her life as "a fast sucking drain." I can relate. I think of my last post in current-event terms---in reality, it's been almost a month. In the interim, my home has staged hard, Thanksgiving week action, I've celebrated a birthday, and we've transitioned into full-on Holiday programming. I have a story or two to tell here in the coming days, but today I'm inviting you to join me at Jade's place as I help her conclude her Pinnacle Moments Series.

Plan B (A Bigger Picture Moment)

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 12:53:00 +0000

Things, in this life, seldom go as planned. My knee-jerk response to the bumps in the road and the resulting mess that often follows is instant disappointment. But last week, I was blessed with a reminder of the grace and surprises waiting to be discovered within Plan B.

It was a little thing, really. A fall camping trip that I’d built up in my head for months. There’d be hikes during the day and camp foods and cobbler bubbling on an open fire at night, all playing out on the shore of the lake at our favorite state park. It was all of this…and something a bit more. See, as my kids get older, it becomes harder to find those special times away from activities and jobs. As I see them quickly morphing out of their childhood and becoming adults, I am painfully aware that all too soon, they’ll have lives beyond my home, outside of our family structure. So every chance for family time seems, lately, to be something bigger, something more.

We’re no strangers to the volatile nature of fall camping in the Virginia mountains. Past years have given us iffy weather forecasts, but we’ve always pressed forward boldly and were rewarded for our heartiness with sunshine, crisp air, and vivid colors. As we inched closer to our dates, the forecast went form an ideal sunny and 70s to a not-so-balmy clear-and-50s—and then worsened every time I dared to look. Until the morning of our departure when I woke to a 100% chance of 2-4 inches of snow by nightfall and a 90% chance of icy rain the following day. Even I couldn’t envision an ounce of outdoor fun living in tents under those conditions.

Not wanting to give up, I scanned the weather reports, looking for someplace within a four hour radius with a more favorable forecast. But I saw the same forecast on every single screen. Icy rain. Wind. Snow. My mother-heart broke. I knew we couldn’t have the weekend I envisioned. It was impossible. I knew we could make a go of things at home, but that wasn’t the point—this was supposed to be a getaway—no screens, no reminders of unfinished chores, no temptation to clean, or work.

There had to be a way.

I called the state park reservation center and asked if there was an open cabin anywhere in the state. There wasn’t. But I didn’t cancel, yet. I just couldn’t.

I called back an hour later just in case some weekend cabin dweller had cancelled. And someone had. There was a perfectly-sized cabin open in a place I’d never heard of. And I took it.

We tossed our tents aside and replaced the space with a stack of board games.

We drove through chilling rain, but ended up with a roaring fire. Perfect for cooking camp foods.

Especially cobbler.

And in the morning? We woke up to this:

And the only precipitation were the jewel-like droplets on the leaves for the previous evening's rain:

I believe in second chances. In grace and mercy and redemption in all things—even—perhaps especially, in the little ones.

Even when there’s a 90% chance of cold slushy snow, icy rain.

Even when you hear no the first time.

I choose to believe that if you look hard enough, you can always find a Plan B, and the unexpected joys that come with it. And for that, I will always be greatful.

An excerpt from my son’s entry in the cabin journal:

Today I am joining Sarah and the Bigger Picture Bloggers in celebrating little moments of gratitude

Mrs. Clara Confidence

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 15:29:00 +0000

I met her about a year ago, on a crisp fall morning in the mountains with my husband. We were walking around a little town near our camp site at our favorite state park, when the sign on her brick studio caught my attention. Funky and colorful, it combined the names of two of my favorite artists--Monet Meets Picasso—and produced sort of a magnetic effect.

Next thing my poor husband knew, we were standing in a sunlit foyer smelling heavily of oil paint, traces of which were immediately transferred to our hands as the paint splotched artist herself rose slowly from her perch in front of an easel to welcome us with warm handshakes. “I’m Clara, “she said. “I’m 80 and a half years old and this is my studio—welcome.”

To call Mrs. Clara’s studio eclectic would not fully capture the range of items and the scope of the work covering the brick walls and nooks and crannies on the rustic floorboards. She didn’t adhere to any identifiable genre or style. Six foot tall winter scenes on wooden slabs , juxtaposed with folksy pieces a la Grandma Moses, interspersed with realistic canvas portraits—Mrs. Clara’s definition of art was broad and comprehensive. I was, at the time, mere weeks removed from a run-in with a pretentious art gallery bent on a strict and narrow interpretation of what qualifies as art, and found myself intrigued by Mrs. Clara’s expansive view of expression.

In Mrs. Clara’s studio, there were no clear “rules,” no governing principles beyond expression and love of craft. Looking around her gallery, I knew the board of the aforementioned gallery would not put their stamp of approval on many—or possibly any—of Mrs. Clara’s works. She brewed coffee in a decrepit old pot, poured it into delicate teacups and regaled us with stories of her family, studio, and the old days at our favorite park. As she talked, I felt comfortable and at home, suddenly realizing that this was the whole point: At 80 and a half, Mrs. Clara came to the place in her life where she does what she loves and loves what she does, period. No agenda, no grand expectations—just doing what she has to do for the simple joy of doing it.

I’ve thought a lot about Mrs. Clara over the past year, as I’ve wrestled with my feelings over my own creative endeavors. The things I’m passionate about in life—writing and art—are so dependent on the opinions of others. Or are they, really? If I write something that no one reads, or display a mosaic seahorse that never sells, is it still art? Does response—or lack thereof-- legitimize or negate a creative work? Is it foolhardy, or possibly even wrong, to pour into a craft that gives so little back in the form of financial reward or public praise? Should I be spending more time on things that actually matter?

Deep, evaluative musings did not seem to have a place at Mrs. Clara’s. The critic may say that’s all well and good, but idealism does not keep the studio lights burning, and I suppose there is a point there worth considering. But let me also note that on our way out, I turned around and saw, above me on the foyer wall a scene I knew I wanted to see many, many times in my future. Colorful trees, a rustic building and some ducks circling a rippling body of water—Mrs. Clara’s interpretation of Monet’s Duck Pond. Although garishly framed (so much so that I have not yet been able to display the painting for want of a replacement frame), I (read my husband) opened my wallet anyway. My artist friend, Lisa, tells me that there are no sympathy sales—that, especially in this economy, the act of laying down cash is completely legitimizes an artistic endeavor. Which means that Mrs. Clara, in her lack of convention and single minded devotion to her own standards of artistic expression, made more money on that sale than an approved artist pocketing a small commission at a gallery.

About 12 years ago, I started writing a series of books. It’s been equal measures of fun and discouragement, and I have actively pursued and neglected it for a roughly comparative amount of time. But lately? I realized that outside my family, there is nothing I have cared about for a dozen years, and that my most recent attentions to my book series have been focused only on garnering attention to the two I actually wrote. I realized I was afraid to go ahead with new adventures until I knew there was an audience who would care. I’ve been afraid to throw myself into this creative world without knowing it would matter. I know now that I must go forward, without thought of who will read the stories or if it is a good investment, because I must. Because it is what I have to do, for the simple joy of doing it.

A couple weeks ago, my husband and I were in a coffee shop in the same little mountain town, pursuing the secondhand bookshelf next to the cozy chairs. He picked up a copy of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden and began reading the preface. According to which, the realities of Thoreau’s work in his lifetime were exceedingly grim. Miserable sales, poor feedback on the lecture circuit, and personal failures caused the editor of the Walden edition in question to claim that Thoreau, in his time, “created no ripple in any puddle big or small.” Henry David Thoreau!

Inspired by the ripples in Mrs. Clara’s Duck Pond, and buoyed by the waves eventually generated by Thoreau’s pen, I press forward with my little series with my own blend of Mrs. Clara confidence, believing--just a little bit--that being free enough to pour myself into my work without reservation is the biggest success of all.

Two Books, Two Winners and 4.5 Chapters

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 13:57:00 +0000

Just popping in to congratulate Erica @PinesLakeRedhead--the winner of the book giveaway. (I hope your nieces love the books!) Also happy to report that Polly won a set of books in a simultaneous giveaway on my facebook page.

I haven't been around as much this week as I'd hoped, due in part to news related to my books. I haven't mentioned it yet over here, but I am writing my next YA novel "live" online--posting work-in-progress chapters roughly one a week on my other blog, Snapshots. I'd love to have the company over there if you'd like to join me. I've been "absent" over here this week, trying to get chapter 5 up and running, but it has been slow going. I have about an hour now to see if I can get it up before I need to go do freshman writing conferences at the university coffee shop, so feel free to pop on over and start reading and if all goes well, chapter 5 will be online by the time you get there :)

A Giveaway....

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 13:16:00 +0000

So last week, I reported that we’d have a giveaway today, rain or shine. Let first assure you that if you’ve stopped by in hopes of scoring some nifty swag, you’ve come to the right place. Yes, this post is a runningwithletters giveaway kickoff…just not the item I previewed last week.

Let me explain. The plan was for me to download some possibly wonderful digital scrapbooking software, play around with it, whip up a cool layout,and post it along with the chance for one of my followers to get the same software. Sounds straightforward and simple, right? Well, because things have been just a little crazy around here lately, I blocked off a couple hours with the hopes of cranking the whole thing out in one shot: download, layout, post. Not a bad plan…except that I hit trouble with the download and the rep with which I was working answered a week old email from me, rather than the 2 desperate pleas I emailed in hopes of getting the bug worked out in time to keep the promotion going as planned. Depending on if, when, and most importantly, what, I hear back from this company, this may or may not be a promotion we re-visit later, but, as you can see, I was left with, at a minimum, a short term conundrum. I promised you all a giveaway…today, on a rain date, nonetheless! What to do, what to do…

Now, before you picture me rummaging through the goodwill bag from my recent closet clean out, or ransacking the pantry looking for an extra pound of coffee or some leftover Halloween candy to share, let me assure you that my backup plan is better than that. See, I had something I was going to share with you next week, and I’ve decided on an early deployment. Some of you may know that I am writing a YA series set at summer camp—stories of first loves, second chances, and lives changed forever. A reviewer for the first book, The Chrysalis, called it “witty, incisive, and a joy to read,” but for me, these books are a collection of distilled experiences from the 16 years of youth work that I shared a couple weeks ago on my guest post for Jade’s Pinnacle Moments Series.

So what am I offering here? How about a pair of the first two books, The Chrysalis, and its sequel, Drink the Rain, which chronicle the humorous misadventures of Christina's first summer away from home, and her resulting adventure to South Africa. These books make wonderful holiday gifts for the teen girls in your lives, and I will happily sign the set to whomever the winner would like. (psst...moms and 20-somethings tell me they love the books, too) To enter the giveaway, make sure you are following this blog, and simply write a comment below. I will randomly select from the entries and announce the winner on Friday morning.

And that’s not all! If you act fast, you can double your chances of winning over at my facebook page (see the little icon over on the left hand side of the screen? I promised to giveaway a set when I reached my first 50 “likes” and, at press time, I am hovering at 46…so hop on over. As an aside, both of these books are available in kindle and nook editions—check out the new cover on The Chrysalis…I pretty much love it.

Thanks for stopping by and for your patience...

This Week's Activities Postponed Due to Flooding

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 02:43:00 +0000

At the risk of sensationalistic journalism, I have to confess that the flooding here is metaphoric in nature, but I've been drowning nonetheless. I've been trying to stay afloat with 40-plus freshman comp papers hanging over my head, threatening at any moment to descend and pin me, anchor-like, beneath a fast moving current of deadlines, random obligations, and family activities. Happily, my imaginary flood waters are beginning to subside. Accordingly, I decided on a Tuesday rain date for my giveaway, when I can give it the attention it deserves. Just wanted everyone to know was up. I wish I could say that I was taking the weekend to metaphorically towel down, but it looks like there's a fair chance I'll be spending it getting literally soaked, as I'm looking at a rapidly deteriorating forecast for a planned camping trip to the mountains. Regardless, there are good things on tap for next week and i hope to see you back here then-- rain or shine.

Double Chocolate Goodness

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 00:50:00 +0000

Yesterday's guest post for Jade's Pinnacle Moments Series yielded a a couple inquiries about the brownies I mentioned. Here's the recipe that "ruined" all other brownies for dozens of teen girls for 12 years. If double chocolate gooey goodness sounds good to you, then welcome to your new favorite brownie. You can thank me with follows and sweet comments.

Bible Study Brownies (Nestle Double Chocolate Brownies)
3/4 cup unsifted flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/3 cup butter
3/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons water
1 package Nestle semi-sweet morsels
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 eggs

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In small bowl combine flour, baking soda, and salt--set aside. In small saucepan, combine butter, sugar, and water. Bring just to a boil, then remove from heat. Add 1/2 package of morsels and vanilla. Stir until morsels melt and mixture is smooth. Transfer to large bowl. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Gradually blend in flour mixture. Stir in remaining morsels. Spread into greased 9 inch pan. Bake 30-35 minutes.

In other news: I've mentioned that a giveaway is in the works...stay tuned next week for your chance to win free digital scrapbooking software from My Memories Suite. In between dating my husband, sailing, and grading freshman comp papers, I plan to experiment with the software this weekend. I will share my experiments and results with you next week, and then give one lucky winner the chance to win a free software package of your own. Sound good? (Psst--in the meantime, make sure you are a Running With Letters follower, as this promotion is a thank you to my faithful readers--new and old :) )

Pinnacle Moments

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 12:14:00 +0000

I am over at Jade's place today, blogging about teen girls, brownies, and moments of clarity as part of her Pinnacle Moments Series. Please stop on by and comment over there, if you are so inclined.

If you could use a laugh, take a pit stop at yesterday's post while you're here...and if you have a "mistaken identity" story, by all means share! Don't forget that there's a giveaway in the works...stay turned....

Face Value

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 13:29:00 +0000

So yesterday I headed out to conduct interviews for my monthly newspaper assignment, which, as an aside, never fails to be a calendar highlight. However, the interview in question was notable not because of what happened, but rather, what didn’t. As soon as I rounded the corner and turned off my street, my car lost all power, forcing me to muscle it around the next corner and leave it at the curb of my neighboring street. For those interested in quantitative measures, I was less than a football field away from my front yard.

Of course, my husband wanted a full break down of the, well, break down, which required me to pop the hood and give a play-by-play of what I saw, which happened to be a dangling belt. Being a guy, he wanted as many details about the engine as you or I would about the features of a quality latte or the coupons in the latest Michael’s flyer.

“Can we wrap this up,” I said through gritted teeth. “There’s this creeper watching me. He’s standing by some rose bushes watching me like it’s some kind of show.”
Casting a withering glance in the direction of the gawker, I closed the hood and headed home to reschedule my interview. Even though my kids thought I now had a bonus day off, I actually had to get to the university to teach my freshmen. My daughter was able to take me, and, on the way out, we stopped at the disabled van so I could pick up my books.

“Oh my goodness! I don’t believe it! He’s still there, creeping by the rosebushes. He hasn’t even mov…ed,” I said, my voice trailing off as I got a closer look, and discovered the, um, non-threatening nature of this stalker.

Yep, that’s right. Zoom in, if you can, on this low quality, mobile phone image so you can get the full effect. The whiskers are a dead giveaway. This guy’s a pussy cat.

I’d like to say the story just ends with a little chuckle right here. But that evening, after enduring my son and husband’s the good natured razzing as they tinkered unsuccessfully with the belt, we headed out to get some pizza, deciding at the last moment to go to an old mom and pop that we haven’t been to in a few years, as long as “they weren’t too busy.” Pulling into the shopping center, I groaned in hungry disappointment. “Oh, they’re packed!” I lamented. “Look at all those people just waiting to be seated!”

A hush fell over the vehicle before one of the boys said “Really? Not again!”
I took a second look and saw that all those hungry men waiting for pizza were really just mannequins patiently modeling men’s suits in the shop next door. I am not sure if it is more embarrassing than it is hilarious, but it’s true, nonetheless—I was bested by dummies twice in one day.

Despite the rocky start, we’re set for a big week here at RWL. Tomorrow I will be participating in the Pinnacle Moment Series over at Jade’s place, and be on the lookout for news of an upcoming giveaway!

Mail Mayhem and a New Post

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 11:57:00 +0000

As I pulled my van onto our dead end street one July afternoon, my son broke into a vigorous bout of enthusiastic waving. “It’s the mail lady, Mom. She’s so nice. Have you met the new mail lady?”

I had to admit that indeed, I had not made the acquaintance of our new mail person, but I was sure she had to be a vast improvement over the string of grumpy men who had been covering our street’s mail delivery duties over the past decade.

I joined the boy in a cheery wave in the carrier’s general direction, and started inside. I was about to query my son about just how he happened to strike up such a rapport with the mail lady, when my thoughts took a quick turn in the direction of the letters I had put out for delivery that morning, and were now, doubtless nestled in the bag of the friendly post woman.

The letters represented a bold move made in the throes of desperation. I am posting about them today since I said last week that I'd fill in the gap in my blog narrative explaining my career shift from elementary art teacher to university professor. Also my friend Jade at Tasting Grace started a conversation on her blog about life a year ago, so a bit of reflection seemed apropos. See, I had been searching for new employ since April, after it became apparent that my stint teaching art at a pretentious local academy had run its course. Pleading budget and scheduling woes, my former employer informed me that if I wanted to keep my job, I’d have to work more and earn less, and, as I never really felt at home at the hoity-toity institution, I began circulating resumes in hopes of finding another position in the arts, or, failing that, with another worthy enterprise in search of a dedicated, yet part-time professional.

I regarded the whole job search as a Major Adventure. I wanted a challenge, but one that would not take me away from my family or my writing. I imagined all sorts of enticing possibilities, and cast my net broad and wide. Weeks passed, sans prospects. Weeks turned into months, with no interest in any of my carefully crafted cover letters or promising proposals. Not a note, not a nibble. Nothing. It soon became apparent that I was an involuntary resident of some sort of employment leaper colony. Even though it was still summer, a season during which I don’t work anyway, I began to get prematurely funky, shuffling around the house in a disillusioned stupor of vague angst, remembering the good old days when I was a vibrant, active member of the community.

As July threatened to unfold into August with nary an interview in sight, I broached the unpleasant topic of my secondary English teaching certification, the one that came along as a bonus add-on with my masters degree, not unlike the stuffed sleeping toys that come free with the purchase of select pajama sets. In short, I had never aspired to be an English teacher, at least in the all-day, full time, public high school sense. But faced with the prospect of going funky long-term, took the plunge and applied for not one, but two, such positions.

My reasoning was that, based on recent historical data, I wasn’t going to hear back anyway, and at least then I could say that I truly did all I could to find employ, so folks could grasp the enormity of my circumstances when I hit the skids.
My early experiences with my letters of introduction should have conveyed all I needed to know about my suitability for the positions. I printed the wrong drafts of the letters and dribbled leaky pen across the good versions when I went to sign them. I botched the addresses on both envelopes—twice, and when I finally got them properly addressed, I realized I did it upside down.

In my own defense, I have to say that I was assembling this mail in the company of my son, who was eager to get going on a lunch and biking adventure, and did not stop talking the entire time—a detail that astute readers will read as partial explanation for the boy’s familiarity with our neighborhood’s community helpers.

Upon our return that afternoon, however, my thoughts turned to the wording of the letters I’d put out for post that morning. A particular turn of phrase had entered my thoughts, and I was wondering if I’d had the presence of mind to actually use it, or if it was like those great comebacks that come to you about an hour after they would have been poignant. I glanced at my computer and realized the letter was still on the screen. Partway through the second sentence, I cringed at a small gaffe in word choice; nothing too serious, but regrettable, nonetheless. I gave an audible gasp when I reached a bad cut-and-paste in paragraph two, and when I reached the closing sentence, I flew to the front door, yelling “Buddy! Come! Help me find your mail lady friend!”

“I dunno, Mom, she could be anywhere by now,” my son said, as we beat the pavement on the neighboring street.

I made the decision to resume the search by vehicle. I was prepared to go all the way to the main post office and wait it out, but hit the jackpot when I saw the mail truck parked two streets down. The mail lady herself was just a bobbing dot at the end of the road, so I pulled behind the truck to await her return.

“Buddy says she’s nice, Buddy says she’s nice,” I chanted to myself.

And, you know what? The kid was right. She was a peach, patiently sorting through the day’s collected mail until we found the offending letters.

I took the letters home and added them to the pile of accumulated rubble from earlier in the day. I paused for a moment to consider the pile of pulp which represented the sum total of all my day’s efforts. I’d love to tell you that I learned my lesson and tossed the whole mess into the recycling bin and never thought of the whole affair again. But, writer that I am, I made the appropriate corrections to the letter and sent it off a second time to both prospects. Which subsequently led to an interview, a job offer, and, ultimately some of the funkiest, angst-iest behavior I’d ever displayed.

Fortunately, I left for vacation in Florida without signing a formal contract for the unwanted post because a different kind of mail reached me there, as unexpected as it was welcome. It was a belated reply from one of my very first queries way back in April. One of my former professors had a surprise opening for a part time professor in her department and I was her first choice—was there any chance I was still available?

I didn’t make a single mistake in my reply. It’s hard to mess up yes.

Pumpkin Lattes and Professor Pants

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 15:07:00 +0000

The fact that it’s October means I’m pretty much into pumpkin everything these days. As I type this, I’m nibbling away at the season’s first batch of pumpkin bread, and wearing a pumpkin colored shirt. I’m also pretty into my new job as a professor at the university at which I earned my masters degree and which served as the setting for oh, so many of my 2008 and 2009 posts. I realize that when I was last blogging regularly, I was an elementary art teacher, and Regular Readers may note a gap in the narrative, but trading in my paints and smock for papers and textbooks is a story for another day.

So what could be more fitting than to celebrate my penchant for pumpkin and my passion for my new post at the university than to sit in the campus Starbucks with a steaming pumpkin latte while grading my first round of papers? I plunked down my five bucks, and sat down to crank out a couple papers before a professor meeting which I was expected to attend. In light of the meeting, I had opted to wear a semi-expensive pair of pants I’d recently purchased for an interview for a job I almost took, but didn’t, a story which is, again, best withheld for another post. As most of my colleagues actually double as my former professors, I always like to make a good impression, partly so they feel like they did a good job, and also so they can adjust to seeing me as something other than the points-hungry student in the Eeyore T-shirt waving her hand aloft from the front row.

Alas, it was meeting time, and I found myself with a still mostly full latte. I grabbed my papers, headed out the door and down the cement steps toward the cross-campus meeting. It’s hard to say exactly what happened next. I seem to remember making some sort of adjustment to the drape of the interview –slacks-turned-professor-pants and, be it a shift in balance, a gap in concentration, or just plain clumsiness no one can say. All that I can say is that next thing I knew, warm latte was raining down from above, and splashing into Jackson-Pollock-like splatters across the Professor Pants.

Fortunately, I was carrying a very large handbag which I gamely positioned across my waist. If I really were as bright as my former- professors-turned-colleagues would have hoped, I would have sat in the back, by the door, but I suppose walking into a classroom filled with professors caused my instincts to kick in, and I marched to the front row. After possibly waving my hand in the air one too many times, I realized the meeting was running long and I actually had to leave, which of course meant walking through the middle of the assemblage with a large bag positioned awkwardly across my midsection.

o make matters worse, the stain took on a reddish hue, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since the Warm Colors Unit I taught in my art room last spring. After 24 hours of intense Oxy-Clean action, I was still looking at stains that seemed more likely to result from a Bad Kool-Aid Episode at a preschool than a bobble with some errant brew.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

As disturbing as that was for the pants, I was perhaps, as somewhat of a purist, even more upset as I pondered what went into the latte to produce such a stain. I decided to try my hand at home lattes, which seemed not only a more nutritionally sound option, but considering my balancing skills, safer, and less expensive all around. Accordingly, I have been tweaking with home versions of the pumpkin spice latte, using the linked recipe as a base. So far, my taste buds and my clothes are happier.

Oh—and, happily, my clothes still include the Professor Pants, which came (almost) completely clean after a second day in the Oxy-Clean. I’m wearing them now—they pair perfectly with the pumpkin shirt.

Feeling Equestrian-A Pictorial Post, Because I Am, Well, Hoarse

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 20:32:00 +0000

Saturday afternoon, my husband and I drove down to North Carolina's Outer Banks to meet up with some friends at their beach rental. When we got there, we took a drive down a 20 mile stretch of shoreline--yes, that's allowed--in hopes of seeing some of Corolla's famous wild ponies.

It is October, though, even at the beach. Overnight the weather and my sinuses took a bad turn. I had planned a full post for today, but alas, I am headache-y, congested, and , well, hoarse. But as I want everyone to know that Running With Letters is back--really, really back--I decided to let the horses do the talking today in a pictorial post. Enjoy!

Of Course It Was In The Onion

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 20:24:00 +0000

“I’ve got to stop being such a loser,” my daughter, then a precocious 7-year old wailed.

Alarmed, I few into motherly action. “You are NOT a loser. Who told you that?” I demanded, doubtless scrambling to gather my pitchfork and torch in anticipation of paying a midnight visit to the offender.

“Mom, I lose things all the time,” my precocious child answered matter-of-factly. “I AM a loser.”

True, we were on the tail end of an episode focusing on the recovery of a shoe, a handbook, and possibly a patch-adorned vest so she could attend her weekly AWANA club meeting. And, I was forced to concede, many of our waking hours were invested in response to All Points Bulletins for runaway papers, borrowed literature, and stray accessories.

Many years have passed and my daughter has blossomed into a beautiful young woman. She’s a smart, witty, up-and-coming baker making plans for culinary school and—you guessed it, she’s still a loser. Which is why I wasn’t surprised in the least when she came downstairs a few mornings ago, shuffling through stacks of dining room detritus, sighing heavily.

“Have you seen my red folder with the chef’s hat logo?” The Baker asked, casually.

I hadn’t, at least not in the three weeks that had passed since we received the folder during a visit to the Culinary Institution behind the chef’s hat logo. I told her as much, and went back to my work, figuring it would all pass.

Rather than passing, the search intensified. Couches were overturned. Bookcases were scoured. There was talk of some sort of deadline. And my usually stoic daughter’s demeanor was crumbling faster than a shortcake cookie in a toddler’s fist.

It seems the red chef-logo folder contained The Only Existing Copy of her only reference letter, and Someone at the School of the Red Chef Logo was waiting for it with the kind of expectation typically reserved for a sheet of chocolate chip cookies about to pop out of a hot oven.

Now, we all know that once a Missing Item has been out there for more than hour, it’s assumed rubbish; clearly, it’s been thrown away. No matter how unlikely, it’s our Universal Go-to Explanation for All Things Lost. Why, we once had a queen sized blue striped sheet go missing right from the couch where a family member was recovering from a virus, never to be seen again. We assume it’s decomposing nicely in a landfill upstate, although we’ve yet to come up with a working model for how the sheet even fit in a household trash can. But I digress. Suffice it to say, we took the search outside to recycling bin—the trash can equivalent for all pulp based products. Emptied only on a bi-weekly basis, the recycling bin represented the last bastion of hope.

“So do we just go ‘Burbs on the can?” I asked my daughter, in reference to the Tom Hanks movie we’d watched the previous evening wherein Hanks and his neighbors descended upon a garbage truck, tossing trash into the street in search of evidence verifying their suspicion that their creepy neighbors disposed of a corpse.

“Yep,” The Baker answered, tossing handfuls of paper, crushed cans, and plastic jugs onto the sidewalk.

“Not a finger, not a nose,” she mumbled, quoting a disappointed member of Hank’s empty-handed search committee.

A la the film, my daughter suggested we leave the trash on the sidewalk to compost, but we dutifully picked it up and went back indoors.

The Baker shuffled back upstairs, and I scoured my brain for any unturned baking stone. Just as I was about to declare the case as cold as a cup of vichyssoise, The Baker bounded down the stairs.

“It was in the onion!” she exulted.

I pictured the folder nestling just beneath the papery, translucent skins of a very large onion she’d ferreted away in a remote outpost of her disorganized bedroom, and I’m not ashamed to admit that for a moment this somehow made sense.

It only follows that she loses the things with which she spends the most time—and, Baker that she is, it’s not at all uncommon for us to be on Collective Watch for, well, ingredients. We’ve had lively hunts for lost ginger root, searches for wayward spices, and spent a memorable evening hot on the trail of an errant Asian pear.

Indeed, the only detail that gave me pause was just how the ridged folder managed to stay completely concealed within the layers of the spherical bulb. The Baker detected the confusion as soon as it crossed my countenance.

“Oh, not the onion, Mom, The Onion,” she clarified, referencing the witty periodical of the same name as America’s favorite pantry staple. “I picked one up at the newsstand the day we visited the school. “

Of course! That made sense, too. Sounds just like something the loser would do.

What's Your Bag; or Thoughts on My Son's Last First day of School

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 04:14:00 +0000

I have heard it said that you can tell a lot about someone by what they carry around in their purse, and frankly, this concerns me. I once read an article by a mature and obviously organized mother/columnist delineating the changes in her purse contents and she gracefully slid through various stages of parenting. At various times, her handbag has contained pacifiers and crunchy biscuits for toddlers, wipes for nasty spills and sticky hands, amusements for young children—no doubt crayons in a specially designed humidor to prevent meltage.

I found the article unsettling, as, day or night, year in and year out no matter what the season either on the calendar or in my life, dump out the contents of any bag I own and what you’ll find can be summed up in a single word:

Garbage.

Receipts crumpled beyond recognition, often containing a wad of chewed gum that needed a hasty or poorly timed discarding. And, of course, tissues. Used ones, in a chaotic jumble that would seem to speak of a need for stronger allergy meds.

If, by some bizarre star alignment or sick practical joke my keys were there, you probably wouldn’t recognize the tangle of metal rings, expired plastic discount cards, and broken mini toys as a key chain anyway. But it really is, I promise. Anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five keys are jumbled somewhere in the mess, but I assure you I don’t know what most of them do. It’s sort of a museum piece that invariably confuses and fascinates elementary children.

I traveled once to Qwa-Qwa, a remote and impoverished South African village. The children were fascinated as our fleet of busses rolled into their villages. It was like a scene out of a PBS documentary ,or Survivor, throngs of excited villagers running after the busses, cheering, asking for photographs or treats.

The mere sight of American youth bearing useful and entertaining items like cameras and crayons, hats and bread was akin to Santa’s sleigh pulling into the cul de sac of your neighborhood. These children had absolutely nothing. Nothing but smiles and big hearts and …trash. The possibilities of trash as a sustainable resource were not lost on these inventive souls. Kind of like the system where the Native Americans found a use for every part of the buffalo, South African kids use every bit of their trash to create toys. Mostly crude vehicles, pull cars and the like, but very charming.

What I really should have done is dump my bag out and ask them to build me something, but I never think of cool stuff like that at the right time. I’m now a decade removed from this event, and tending these days to think about both my “bag” and my "trash” in more metaphoric terms. Oh, I’ve always known that if handbags are, indeed, tattletales of one’s inner psyche, I don’t have to delve too deeply into my old psych notes to figure out that as a collector of rubbish, I’m in grave danger of being weighed down. But lately? I’m realizing that as unfortunate as it was not to have had a genuine custom-made African garbage-toy, it will be much sadder if I don’t take a page from the African Kids’ Playbook and get to work reassembling some bits and pieces from a very different “bag—“ namely, the passions I reference collectively as my Aspirations.

See, this morning my son headed out the door on his very last first day of school. He’s my baby, and he’s a senior—a turn of events that has left me shocked, saddened, and questioning the future as I never have before. His older sister is still at home, but plans to head off to culinary school in April. And me? I simply don’t know how to live outside this big, chaotic home filled with the sound of my son’s instruments and the wafting aroma of my daughter’s baked goods. And less than two minutes after he left, it occurred to me that as the door closed in his wake, it took the summer with him. But not just any summer. The very last summer we’ll all share in this house, as a family.

Crisis descended, in proportions beyond the capabilities of even the most well-stocked bag, kit, or pouch. No one, anywhere, could simply pull a potion for this pain from a side pocket of a well-organized pouch. I trudged through this mental muck for sometime before I entertained the thought that maybe I’m the one in possession of my own cure—and it’s somewhere in a crumbling collection of half finished projects, seedling ideas, and orphaned efforts. It’s a big mess-- a tangled jumble much more easily pushed down and zipped up than dumped out in plain view.

Although I was hardly in the mood to face it, I took a peek at my metaphoric mess. And I had to admit it was wildly colorful and admittedly eclectic. Doubtless, it will take years to turn it into anything useful—I’m no African, after all. But I’ve been hauling around an amazing collection of raw materials for a very long time and perhaps it’s time to make something useful. I’ve had a good run toting trinkets about town---in both the literal and literary sense. In my cluttered clutches, I’ve always found exactly what I needed to both pacify my offspring and provoke my passions. Now that it’s almost time for my kids to see what they can make of their lives, maybe it’s time for me to create something new with mine. What I do with my detritus might just determine if I become known as the cool lady with the bag of tricks or, well, just a bag lady.

P.S. I know I announced in April that I was embarking on an adventure. I am aware that I have left you hanging (assuming that there is anyone out there to flap in the breeze). The adventure is still in progress, but I will post a long-overdue field report in an upcoming post. Stay tuned.

It Costs Nothing (More than a Dollar) to Dream; or, Help Save Camp Edson

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Fri, 08 Jul 2011 22:11:00 +0000

We all have dreams. Some of us have aspirations that are tangible—solid as concrete and vivid as a Technicolor sunset. Some aren’t much more than vague notions hovering on a far off horizon. Although I have been fortunate enough to see many of my hopes realized, a sizable portion of my best and brightest prospects are, quite literally, boxed up and languishing in a dusty attic in the form of paperback novels my publisher optimistically printed in greater-than-realistic quantity for an indie effort by a new author.

These two YA coming of age adventures—and their several thousand clones—have triggered outbursts of every emotion imaginable. Excitement, when I was writing the first one, The Chrysalis, chapter by chapter online, with the input of a teenage audience from places like Bermuda, Indiana, and across town. Grief, when the roof of the bindery caved beneath the weight of a freak snowstorm days before delivery, and we poked through wet rubble in an effort to salvage as many of the newly printed books as possible (most emerged unharmed.) Elation, when I got good press from objective reviewers whom I had never met (“witty, incisive, a joy to read!” said the now- defunct California based Book Reader.) Gratitude, when bookstore owners and coffeehouses opened their doors to me. Fear, when I actually had to face a live audience, and subsequent disappointment when my sky high expectations for these events did not always materialize. Still, marketing The Chrysalis yielded results that made me confident I could make a go of Drink the Rain, the sequel. In a small way, I was living my Very Big Dream.

But then the economy turned, and it seemed the only literary characters to emerge unscathed were vampires and werewolves, which was bad news for my little band of summer camp counselors and their issues with faulty plumbing, poor weather, and an unexpected litter of bad puppies. Over time, sales trickled and finally, ceased. Every outward indication was that the dream was over, but even as the months turned to years, I could never just let it go.

Enter a chance encounter with a live facebook chat with indie author Lucy Kevin, who is tearing up the nook and kindle e-book charts with sales of her YA novels. Like me, Kevin had run out of print options after her traditional publisher dropped her. On a whim, she posted several of her old books through several e-reader platforms with jaw-dropping results. Kevin seems to have a magic touch when it comes to marketing, but she insists she’s getting most of her results through social networking—and at least one other key thing.

According to Kevin “books sells books,” as in, you’ll gain traction a lot faster if readers know you’ll be with them for awhile. Which is really good news for me, as I planned to bring a whole cast of characters through this fictitious summer camp of mine.

I’m a big believer in second chances, and even though I will always love a bound book that you can hold in your hands, I’m choosing to view pixels as a portal to a whole new realm of possibilities. So I’ve followed Kevin’s lead and posted The Chrysalis and Drink the Rain on nook and kindle for just .99 cents (which I’m told is the Magic Price. We’ll see.)

Now all I need is…you. Download, pass along, tweet, text, smoke signal: whatever grassroots-pass-the-word-along sort of communication works for you would be appreciated by me! Because an author without readers is like summer camp with no campers—eithe of which sounds dangerously bereft of plotline to me.
Oh. One more thing. If you’re sans e-reader, I still have a few print copies ;)

Mini Q and A:

To what well known books do these titles compare?

Since my protagonist is a lovable klutz, I often think of these books as Paddington Bear meets the Traveling Pants, but one of my readers compared them to Sarah Dessen’s books. I’d suggest reading them for yourself and developing your own opinion.

What age group are they for? I’ve had readers from middle school age to moms. I also had at least one middle aged man, but I’d say he’s outside the target demographic.

What are the themes and messages? Confidence and self-esteem get pretty big billing.

Fun fact: Both covers were designed by teen girls (Leslie Norman and Tiffany Lyon)who later went to art school and went pro.

Backwards is the New Forward

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 15:41:00 +0000

I believe in second chances, diamonds in the rough, and crushing lemons into lemonade.

I believe that things happen the way they’re supposed to, and lamenting about the path not taken is just a stall tactic that keeps you from logging mileage on the journey you chose.

I believe that missed opportunities were never yours to begin with, and thinking about what could have been just keeps you from recognizing what will be when it finally arrives.

I believe that the Air Force is right: perception is reality. I think Newton was wrong: when I’m gone, I’ll leave footprints to prove I was here.

I believe in celebrating victories like there is no tomorrow and mourning loss as though it meant something.

I believe that healing comes when you can laugh through your tears.

I believe in laughing at myself, because if I don’t someone else will and then it won’t be fun anymore.

I believe that words are powerful and the best writing happens when the author has no idea what comes next.

I believe in flying by the seat of my pants and that sporting rug burn is the only fashionable way to arrive late.

I believe that success is often calculated by taking what you wanted and subtracting what you got.

I believe in living my life story rather than counting its pages.

##

I don't remember writing this, or under what circumstances. In fact, I barely remember a time when I felt so confident about The State of Things. But according to Microsoft Word, I possessed the above clarity in May, 2003. I found this creed sans context in an unnamed file while searching for some seed material for an impending assignment. I bolded the font, printed it out, and posted it over my desk as a sort of Adventurer's Tip Sheet. I'm officially reclaiming this mindset from when I was younger, and, apparently wiser. For this adventurer, backwards appears to be my best path forward.

Adventures and Ventures

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 20:41:00 +0000

“An adventure,” I explained to my daughter who was then 4, “is when you get up in the morning and you’re not even sure where you’ll be sleeping that night.”

The darkness of the pre dawn sky suggested that perhaps we hadn’t even finished the night of sleep at hand as we boarded the noisy cargo plane, my daughter clutching her stuffed Elmo and me embracing dreams of the European trek on which my little family had embarked.

My husband and I were making good on a promise we made to each other when I had reluctantly accepted his decision to complete a stint in the military: that we’d keep short, and take advantage of every benefit the controversial move presented. Cut rate education and VA financing for our first home were among the obvious perks we seized. Then we learned that it was possible to score free travel by hitching rides wherever the military happened to be heading—provided you were OK with impromptu schedule changes or a duffel bag as a potential seatmate. Or waking up in a completely different country than the one you thought you were heading toward when the drone of the whining engines lulled you to sleep. I’ll admit that waking up in England when you thought you were heading toward the Black Forest can be jarring. But for us? It wasn’t really a problem. We were on an adventure.

At various points in the intervening years I'm afraid my adventure mindset has morphed into something that more closely resembles my father’s early beliefs about mustard. Yes, that yellow—or sometimes brown—spread ubiquitously present in the common fridge. As a child, my father was convinced that mustard color was an immutable family trait—you were either a brown mustard family, or you were a yellow mustard family, end of story. You may be able to break out of your assigned hue, but only with great difficulty and eventual disappointment. A sort of condiment caste system, if you will.

Which brings me to the predictable little neighborhood of thoughts I’ve been circling in a boring little holding pattern. I’ve come to know the terrain, to believe that the hills and valleys of the landscape define my boundaries. It is here that I understand that I write little things, for small publications because that is my lot. I accept that the only employment in which I can succeed—at which I even want to succeed—is teaching part time art, for small time pay.

But this space in which I’ve been hovering has been declared a No-Fly zone. I can’t stay here. I have to leave. And just like trading in your drab Grey Poupon for a squirt of sunny French’s, I’m tossing some of my standard assumptions and taking a chance on some new flavors.

I’ll be writing more about my adventure in the days to come. I expect this place will serve as a sort of control tower as I navigate to my new destination. I’ll figure out how to get around the unexpected turbulence of my art job ending. And I’ll be figuring out just how far I can go with the book proposal I’m finally getting ready to launch. I might compare it to Seinfeld meeting Jackson Pollock in a humorous memoir. And I think I finally believe it can take off, once it’s fully developed and ready to take flight.

In short, I am approaching the world with an openness I haven’t had in awhile. I don’t really know where I’ll be when I land, but that’s OK. It’s an adventure. And I’m just fine with that. I’d be honored to have you a traveling companion.

Returning

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Thu, 21 Apr 2011 15:29:00 +0000

I would love to add the words "By Popular Demand" to the above title, but then I'd be guilty of hyperbole. I'm pretty sure my grandmother and my mom have been wondering about my posting schedule, but I can't speak authoritatively beyond that. So in good journalistic form, I'll stick to the facts and keep the title short and sweet.

What IS true is that I will be returning to this space in the near future for new chapters and an expanded plot line. An adventure is in the works--consider this your invitation to join in the fun.

Meet me back here in a few days? I'd like that.

Small, Medium, and Really Big

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 14:01:00 +0000

Visit me at ARTicles today...we're using small amounts of acrylic medium for BIG gift ideas!

I'll be back here on Thursday with some Usual Content.

So "follow" me on over, if you'd like :)

Bits and Pieces

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 00:08:00 +0000

We're still two weeks from the official start of winter, but I'm coming out of hibernation. After a summer of bad gallery run ins I took a three month hiatus from mosaic making.

And I ended up wishing I hadn't. See, as my husband was trolling craigslist one evening, he he stumbled on a post from a gallery owner looking for new artists. Readers who followed the gallery debacle this summer won't be surprised to learn that I wasn't exactly eager to rush a portfolio over for review. But my husband insisted --repeatedly--that I send some pictures, and when that wasn't enough to elicit action, he sicked my daughter on me. So, I assembled some pictures: pots, seahorses, crabs--the usual things you tend to see hanging around here--and a few days later, I got an email inviting me to pop on into the new gallery with whatever I had. Trouble was, due to the hiatus and all, it really wasn't much.

So...I sprung into action. I decided to focus on pots, as that seemed manageable.

And I dug the fruit tray from the back of my hutch, where it had been in hiding since its Summer Smackdown.

The curator at the new gallery loved my tray, but had some great suggestions for mixing things up. So I went home and designed a new "Glitz and Glam" line of shiny things, just in time for the Christmas Show.

And then? I was finally inspired to put together a facebook page for my work. I hope you'll consider visiting me there, in what I hope will become my virtual studio. I'll have pictures, ideas, and links for you as well as savings! Right now, in fact, I'm smack in the middle of a 48 hour sale--stop on by for some last minute gift ideas!

And if that weren't enough? I've finally opened up my ARTicles blog. Nothing here at Running With Letters will change, but ARTicles will give me an outlet to focus more on the creative arts. I hope you'll follow me on over there, too!

And speaking of blogging and coming out of hibernation, it won't be another three weeks until my next post. I've got a lot to share, actually, and it will be coming out here in, well, bits and pieces, over the next few days.

Three Weeks Ago, and Change

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Tue, 16 Nov 2010 13:43:00 +0000

I had a perfect day, three weeks ago and change. Sunny. Mid-seventies. Chance of rain: zero. I was with my husband in the mountains, at a special place we go to get away. The fall colors were beginning to peak. En route to our destination we’d stopped at the bank to drop off the last of the paperwork for a piece of land we’d just put under contract the evening before. We set up camp by a lake. There was cobbler, and coffee, and conversation.

We went into town to pick up a couple items we forgot and wound up wandering into a quirky artist’s studio. Miss Clara extended a wrinkled hand, lightly splotched in oils. She explained that, at “eighty and a half” she’d decided to open up shop. Her grand opening had been just two weeks prior. She served coffee in antique tea cups and told us stories of her art, her family, and her younger years. We listened. We lingered. We were in no rush. The day was ours. We bought a painting.

We sat by the lake, eating pizza and perusing a book of home plans. After a spin on our bikes though a thick forest, we read books in the late afternoon sun. We smiled at texts messages from our kids. They loved us. They missed us. They were safe. Life, in those moments, felt like an endless stretch of clear, blue sky and as tranquil as the still lake water. Smooth sailing, I believe they call it.

Forty eight hours later, we were home. Embedded in that day was a bitter truth that life wasn’t as unfettered as it seemed during those peaceful moments. In fact, it was riddled with questions. Doubts. Uncertainties. I’m intentionally vague for multiple reasons: the first being that I am not ready, or even able, to share my woes in their bare, unveiled form. The second is that the specifics of my admittedly standard-issue troubles really don’t matter: your problems, if laid bare before us, would look very much the same. Chances are, I'd even be humbled by comparison.

In those initial moments of enumerating all the ways my life wasn’t as perfect as I thought it was in those fleeting Mountain Moments, I felt angry. Cheated. Robbed. I remembered a perfect weekend, just prior to my thirty first birthday. Sunny. Clear skies. Crisp fall snap in the air. I walked next to my husband, crunching leaves, meandering through shops, poking through shelves of antique books. A woman played a harp. I awoke on Monday to icy rain and a call with bad medical news. I didn’t know when or even if things would ever feel quite so perfect again.

I recalled a moment in Maine, years later, on vacation with my sister and our families. We’d just finished a campfire meal and an evening of games under a canopy of stars. My sister declared that she was completely, perfectly happy. Thunder boomed from the heavens, as if in response. The skies opened and never closed until we wrung out our wet tents and mildewed accouterments days later.

I considered a different evening, this one at my house, one night just before Thanksgiving. There was pumpkin carving, and laughter, and happy kids and days to enjoy more of the same. My sister declared that she was perfectly, completely happy. As if on cue, my daughter’s pet bird died suddenly, and she took it hard, carrying the remains of her friend around in a sealed box. She asked tough questions like the number of days she was likely to live, so she could count them down to the moment that they’d be reunited in heaven, and various other expressions of grief that generally broke my heart.

It seemed to me, then, that perfect moments were nothing more than a signal of impending doom: a built in early warning system indicating a need to run for cover, perhaps even literally, as the experience in Maine so clearly illustrated. I became convinced that the pinnacle of happiness was simply a lofty height from which to plummet. But then? I considered the gift of those moments. I recognized them for the miracle that they are. And I realized how blessed I really am that in this world of disappointment, disillusionment, and impending disaster, that I had a perfect day, just three weeks ago and change.

Today I'm linking up with Tuesdays Unwrapped, where every Tuesday is an opportunity to celebrate the often overlooked pleasures of ordinary life.

Still Falling

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 01:19:00 +0000

We're deep into the thick of the season I often reference as Hallothanksmas-- you know, that time of year where one can stand on virtually any street corner and witness turkeys cavorting recklessly with elves and reindeer under the watchful gaze of a tardy grim reaper.

I remember the shock I felt the first time I witnessed a retail establishment trimming trees and tinseling halls in late October. These days, it's not uncommon to encounter Yuletide cheer nestled amongst stacks of lunch boxes and college ruled loose leaf on Labor Day.

Here at Running With Letters, I advocate a strict Seasonal Separation policy. I believe that each season should be savored for its own merits for its full duration. Being, as we are, well over a week away from the Fall Finale of feasting and frivolity that is Thanksgiving, it's still full on fall here.

We're still enjoying evenings around our patio fire pit, enjoying chili and chai, and the leaves that are just now beginning to peak. And pumpkins? They're still everywhere. We haven't carved a single one yet--in our house, that's a Thanksgiving tradition.

What's your policy? Do Christmas decorations go up before Thanksgiving, or after?

Shedding Light on the Darkroom

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Fri, 29 Oct 2010 15:47:00 +0000

I am, by nature, a solar powered creature of sun and light. Which makes the fact that I selected a fall hobby centered in a windowless room of pitch black darkness rather ironic. In truth, my enrollment in a black and white darkroom course was actually a mistake; I thought I signed up for digital photography, and even dropped the class during a period of indecisiveness early in the semester.

My decision to stay in the course was based on my assessment that it was an opportunity to have a rare encounter with a dying art. I got a taste of darkroom photography 8 years ago, and I wanted to have a chance to learn the process enough to do on my own, if I were to choose to pursue it on my own one day. For the most part, I am glad I stayed with it, although the trade off of having less time to write is beginning to wear thin. I’ve invested all of the writing time I’ve had into work I’ve submitted to various publications, and I’m missing my blog.

Since my enrollment in the darkroom class has caused me to go, well, dark, on the blog, and since it occurred to me that a significant percentage of my readership may never have set foot in a darkroom, I thought I’d give a sneak peek at what I’ve been up to.

Darkroom work involves two separate chemical processes: developing film and making prints. Developing film—and, I should clarify that by “film” I mean professional T-Max Black and White 100 or 400 speed Kodak—involves everything you see pictured below:

It also involves five chemicals, an equal number of graduated measuring containers and a timer. But talking chemistry is a little premature because we haven’t even addressed getting the film out of the metal canister in which it’s rolled. That process requires a bottle opener, a pair of scissors, a reel, and a whole lot of patience. Anyone who has ever used film is aware of the fact that it is “erased” upon contact with light. Therefore, the film has to be transferred from its metal sheath and threaded onto the reel in complete darkness. The amount of time this takes can vary from a few minutes to infinity, depending on—but not limited to—factors varying from experience, luck, and type of reel.

Did I mention type of reel? Because it’s a pretty big factor. The reel on the right came free with the tank you see pictured above. It’s basically useless. The reel on the left? That beauty cost $20.00, and unless you find yourself in a situation where you’re being paid by the hour to roll film (in which case you’d find a secure daily wage in the right hand reel) this is one case where you don’t want to scrimp. See that wimpy wire clip across the middle of the right reel? Imagine having to pinch that clip with just the right amount of pressure in just the right spot to lift it just enough to catch and secure the tail of the film strip you’ve just pried from its canister. Keeping in mind, of course, that we’re in utter darkness. Lefty there is designed a bit differently, with two little pegs that hook into the notches that run along the side of the film. The goal is to thread the film along the ridges in the reel, without any part of the film touching itself. You either get it right or you don’t and you won’t really know until the chemical process is over and you have either a viable negative or a purple strip of crispy celluloid. So you just give it your best shot and then pop the reel in your light tight tank and hope for the best.

The chemical process is semi-stressful, partly because you know that if you didn’t thread your film properly, everything you’re about to do is a waste of time, and partly because you have to be watching the clock like a hawk. The lid of the tank is designed to allow fluids to be poured in and out without exposing the film, so the chemical processing can be done in the light. The first chemical is the developer, and depending on a number of factors, it’s in the tank between 9-12.5 minutes, during which you are agitating the tank in a slow hand-to-hand inversion for 5 seconds out of every 30. Four more chemicals will enter and depart the tank before the Big Reveal, each with their own time and agitation requirements, and each needing to be dumped out in its own vat, trough, or drain. You’re counting. You’re consulting your notes, repeating instructions to yourself. You’re focused.

Assuming the above process renders usable negatives, you’re ready to go back in the darkroom to make prints. There’s literally dozens of ways to print your negatives, and provided you have enough photo sensitive paper, chemicals, and knowledge, you could spend countless hours making varied prints from a single strip of negatives. Although this work is done in the darkroom, this time you are working beneath the dingy yellow glow of a filtered “safe light.” Your tools are a machine called an enlarger, which filters light through the negative and projects the image on photo paper, and three trays of chemicals.

The first 30 seconds of the chemical printing process is when the magic happens. This is the moment you’re in it for—the thrill of placing a white sheet of paper in a tray of fluid and witnessing a picture bloom before your very eyes. After a two minute thrill of seeing your work floating in the developer, you need to dip the image in a stop-bath solution to keep your picture from developing itself right out of visibility. Finally, it needs to soak in a fixer for 4 minutes, or else you’ll go back to look at your image in a few days and find a muddy brown mess in its place.

All this, and I haven’t even touched on dodging and burning techniques, spotting finished images, or the importance of studying your surroundings so you can safely crawl around on your hands and knees when groping for a key tool you sent sailing across the floor during the film rolling phase. It’s all pretty complicated, and, to be honest, I’ve barely been able to keep up with all of the assignments. I’ve also found that it’s hard to match my enthusiasm level from 8 years ago, primarily because back then, film was the standard—to know film was to know photography. Today, I know there’s faster and more efficient ways to get even better images. For me, the jury is still out on whether those ways are artistically equal or not. But for now? This creature of sun and light is just focused on getting the most out of a rare foray into the dark.

Account-ability

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Thu, 21 Oct 2010 15:42:00 +0000

Considering the record of deplorable banking history I have cataloged here in this forum, I feel it's only appropriate that I volunteer a financial report on the outcome of the auction I hosted in August.

Since my track record with mail only slightly rivals that of my banking acumen, I feel this report would have been stronger if I included a picture of the check all sealed in an addressed envelope, and perhaps one of the mailman carrying it away for good measure, but I didn't have the foresight. I promise, though, it was mailed!

In Other News:

My photography class is still pretty fun, but there are signs that I'm ready to move on. I'm missing the writing time, and bolstering my resolve to get some big projects off the ground. I'm also tossing around some ideas about a significant blog makeover, but nothing concrete yet. Stay tuned.

A Note-able Encounter

noreply@blogger.com (Cynthia@RunningWithLetters) — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 03:15:00 +0000

My husband spotted him first. “Is that guy playing a violin over there?” he asked, indicating a thin strip of median at the entrance of a busy Walmart parking lot.

I rolled down a window, hoping to catch a note or two as traffic paused at a red light. Faint strains of hauntingly beautiful music intermixed with the crisp evening air that wafted in the minivan.

The decision to turn around was unanimous. My daughter fished around in her pockets to find a couple bills for us to toss in the man’s violin case as we paused in a vacant lot for a moment to just listen. While the guy’s arms worked the violin, his foot powered a homemade percussion instrument fashioned from a rusty midsized tin can. The minstrel played on, pausing only to accept a steady stream of bills offered through the windows of passing cars and to shake the hand of a homeless man who emerged from the shadowy side of a fast food joint to offer thanks for the dinner music.

I exited the car and crossed the street to hand deliver my offering. As I approached, the man met my gaze. He was young, friendly, and stopped playing to greet me and thank me for stopping. I told him his music was beautiful, and to my surprise he extended his hand and slipped me a gift of his own—a CD in a blank white envelope. “My brother plays with me on this,” he explained. “He added a bit of guitar.”

I thanked the musician, clutched the CD to my chest and ran back to my van. “He gave me a CD!” I called excitedly. We opened the envelope and popped the disk into the sound system and listened in fascination as the van swelled with the sound of…speed metal.