I Finally Did It

I flipped the switch, and now it’s live.

It’s dawn on my birthday. Outside the window directly to the right of my desk, I can see the sunlight just starting to brighten the sky through gathering clouds. My plan had been to sleep in today, but I awoke at three this morning, and immediately knew that was a pipe dream. I have a four day weekend that I’ve dedicated to writing. Might as well jump right in. 

As my birthday present to you, as promised, I am now posting some of the fiction I’m writing. Because I’m tired of hiding a large chunk of what I write in fear of ridicule.

This is a work in progress. As in, this is first draft stuff right here. I’d love to have your commentary and constructive criticism. Or a book deal. Or an agent. Whatever. Most importantly, I’m hoping for some accountability—because if I make this public to you, and you’re expecting updates, then I actually have to finish a story, and not just let it fizzle out, right?

You can read the first installment here:

The Child Is Gone

At the top you'll see a new page titled "Work In Progress." You'll find subsequent installments listed there, in order. My goal is to post one or two each week, so please make sure to check back for more. 

Context, Immersion, & Realization in the World’s Longest Blog Post. I’m Sorry.

Photo Source

 For those of you who don’t know me in real life, you likely have no idea what I mean when I say I’m a culture nerd. That’s okay. I plan on telling you exactly what I mean today. Get ready to nod off. I feel like thought-dumping all over the blog today. Or would it be spewing? The one thing I know is this jumble of thoughts is coming out. I will try to keep it short, but no promises.

I’m a culture nerd because that’s what I studied in both my undergraduate days and while I was I graduate school. That’s right. I studied American culture. I studied it from a psychological perspective, I studied it from an anthropological perspective, and then I dove fully into the pool and got my master’ in American Culture Studies. Please note that I didn’t get my degree in American Studies—which is more along the lines of the history and literature of America (which IS good stuff), but in American CULTURE Studies, which means I fashion myself to be something like a social scientist.

Right now, you’re likely thinking that I have now informed you there’s a line of inquiry more pointless than a philosophy degree. I would beg to differ-- there are lots of ways to be employed with a culture studies degree, and they are not all at the Smithsonian Institute.

Also, I’ve always like philosophy majors, so don’t diss them.

EVERYTHING we do, EVERY day, is influenced by the enculturation we have received in our lives, to date. Culture tells us how to act, how to respond, how to think, how to process new ideas and experiences—it tells us almost everything. Human beings give up animal instincts by the 18^th month of life, and we rely on culture a lot from there on out. Granted, biology and genetics has its role, but—in my mind at least—culture is king. I like to study the recurring parts of culture we respond to but don’t always understand (sometimes this is called the myth and symbol school), and I like to study the new culture that is made when people interact with one another (called symbolic interactionism).

Yesterday I had reason to pull up an old article from my grad school days in order to help a student. It was a paper on textual analysis—which is one method researchers use to study culture—especially if they are qualitative researchers (I fashion myself a qualitative researcher). As I was reading McKee’s article (he literally wrote the book on how to do a textual analysis, and I love that he talks to us like a normal person would do in everyday conversation) I came across a chunk that has smacked me in the face time and again. I won’t bore you with quoting McKee, but he basically says that in order to understand the significance of anything in culture (as a researcher—but as a normal person as well, I would hazard) you must immerse yourself in everything. Books, movies, music, news, pop culture, the internet—everything.

I’ve been craving culture. Movies. Books. Music. News. I’ve been feeling guilty about giving in to these cravings, because there’s so much to do at work and at home right now. Every time I give in and buy a new CD or download a new book or watch OnDemand I feel like crap because I could be school shopping or grading or cleaning out the closets.

McKee tells me, in one paragraph, that I need to be immersed sometimes. That these cravings deserve to be fulfilled because the process of immersion is important.  I thought about this for the remainder of the day yesterday. It led me to another realization—and this is where we get to the point of the post, I promise—I’ve gotten a bit off track here on my blog.

This little chunk of the internet was created with the intention of chronicling our ascent to bliss. I know, I know; I’ve always loved being dramatic. There are ups and downs in life, and we’ve experienced some downs as of late, but the upward trajectory remains the same. My goal was to chronicle it, so that I could start reminding myself that life doesn’t always suck. Which was a hard thing for me to grasp back in 2008 and 2009. For the most part, I’ve accomplished that goal and kept to the main point of this blog—detailing the wonder in our life right now—marking down the moments of my children’s lives I’m afraid the years will wash out, describing the thoughts and experiences that seem so important to us in this day and time, etc. But I’ve also been narrower than I should’ve been—so while, on the outside, it appears that I’ve remained on track—I’ve realized that I’m not really on track at all. It’s not just about the funny things Ant says or the vacation we took or even how I feel about today’s politics or anything else. I am not giving you the full scope of what’s important in our lives—in my life—right now.

One part of the problem (hectic summer schedule aside) I’ve been experiencing in posting here (on a regular basis, at least) is that I’m writing other things as well. I write for Sprocket Ink (and I’m not willing to give that up—because it helps justify my desire to immerse in pop culture about Katie Holmes and Octomom and all the other things) and I write here, and then I write fiction. Which I haven’t been sharing with anyone, for a multitude of reasons:

1)     The first reason is that I’m afraid it sucks. Which I think is usually the top reason for anyone who writes and doesn’t share it with another living soul.

2)     Because I always wimp before I hit 20,000 words. I have great ideas for books, can outline them out, start writing, and then something (usually myself) derails me from ever finishing a damn project.

3)     Because it doesn’t fit. I’ve been hesitant to do a lot of things on this blog. That statement itself is fodder for another entire post, but the gist is that I’ve felt the scope of this blog wouldn’t accommodate serial fiction of unknown quality.

I have set myself up in a way where I have at least three major writing projects going on at any given point in time (not counting work) and no overlap. I think fellow bloggers/writers may agree with me—there are only so many words you can write in a day. In a week. In a month. So, if I keep posting at Sprocket Ink, and I happen to be excited (for the moment) about a fiction idea, then this blog suffers. Or if I’m excited about something here, then the fiction suffers. Because I only have so much time and so many words, and I’ve always thought these three things should not overlap.

Realization told me yesterday this is a lie I’ve been feeding to myself to continue justifying hiding the other things I do. If I would post some of my fiction—or even talk about my writing—I would be presenting a more accurate picture of my life here, I might even get some (free!) critique on my writing, and—here’s the big part—posting serially may even keep me on track to actually FINISH SOMETHING, FOR ONCE IN MY LIFE!

That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I bet you’re hoping I finish this post sometime soon.

All of the above is to explain a major change that is coming to the blog. I am going to start posting fiction.  I am going to give it a page up above, and then link to serial sections, and then you can read it, and tell me if I suck, or if I’m awesome (especially if you are a book agent, or know one), and if J is right and aliens are the new zombies (just like zombies were the new vampires two years ago). I don’t know exactly when you can expect to see this new stuff, but I’m shooting for the next couple of days. I don’t know what my schedule will be for posting it, and I don’t know if perhaps I will just hide behind the loveseat in my living room waiting for the trolls to come and laugh at me, but I will try to make this a regular thing, and have some structure, and what I really want from those who read is for you to KEEP ME ACCOUNTABLE. Seriously.

Sometimes a girl needs someone tailing her ass in order to get a project done, just like she needs to brain dump all over her blog for her sanity.

And if you made it to this—the second to last sentence of this post—then you deserve a gold star!

Fellow bloggers: Is your blog a completely open representation of who you are in any given moment, or do you sometimes use it as a wall to hide part of yourself—like I do?

#OperationPlayMore

Like all good things, it started with a Twitter conversation.

Friday night I was chatting with Stephanie, aka @SarcasminAction of Musings of a Sarcastic Mind. I saw her tweets and immediately contacted her. We were lamenting on the fact that we no longer play. We’re sour and cranky and slightly jaded, and we’re tired of it!

Yeah. That’s right. You heard me. Play. Like a kid.

Do you remember how much fun it was to play as a child? Jumping rope? Hula Hoops? Splashing in Puddles? Catching fireflies? Why did we ever give this up? Why in the world would we give up telling scary stories and eating smores? Or coloring? Or doing cartwheels in the grass behind our house? Or climbing trees?

Stephanie and I both decided that we needed to play more. She wrote it up on her blog and invited people to link up. You’ll also notice the title is a Twitter hashtag.

I tested the water on Saturday. The kids were bored and so, spur-of-the-moment, we swung by the park. After walking around the lake trail for a bit, and then shrieking when we encountered a copperhead snake, we ended up taking over the swings. And I swung for twenty minutes. It felt great. We had races to see how fast we could go and how high we could go and while the other mothers in the park stared at me (there was a whole gaggle of baby-wearing mommas at the park that day) I jumped off the swing—just like my mother instructed me to never do so many years ago.

On Sunday, Ant and I went to the pool and played for three hours. We dove for rings and went down the water slide. We ate concession stand nachos and slurped on ice pops. Both of us were hot, sticky, and exhausted when we came home, but it was good. Fantastic, even.

On Monday evening, we watched the thunderstorms roll in while messing around in the backyard. We identified the different types of clouds, and I would almost swear you could see the Jetstream or cold front sweeping the clouds diagonally across the sky in a single streak the width of my hand (when compared to the sky, that is). We were hoping it would begin to rain before bedtime, but it didn’t. I ended up with seven mosquito bites, but oh well!

Last night we had all four of us in the house playing Draw Something with each other. In the same room. This lasted for almost two hours—way past bedtime for Ant, and was hilarious. Ant was the most creative. J was the least (he just kept drawing fireballs for everything). The best picture of the night still leaves me stumped. K sent me this to guess (it was a three pointer) and finally had to tell me what it was, because there’s no way I would decipher this to mean ‘Google’.

Recreation. Do any of you get it? I don't!

Tonight? Well, I’m not certain yet what we’re going to do tonight. I do have to run by the store after work this evening, and I’m hoping that maybe, just maybe, they have jump ropes. Do you know much I’ve missed jump ropes? And think of the cardio. Playing more has health benefits!

Actually, it truly does. It also has a lot of mental benefits. Playing gets you up and moving, so there’s calorie loss. It helps you de-stress. It improves the mood of those suffering from depression. It can help you solve problems (by tapping into your imagination). Playing can even decrease or delay mental decline as we age.

And so, each day, I am trying to play more. I am going to start sharing how I play and—GASP—maybe even taking pictures. Of myself. I know! I hope you decide to come along. Join our #operationplaymore. Let’s make it a trend. Hell, if planking or photo bombing can become a thing, playing can too!

So, if you don’t get ahold of me right away, know this: I am likely making glow in the dark bubbles. Or we’ve gone fishing. Or we’re having a picnic. Because this is how we’re going to roll this summer!

The Challenge

I’m frustrated and have been in a horrible mood for the past forty-eight hours, all due to some silly writing challenge. NaNoWriMo. I keep trying to tell myself that it doesn’t really mean much of anything to me, but that’s not the truth. It does mean something, and it’s not silly. I scoff and degrade it in my mind because it IS important.  It means breaking down a barrier that I’ve contended with during the entirety of my writing “life”; I start something, I am excited about it, but that excitement quickly wanes. I abandon the project in the search for the next new thought.

I fix things other people cannot and finish things and tidy up loose ends in all other aspects of my life, but when it comes to the thing that I’ve always enjoyed doing—the thing I’ve always wanted to take more seriously—the place in my life where I WANT to grow… I cannot seem to break that barrier.

It’s not that I can’t keep up with the word count—I know that the word count can be a big issue to many others, but the word count part of this is fine for me. If I have an idea and a direction, I can write until the cows come home. I don’t anguish like some others do; I don’t have to struggle for hours over a paragraph or a sentence. The problem is that I’m doing nothing but writing crap. I look at it, and it’s just crap, and even though I try to push through it and tell myself that it’s supposed to be crap, that it’s supposed to be a shell of story, that I’m supposed to go back and edit and revise and that this is all part of the PROCESS…I get frustrated and angry and I stew over it. I’m to the point that I lay on the couch of the evenings with a deep scowl on my face and my arms crossed over my chest, and the boys look at me with the question “If it makes you this angry, why are you even doing this?” hanging in their eyes.

It makes me feel like some tragic, brooding artist cliché, and this pisses me off even more because I don’t like that cliché. I think you can be happy and content and craft something wonderful at the same time. I think you have to be a good storyteller, a good listener, a good observer; not mentally unstable or tortured or lost.

My husband says things that he considers to be supportive, like “Just keep going with it honey, and see where it takes you,” and “It’s okay if you don’t finish, no one EXPECTS you to finish,” and this leaves me even more frustrated. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t have the right words to support me in this endeavor—this is not his goal, this is not his forte. He doesn’t understand what would make me feel better, and I don’t think that there’s much that could be said to make me feel better. I think to myself that I would feel better if I could dedicate more time in the day to the endeavor, but in the same minute I know that this is not the truth—I would just spend more of my day feeling like this.

I lay in bed with the thoughts spinning around my head so fast that I cannot even grab one to pick it out of the mix and examine it up close. I feel the frustration in this writing challenge spinning out into other areas of my life, and the question “What am I doing?” no longer applies to the writing challenge, but to my life overall, as the negative thoughts grow out of proportion and sneak their way into other parts of my brain.

Then, out of all of this, my great-grandmother’s voice comes into my head, clear and strong. You don’t know this, but I am writing about her, in a roundabout way. The way I envision her would be a better description, I suppose. This somehow conjures her, and she is speaking in my mind—in the middle of the night—telling me things that soothe me, then telling me that it wouldn’t be worth it if it wasn’t hard. That nothing in the world that is easy is really worth anything at all. It comforts me to hear her again—I can almost smell her—and I know that what I hear is the actual truth, the main point, and finally, I can turn over and fall asleep.

Writing as a Lifestyle

It was still dark both mornings when I quietly tiptoed down the stairs. Before seven. Normal people sleep in on the weekends. I am setting the coffee pot, letting the dog out, starting laundry, and folding the last load. Why am I always comparing myself to these ubiquitous ‘normal’ people? I’m starting to believe that they really don’t exist; that they are made up characters.

There were so many blogging conferences occurring last week, and there I sat, watching it all go down, on Twitter. I cannot commit myself to going to blogging conferences right now (first, there’s this little thing called work, and they often expect me to be there while school is in session), and even if I could, I think I would feel immense guilt in spending the money. New York City? I would love to go—but the first thought that flits through my mind is, “I wonder how expensive those freaking hotels are?”

Who are these people who can afford to go? Who can arrange childcare like ‘that’ and like to fly and can walk into a room full of strangers and make lifelong friends? Ah, but I’ve waxed on about my fear of these conferences before.

When I go to a conference for work, I have no trouble putting myself out there. It’s expected. I also know who I am and what I intend to do while I’m there. With my writing, I’m not so sure. How do I put myself out there, feeling as vulnerable as I do about what I want to be, what I want to write, how I want to grow? Do I want my own domain? Do I want a customized design for my blog? Do I want advertising? Do I want to make a career out of writing? I’m good at what I do now—and it is very fulfilling—but there’s this little part of me that says, “But what if THIS is what you are supposed to do?”

So I do a handful of chores in the quiet pre-dawn and pick up the living room, and survey my surroundings, and try to get myself into the mindset to write. This is the time that I have. If I’m going to do it, this is what I’ve got. It’s difficult. I am a person who usually has to try to take advantage of inspiration when it comes my way, and inspiration likes to screw with me. Inspiration strikes at one in the afternoon on a Wednesday, while I am at work. By the time nine o’clock rolls around that evening, and I actually have the time to do something about it, inspiration has disappeared again. It’s likely off giving ideas to someone who actually has the time to interact with it.

One of the tweets that came across my feed last week said that “Writing is a lifestyle choice.” Is it, really? Perhaps, for some it is. Not for me. My way of life is being an employee, a wife, a mother, a daughter, a friend. The vast majority of the time each and every one of those roles come first. How does one go about making writing a lifestyle when the writing must always occur on the fringes? I cannot be the only one with obligations. I can’t be the only one who refuses to cast those obligations aside, even momentarily. I think that saying it’s a choice in lifestyle is a copout. I think it’s like saying, “Either you’re all in, or you’re nothing. Choose.” I think it’s similar to some of those few bloggers who think the ‘amateurs’ are screwing it up for the rest of them.

In other words, I think it is rude and dismissive to say that writing is a lifestyle choice. Writing, to me, can only be one small part of the overall life you create, and I think that’s okay. I think that’s perfectly acceptable—and if you find that balance—the one that works for you—that’s the ultimate goal! Not to convert your life over to one line of inquiry; one quest. To embrace all of the different aspects of your being, to show off the facets that make you a multi-dimensional person.

I hope it sounded better in the context of the larger conversation that was being had. I hope that the overall message was inspirational and creative, because the one little tagline that came across Twitter countless times this week did nothing to foster the writer in me. Instead, it made me feel nominal. Yet, I refuse to believe that I cannot be a writer because I cannot dedicate my lifestyle wholly to it.