Hit and Run Parents

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

Like the Blues Brothers, they were on a mission from God—or Cupid. I don’t quite know, but here’s what I can tell you. My parents planned their visit on Thursday when I called them during my evening date with traffic. The beauty of hands free calling in the car is I can fill my commute with conversation instead of commercials and chatty radio hosts. My mother and I moved through our daily back and forth. I heard my father puttering around in the background as he interrupted her. He spoke with his perfect, slow drawl, “Ask her where he works. What’s the name of that place?”

My mother continued with the obligatory, “You’re father wants to know where your brother works.”

“I know, Mom. I heard him just fine,” I said, laughing since my father doesn’t believe he has any hearing loss. I’m sure the people in the car next to me heard his questions even with my windows up. I answered, and answered again when my father didn’t understand. I spelled it out, listening to my mother repeat the words over and over with growing frustration. They were coming. They made plans. They strategized and worked out times while I was on the phone.

I cleaned the house in preparation, remembering to put the broom and dustpan in an easy to reach spot in the closet. The house was clean, but my mother would feel obliged to sweep. I should have known, though. They’re hit and run, and it’s not the first time.

My father once drove up with a trailer laden down with landscaping stones. The fact he unloaded it at my brother’s house was the only giveaway he had ever been around. My mother has driven in to see the grandkids and driven right back home, having told each of us that she might stay with the other sibling.

Maybe they were itching to brush off the recent round of cabin fever brought on by the cold weather. I don’t know. They did surprise me Friday afternoon when they brought me flowers for Valentine’s Day. I tried to get them to stay, but they insisted they had to leave. They don’t want to be a burden, so they take the long drive home. Putting all my frustration aside, I am reassured what they do is out of love—and no motive could be better.

Travel Plans

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment
The beauty of a cloudy day.
The beauty of a cloudy day.

Travel is an adventure no matter how far you go. Typically, I take a weekend hopper somewhere. I’m not big on big vacations because, as previously discussed, I keep myself busy with activities—running, needle crafts, metal work, etc. This list is a little longer, but no one should be bored with that. I’m a bit of a workaholic and feel guilty when I am not doing or accomplishing something. Long vacations separate me from my distractions. Traveling with a torch and acid pickling station is shunned by TSA regulations. I’d make the no-fly list at the airport fast.

All my excuses aside, I force myself to take an extended vacation each year. I am lucky to have a friend who encourages me in planning trips. She doesn’t yearn to keep busy like I do. She’s attracted to luxury and travel like ants to sugar, which is a good thing for me. Her desire to get away leads to plans for years on end. There is always a place to go, and she doesn’t mind if I tag along. Cruises are her trip of choice. So far, I’m okay with them. I don’t jump for joy at the thought of being stuck on a boat, but I do appreciate not hauling my luggage everywhere.

For a few years now, we’ve ventured through European destinations on cruise-tours. They have been amazing opportunities to see so much of the world, to experience history first-hand, and to write in some of the most beautiful settings. On last year’s voyage, I was able to pull out a small journal as I sat at a cafe in Mykonos and take notes as I watched rain clouds move in over the island. The blue waters and crisp, white houses shadowed by the line of rumbling gray above. It’s visual poetry.

Now, though, it’s time to trade the long cruises for long stays on land. The mere hours allowed by our tours is no longer enough. I am drawn to wander through these cities. I need to find every museum and every local dive. I need to know how these people live, not just how they can sell me souvenirs. I need to spend days in their cafes watching their world as the sun rises and fades again into the night. I need knowledge.

My dear friend tries to accommodate my thirst for history. She indulges my desire to wander on occasion, as long as I let her shop. Some travelers are satisfied with a short visit and a dose of commerce in each port, but not me. The call to explore will not leave me alone. Its echo tumbled through every thought during our last voyage, and I need to answer it. My feet itch with impatience without earth under my feet, which is odd considering my Nordic ancestry. Well, odd only if I forget that they sailed out of a drive to save their communities, expand their horizons, and explore the boundaries of their world—and I love to explore.

Writing Resolutions

~ Carie ~ 1 Comment

We’re a week into the new year. I’ve given you enough time to stretch, yawn, take two aspirin and down a lot of water. Champagne hangovers can be a real pain, but we’re seven days past it—more than enough to get back into the day-to-day of life. You may have broken a personal resolution already. I ruminate over them for a few days. Not really. I procrastinate for a few days and then make plans I mean to break. One or two things do seem to catch, though. Something in my brain won’t let me fail at everything on the list.

With the knowledge one thing might register in the subconscious, I made the members of my writing group list their three resolutions. Once that was done, someone else in the group assigned a fourth goal to their list. The fourth item had to be slightly different. It needed to put the individual out of their comfort zone. You might want to do the same thing.

Don’t tell me no. I don’t care. You’ve got to start somewhere. Go get a pen and a stack of paper. Run your hand over the first blank sheet. It’s okay. The virgin page is waiting for you. Now, before you go crazy, here’s what I need you to do: write down your three personal resolutions. If you’re anything like me, you’ll spend a lot of time doodling bits of nothing on the first page. The second sheet will be crumpled and discarded after the first line, so don’t get too attached. Give yourself time to work through it, but know that the first three things that pop into your head are usually the right things to do. They may need to be refined, but they’re the heart of your desires.

It’s not my problem if you break them all, but you need an idea of where you want to be at the end of the year. If you don’t know your goals, how will you know how to fail them? Kidding. I’m placing my own thoughts on you, and you may very well be goal-oriented. No. Number one on the list cannot be, “to be goal-oriented.” That’s an innate trait.

To get you started, I’ll let you in on my resolutions:

  1. Finish the revisions on my current novel.
  2. Submit query letters and first pages. (This one will also include a lot of hoping and praying.)
  3. Write and submit at least one short story for competition. (More hoping, praying, and a lot of denying that I’m hoping.)
  4. Write a Steam Punk genre short story. (This is the one someone else added to my list. It will push the boundaries of my voice and style.)

Now that I’ve posted those publicly, I’m sure to get a phone call from my mother. These will be our primary topic until I’m done. Yippee. Actually, you can put an exclamation point on that one. She will drive me (crazy) to get my revisions completed. It’s the reason I made my critique group write their goals down and hand them over. We can keep each other on target. We won’t hound each other, but the open knowledge of these goals makes them more real. It does no good to write resolutions and hide them. You’re only hiding them from yourself, and it’s sad to not help yourself succeed.

 

Note: I threatened the group with posting their goals online. This should prove that it wasn’t a threat but a statement of fact on my part. Cheers!

SOL

  1. Improve and finalize plot for current novel.
  2. Flesh out the characters of the Antagonist and Protagonist.
  3. Tie historical story line in novel to modern-day story line.
  4. Write short story on the Finnish Christmas tree.

SB

  1. Set up weekly accountability.
  2. Commit to revision course.
  3. Prepare submission of first draft for revision course.
  4. Write quarterly serialized story for online publication.

CC

  1. Send at least one query letter per quarter.
  2. Blog two times per week.
  3. Write one article for work per month.
  4. Write fiction short story.

GF

  1. Write Hero’s Journey for new novel idea.
  2. Do two weeks of research for new novel.
  3. Write at least 15,000 words toward new story.
  4. Write a short story about witchcraft in a modern setting.

I Write for Breakfast

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

My writing group gathers every Sunday morning. Well, not quite a group of us. It’s normally two people with other characters joining the melee on days they wake up. If it’s a morning of just two, we eat, we discuss, and we write. When there are more, the conversational tangents run far and wide. They all relate to writing, or to what we are writing, but we have a tendency to fall deep into the rabbit hole of “what ifs” and “then there’s” as writers. One idea connects to another until the dots of light come together in an interesting constellation of thoughts.

It’s fascinating to sit back and find out where we will end up. A conversation about Anne Lamott takes us to the varying waves of divorce among midlife couples and on to the pain of revisions. [Note: I tied it together as stages of our writing. Writing late into life, surviving writer’s block, and learning to let go of it all.] We may get fifteen minutes of full pen to paper time on such occasions, but that’s okay. Sometimes you need the mental break. Your brain needs to wander amongst the words of others.

I get lost in my own head. There’s a lot up there to think about. One color change to the sky can alter every piece of minutia for the universe, and I need to figure it out. I need to put the puzzle pieces in place. So it’s good for me to spend time with others. It could also be why I have so many hobbies. There’s a drive to keep myself out of my own wonderland of thoughts. I put up the “Do Not Disturb” sign on my brain and do something real, including being around real people. I am very comfortable removing myself from the world at large and living in my own personal version of the galaxy. Solitary is easy for people like me. It’s the interaction that breaks us.

I recommend the challenge of tangents for breakfast. Don’t try to steer the conversation. Let it go. Glancing blows off the circle of your ideas can turn them in so many different directions. One such instance a few years back forced me to find my voice again. An insistent friend hinted until the idea was my own, driving me forward into the writing life. I can revel in my thoughts, finally putting my worlds on paper and sharing them with people who won’t judge me for red-skinned giants living in a golden-hued landscape. It might just be a statement about the evils of greed, but I won’t know until I get to breakfast.

The Laundromat

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment
Madison, WI Laundromat, image provided by danalousmatclaundry
Madison, WI Laundromat, image provided by danalousmatclaundry

I like the word “laundromat.” There’s a roundness to the first two syllables leading into the harsh and definite ending. I haven’t been to a laundromat since I was a sophomore in college—which was a long time ago. Phlphty-plus years later, I’m back. This place evokes a strange feeling. I say strange because I am a bit reminiscent due to the sounds and smells, but also because the laundromat is trapped in a time warp. It’s the same physical place, but locked in time at about 1989. A sad, lost episode of Doctor Who.

The oddly out-of-date—but possible hipster retro throwback—Armstrong tile floor. Miniature iron gates protecting the soap, bleach and softeners from being stolen out of the machines. Ms Pac-Man and Final Lap sitting dark and quiet in the back. Industrial, oversized steel washers and dryers. The constant hum of pulsing water and tumbling clothes. The aroma of clean. These would all add up to comfort if not for the Star Wars cantina patrons.

I live very close to a private, over-priced university. I expected more collegiate individuals—like when I was in college, but they’re not here. Mom and Dad must provide them with everything so they dare not need to breathe the same air as a commoner such as myself.

Otherwise, I am here with an interesting sub-culture of America. The women have aged at a high rate of speed. Their bodies come in two forms, either lumpy or stick thin, but equally misshapen with shoulders hunched forward—a visible sign of how tired they are. The men are from a wider swath of the population. Middle-aged men who look like they were still drunk when they dressed this morning. Some are confused and stare at the machines a little too long. The washers only require one decision, hot vs. cold, but these men seem unable to face this test. They wear t-shirts, which are the ever-so-slightest shade of pink. I’m guessing these are the recently divorced ones. Then there are the older gentlemen who seem to have lost their wives early. They are sad and quiet, reading the newspaper as their slacks tumble quietly in the dryer next to the bench.

One guy in the place appears to have bathed and shaved this morning. Medium height, dark hair. His giveaway is the Bluetooth headset implanted in his ear. I would say this marked him as “the jerk,” but he’s not it. He’s cheesy and chipper as he moves from one steel beast to the next, twisting this and checking that and chatting away with his kids as he fixes the machines. He’s the only one in the entire place who makes eye contact and smiles. Turns out it’s because he’s the owner/maintenance guy, and he’s happy taking my money one quarter at a time.

The rest of the patrons are creeping me out. My skin crawls at the idea some of these men are hanging out just to watch me fold my underwear. This moment deserves a loud blood-curdling scream to ease the tension and let them know I’m on the defensive. I emit nothing, though. How can the necessity of clean clothes become this eerie? Why is the maintenance man the only person here around whom I my hair doesn’t stand on end? Why can’t they remember to separate lights and darks?

The women deposited their clothes and ran back to their cars. These creepers must be the reason. I, on the other hand, cannot spend that much time sitting in my car without going somewhere. I also care about getting all of my clothes back, which might be part of my problem. I’ve seen too many movies where someone steals the clothes out of the dryer as they run from the authorities. No major prisons are around the corner, but the idea of someone making off with one of my favorite tees makes me angry. I’ll fold every last piece in front of them all to make sure my “May the Norse be with you” tee gets home safely—and un-pinked.

Attack of the Lazy

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

I won’t deny it. I have been lazy. Well, as lazy as I am capable of being. I understand this confession may not convince you. I didn’t sleep past 8:30 am or spend an entire day in my pajamas. I didn’t skip a day at the office—even though several days were Ferris Bueller-like temptations. It’s more that I have not been working on what I should. I slid into a pattern of avoiding of my writing duties, which was easy.

I kicked the avoidance bonanza off by reorganizing the house after the unpacking frenzy. I followed with a flurry of vacation prep. After ten days of travel around the beautiful Aegean Sea, I ventured home and drifted along in a pattern of laziness. Could be post-vacation blues combined with birthday blues and the major sugar crash of available Halloween candy. Everything came together in the perfect not-quite-a-storm situation. If it were still summer and I had a porch swing, it would be the southern breeze of laziness drifting through my life.

Please take my story of avoidance and slackerdom with a grain of whatever seasoning you like. I’m not committing myself to a promise of turning the grindstone forever and never doing this again. It will happen, and I will enjoy it just as much as I did this occurrence. Imagine no Black Friday deadline. No packing and unpacking. No commitments. Can you? I didn’t think it possible anymore, but there it was. I did do the laundry, clean the house, and wash the mud off the dogs. I didn’t skip those things, but I didn’t do anything outside of rest easy in my daily life and work diligently at my job. I didn’t do all of the activities I do when I don’t want to be bored, because boredom never made an appearance.

I still had insomnia, but I read a book instead of hammering out a set of bangles or designing a new scarf or repainting the doghouse. There were no accomplishments to count—no hard evidence of my lost hours of sleep. Some books moved out of the need to read stack, but it’s difficult to tell if I made a real dent since I only used it as an excuse to purchase more books. That’s an obsession for another day, and honestly, I don’t know when I’ll get to it.

Rejection

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

Rejection sucks. It hurts. Rejection is difficult enough in work and love, but the ache is worse when it’s something you created—when someone with a tiny bit of power in the world has rejected your art. The pain, the urge to jump into a defensive mode is stronger. There’s no opportunity for you to shout, “It’s not me. It’s you.” You receive a letter or email, and you’re out of the running. Easy for the rejector. For the rejected, there are scraps of ego to be pieced back together, and the ever-present question, “What was wrong?”

I would love to get an answer. I want to know how to improve my craft. I understand what I write does not appeal to everyone, but it’s not bad. (My ego will make an appearance now.) I am pretty darn good at what I do. I’m not great. I know that. There are no “great American novels” buried in my head, but there are fantasies and trips through distant worlds. There are characters with which you’d want to belly up to a bar, and that bar would be something of my creation.

If you couldn’t tell, my book submission was rejected recently. The first rejection of a piece stings. I’m lying. It’s more than a simple sting. It’s death by scorpion. There’s a pinch at the first line of justification, “It’s not that you’ve written a bad book, or necessarily written badly.” Ouch. You’re right. You don’t know if I’ve written a bad book. You read only the first fifteen pages. That little gem was followed a few lines later with this, “This experience for you isn’t even rejection. It’s a delay.” What? Hurts like rejection.

In all of the “softening the blow” mumbo jumbo, there was nothing concrete to help me. It was a nice rejection, a soft leather glove swiped across my cheek instead of an armor gauntlet. Yet it leaves behind the same pain and confusion.

I’m in an angry stage at this moment. I waffle between acceptance and anger. A sea which never seems to settle. The letter has driven me forward. I refuse to accept what I do isn’t good or good enough. Isn’t that what rejection should do?

Of Books and Bathrooms

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

I managed to get most of my things out of boxes. It was more difficult than the packing portion because it seems to have increased in size while stored away. Stored boxes, like luggage while traveling, seem to be the Tribbles of modern society. Luckily, I labeled every box. Even with the labeling system, I was surprised by what I had packed. The several months I had been away from my things was long enough to forget some of them. There were lingering breaks involved which I spent distracted by flipping through my college photo album, pictures of my trip to Ireland from all those years ago, and placing all of my books back on the shelves.

Putting the books away took a bit longer than expected. I spent some of the time dividing them by category—and alphabetizing them by author. Guest room is non-fiction, religion, equine reference, and my Mark Twain collection. The sitting room is fiction, poetry, foreign language, music reference, and antique books. Kitchen is cooking, of course. The living room contains personal work, research, and general reference. Then there’s my room, which houses three gilded volumes: the complete works of William Shakespeare, Rudyard Kipling and Guy du Maupassant. Laugh all you want, but now was the time to get it done. One of my friends noted it wasn’t as much a house but a library that looked like a house. Yes. I agree.

Books reside in every room except the bathrooms. I believe keeping books and magazines in the bathroom is disgusting. My mother would disagree with me. Most of my apprehension involves the thought of germs, a small portion is the extra humidity, and the last is time spent in the bathroom.

Paper and water don’t mix. Period. Damp paper never dries right. Pages ripple and stick together, and there’s the mildew. I would say that’s gross by itself, but here’s what truly grosses me out: no one needs to spend that much time on the toilet.

If you are one of those individuals who takes reading materials with you, maybe you need to see a doctor. It can indicate, at the least, you have gastro-intestinal issues. Don’t start debating with me it’s your private time, or it’s a “retreat”. There are work retreats and military retreats. I don’t want to spend time doing either, and I’m not going to refer to my bathroom as one. It is a lavatory, bathing room, toilet, water closet, etc. Whatever your terminology, “retreat” does not qualify. Get out of your bathroom, and please, keep my reading material out of it.

The Internet-Free Hacienda

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

Life without instantaneous internet availability at the house is proving to be a trying experience. Missives need to be sent, movies to be watched, and talks to be had with you lovely readers, but I am restricted to public wifi. The difficulty is I am not fond of the “public.” I fear the nefarious hacker who could be present and up to no good. Kind of like the NSA hacking SSL info. No one needs to know that much. It’s a bit beyond Big Brother.

The real problem is the internet and cable companies obviously do not employee enough people to accommodate the demand for their services. I have a two-hour window in the middle of my workday about a month from my move-in date. For a Saturday appointment, it was a six-week wait. Does that make sense? Not to me. Hire a few more technicians. Look at me creating jobs. I would also like more evening and weekend appointments. Why are we trying to fit everything into a nine-to-five window? There must be qualified technicians who don’t want to work mornings. My office can’t be the only place with people wandering in as close to ten as they can push it. Someone else has to be a night owl willing to work until seven or eight in the evening if they can get an extra hour of sleep in the morning. It’s called work shifts, people.

In order to build wealth, one needs to work, and I can’t very well achieve much at work while I sit around waiting for people at home. Some of us don’t have minions willing to do our bidding and haven’t cloned ourselves yet. There’s not a spare me to sit around waiting during my “appointment window” while me me goes to meetings. Yet there is so much waiting to be done.

 

Swimming in Mental Drama

Image ~ ~ Carie ~ 1 Comment
Orin Zebest-Rio Vista, CA
Orin Zebest-Rio Vista, CA

I try to do too much. It’s my normal. What am I to do if no deadline exists? Without the busy-ness, my brain takes a dive into the pool of depression. In reaction, I isolate myself—only drifting further into dangerous waters. So I am busy. On purpose.

At work, I am in the heart of holiday. We are building Black Friday, rebuilding Black Friday, getting Christmas underway, and preparing for the frenzy of New Year’s. At home, I am ready to move back. I face a flurry of walkthroughs, city approvals and financial data. With my current book, it’s time. I am pushing through revisions. I am fighting to get the pictures right on the page. I am carefully picking through word choice. Or I think I am.

I shut down this week. Tuesday night, toward the end of class, the instructor said something that struck me wrong. Somewhere in the dark crevices of my grey matter I lost it. This level of frustration is unlike me. I can file away any emotion for examination later, but this one. I dove head first into a mental tailspin, too stubborn and angry to pull myself out.

I have written before about revision. I told you to let go, and I meant it, but this one off-hand statement set off every alarm. I cannot clearly tell you why. My just-roll-with-it attitude stopped dead in its tracks and prepared for battle, but there was no one to fight. I had to seek help, and quick. Otherwise, my manuscript would end up in a heap of deletions—last man standing in the Alamo.

As humans (not as that ethereal thing known as a “creative”), we need help. We need outlets for all of the stuff running around in our heads. Other creatures do not sit around questioning themselves. They do not contemplate the pitch of their howls. We do.

So my advice this week is to not be afraid. There will be a moment of dark, but it’s not as bleak as you believe. Like my drive to be busy, help is everywhere. I met with an editor today. Their words settled me. They gave guidance. They offered light. That’s all I needed. I needed to stand face-to-face with the fear my writing is unworthy. I needed something to settle the beasts.