The Write Pressure

The challenge: Write a book in 72 hours. That's the gauntlet thrown down by the folks at the International 3-Day Novel Contest. Think you can do it? Each year, more than 300 people think they can. In 2005, Jan Underwood, a local writer, won. Over Labor Day weekend, she holed up with sweeTarts and her computer and wrote "Day Shift Werewolf".

Color me green. I can't deny it; the jealousy bug has bit and bit hard.

I struggle with a mere few hundred words, seeking perfection as if it exists, looking for just the write words to express a feeling or paint a visual picture. I seek to "show not tell", the hallmark of good writers. Sometimes I come close. At other times...well, let's just say, thank goodness for the delete button.

I know I am too hard on myself and I am trying to quell my inner critic. Funny how my IC's voice is remarkably like one of my writing instructors, a well-known writer in our field. She's alternately snubbed and warmly greeted me (if she's not a Gemini, she should be). I haven't figured out why she treats me this way but I've learned to not take it personally; I've seen her do it, inexplicably, to countless others. I'm not sure why it's her voice I hear. I have no desire to emulate her or her writing. Far from it. It's not sour grapes. I just don't like her writing style nor do I think she's a good writer.

So, when I hear my IC's voice pop into my head, belittling my efforts, I practice the New York City echo. What? You don't know what that is?

"Hellooooo!"

"Shut the f--- up!"

Aaaaahhhhh, that's better. Without my nagging IC, my words begin to flow again.

Maybe writing a novel in 3 days - or just a short story - will be within my reach someday.

Walking the talk

Recently, good friends and I enjoyed a delicious meal at Nicholas Restaurant. As we walked back to our cars, we took a small sidetrip towards the I-84 entrance ramp off Grand to identify a tree that puzzled us on our way to the restaurant. (We're all nutty gardeners, you see, and a plant puzzle can not be left alone.) We voiced our surprise that it was a very confused dogwood (does it not know it should bloom in the spring?) before we noticed the makeshift shelter in the tall grass and ratty-looking shrubs. That began a discussion of the causes of homelessness. "Drug and alcohol abuse." "Mental illness." "Social dysfunction." I became so wrapped up in the conversation, I did not see the man sitting at the street corner, a victim of the condition we were discussing.

Without missing a beat, L walked over to him and handed him her dinner left-overs. It took me a few more beats - enough time to bring myself back to awareness of my surroundings - before I followed suit. The man was so grateful for our paltry offerings.

I'd been discussing the condition intellectually and I felt ashamed that I hadn't been emotionally present in the moment to see an example staring me in the face. Thank you, L, for reminding me that simple acts can make a difference. In the spirit of your kind gesture, I've added links to a few of my favorite charities (see right side bar) that help make a difference to the lives of those less fortunate. Whether faith or basic human decency motivates you, please don't forget to help the lesser among us.

Excerpt from Matthew 25:35,40. "For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me...Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me."



P.S. I do *not* advocate giving money to people on street corners. I will not condone or encourage professional begging nor will I enable destructive addictions. I feel that type of aid does not alleviate the problem of or root causes behind homelessness.

Weathering the memories

I miss the boisterous and brilliant thunderstorms of Midwest summers. As the clouds approached, the sunlight took on an eerie glow as it darted around and under clouds, fighting for space until finally ceding the battle as the clouds blanketed the sky, giving the day a twilight feel hours ahead of schedule. I'd count, "One Mississippi, two Mississippi..." between flashes and booms to gage how far away the storm was, eagerly waiting for it to come closer. My mom would caution me to move away from the windows but Mother Nature's light show drew me forward until I was once again pressing my face against the window glass, eyes darting to follow every flash's jagged tracery against the midnight blue sky. I often watched until the storm moved on, leaving behind rainbows and cooling refreshment. Gradually, sunlight and birdsong returned and the day began anew. If it were human, I'd say that the day came back with a proud, self-conscious swagger, as if declaring, "what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger".

I miss the cold, clear nights of new snow when the landscape lay hushed and washed clean. The moonlight reflected off the snow in a dreamy, blue glow, making shadows and objects difficult to discern one from the other, encouraging imaginings of whimsical proportions. When I was younger, I found it difficult to fall asleep on such nights. I believed that if I closed my eyes, I might miss the fairies coming out to dance or something equally fantastic.

I miss the crisp fall days. They signaled the return of flame-colored, leafy piles tempting me to take a flying leap, long walks wearing new sweaters, rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes and clear blue skies so incredibly sweet I swore I could taste them. At a time when nature prepared to slumber, the season's magical qualities flavored schooldays with excitement and new beginnings, as if passing the torch for us to carry until spring.

When I close my eyes, I see these days' essenses sharply framed in my mind. I know my memories are rosy-colored due to time and distance, without the spoilsport of doses of reality. But I'm quite content to leave them that way, forever embellished with fanciful notions.

Googling myself

Have you ever wondered what you might find on the 'net if you googled yourself? I have. So I did.

I found me.

And another me.

And another me.

And a few more.

Which isn't surprising since my name is fairly common.

But what is weird is that among the women who share my name are 2 that are also writers. What's even weirder is that one of them was born in the same town in the same state as me. But the similarities don't end there. Although she's a few years younger than me, she was born under the same Zodiac sign I was. She's married, with 2 kids, writes from a home office and blogs, too. But wait, there's more (oops, forgive the informercial sound-alike). She's nuts about chocolate, just like me! Okay, so that latter isn't exactly an uncommon trait, nor are the other mundane life details, but WTH, sharing career choice, zodiac sign and birth town are eerily Twilight Zonelike.

So google yourself. Maybe you'll find your TZ twin of sorts, too.

A drink and a smile

"Where are the bathrooms?"

"They are down the hall, on the right, just after the bubbler."

As I walked away, I smiled hugely. In Wisconsin, drinking fountains are called bubblers. It's such a happy term that I can't help but grin. Bubblers; as if the water is bursting forth in joy and giggles to refresh the drinker. Drinking fountain is dully descriptive. Any sense of fun from the word, fountain, is negated by the no-nonsence word, drinking. Thud, it falls away, leaving no lasting impression. It quenches the thirst but not the soul.

I'd rather drink from a bubbler.

Be afwaid

Be vewy, vewy afwaid.

Yes, I know that is a lousy impression of Elmer Fudd but hey, impressions have never been my strong suit.

Anyhoo, those words keep going through my head as I head into the deep, dark jumbled mess that is my home office. I can't avoid it any longer (and believe me, I've tried). We are finally ridding ourselves of the shelving, aka white laminate closet organizers, that we've been using "temporarily"* for 11+ years and replacing it with cabinets, file drawers, and bookcases galore from Ethan Allen (goigeous, dahling, simply goigeous - okay, enough sad attempts at impressions).

My lovely, quarter-sawn oak, kneehole desk (circa '50's is my guess) stays. It will, however, be revamped by hubby and dad to be more computer-friendly. It also needs to be refinished, but one thing at a time. Replacing it never crossed my mind. I found this beauty, flaws and all, at a garage sale for $70. Can you imagine?! I bought it before it came off the back of the truck delivering it to the sale. Moments later, someone offered me twice the money for it. Nope, sucker, this one is mine, all mine.

But I'm not stopping at cleaning out the den in preparation for the new furniture. Oh, no. I'm painting the ceiling and the walls. I'll choose a green again but something a bit warmer than the current color. Oh, it's going to look so good. Just think how productive and creative I'll be in my new digs!

Okay, back to my mission. I'm off to uncover another layer and see if my memory of beige carpeting is accurate. Don't worry about me, though. I'm leaving a trail of breadcrumbs so I can find my way out again.

*Is there a Statute of Limitations for how long one can apply the word temporary to an action? I would think 11 years is probably stretching the definition.

S'nothin' a good thumping won't fix

I have a fear of flying. And of heights. Whether these two phobias are connected or not, I don't know. However, I'd love to be rid of both. Logic doesn't help. These are irrational, from-the-gut emotions that overrule mental manipulations to calm my anxieties. I'm at the point where I'm game to try almost anything with an open mind.

Which is how I found myself getting thumped on the upper chest and sinus cavities by a high school classmate at our 30 year reunion last Saturday.

NP had been a practicing psychologist, now retired due to wise investing (retired at 47, can you imagine?). He had developed phobia-conquering techniques by combining aspects of Eastern philosophy with Western psychology. He claimed them to be quite effective and he offered a demonstration on the spot to prove it. My friend S and I offered ourselves up as guinea pigs. S teased her husband B that if NP could cure her of her fear of needles, B would have to buy her a pair of diamond stud earrings for her newly pierced ears.

We wandered down the hall and around a corner, out of eyesight of fellow reunion-goers. There, NP explained the process. He'd have us focus on the phobia, imagining the last time we'd felt the fear and how it made us feel. He would ask us to describe the feeling, tell him where we felt it and how it would feel to be rid of this hindrance. Once we had summoned up our anxiety, NP would thump with two fingers both sides of the upper chest and then the sinus cavities on both sides of the nose. Lastly, he'd ask us to say repeatedly that we loved ourselves, despite our fear.

I didn't quite understand the connection between fear and thumping but since there was no risk or pain involved, it seemed worth a shot.

S went first. B, another friend C and I watched. S, more of a skeptic than myself, had a very hard time taking NP seriously. The corners of her mouth kept twitching upwards with a giggle escaping now and then. NP admonished her to take the process seriously but C swears he did so with a twinkle in his eye. Could he have been pulling our leg just as he did in high school? Regardless of that possibility, S suppressed her giggles.

After several rounds of finger thumping, NP asked S to try to draw up her fear as he described a needle-threatening scenario. Was S cured? S thought she didn't feel as anxious but that the true test would come later when there was an actual needle present.

My turn, same procedure but with flying imagery instead. Conjuring the fear was easy for me. I'd flown in just a few days earlier and although it was, by most standards, a smooth flight with only a few rough patches, it had me white-knuckled. I think I felt less anxiety when NP was done but it was hard to tell whether it was wishful thinking or actual improvement.

Two days later, as we taxied for take-off, I did a little surreptious chest thumping in an effort to recreate whatever it was NP had done. We were soon airborne and I hadn't begun twitching nervously at minor bumps. So far so good. I was feeling rather brave and smug.

I should have known better. We hit swishing and swaying turbulence 45 minutes from landing. I chanted my litany of calming words - a combination of prayer and logic, an any port in the storm maneuver - while trying to capture the image of the stone cottage*. Momentary spells of calm air drew me close to my goal only to have another stomach-lurching shimmy send me into breathless agitation.

I admitted defeat. "Damn you, NP, for promising what you couldn't deliver."

The ridiculousness of it all suddenly overwhelmed me. I laughed out loud, releasing tension, with great glee at my expense. For one brief, beautiful moment, I wasn't afraid. My muscles relaxed and I loosed my death grip on the arm rests.

Could that have been NP's intention all along?

Or do I require such bouts of thumping that I'd be left black and blue?

Either way, S has not scheduled her ear-piercing appointment.

*If you haven't seen "French Kiss", you won't know this reference. Meg Ryan's character attempted to calm her fear of flying by picturing a stone cottage. I told you I am game to try anything with an open mind.