Face It

I recently bequeathed my entire childhood collection of Breyer Horse models (all 17 of them, complete with tack) to my daughter. And my childhood horse book collection (go Walter Farley and Marguerite Henry!) - you couldn't tell that I'd been a little horse crazy in my day and wanted to pass it on, could you?

My diabolical plan worked, and her interest in horses was piqued. In theory at least.

A week or so ago she went with three friends to her first horse riding lesson. The kids chattered and giggled all the way there, all the time they were putting on their boots, and while strapping on their helmets (who knew bike helmets are now required horse riding gear?).

And then they stepped into the stable.

I was a little surprised by the number of horses peering over the stall doors. They were beautiful!  And there was that delicious smell of horse and leather and hay, and the whiffle and huff and stamp - ah, I was in heaven.

My daughter, however, wasn't. First she looked up, up at the nose of the horse looking down at her. Then she sidled closer to me. Closer, and then grabbed my hand. Breyer models are apparently a lot smaller and a lot less alive than real horses.

Only two kids could practice at a time in the arena, and I saw my daughter shrink to the back so she wouldn't get chosen. The first horse was a large palomino gelding, the second a fairly small pinto mare with some seriously beautiful lines. As my daughter's friends sat, and then walked, and then trotted around and around, my daughter whispered to me, "Do I have to do this?"

When it was finally her turn, she picked the horse I'd expected, the small mare. She climbed the mounting block steps like she was climbing the steps to the guillotine.

Her instructor got her situated. They started at a gentle walk. And then told her to close her eyes. And put her arms straight out from her sides. I held my breath. And then she was flying! Around and around, comfortable, confident. In under and hour she transformed from a nervous wreck to a beaming equestrian (with excellent form, I might add). She can't wait for next time.

What changed?

She faced it. She shouldered through, marched on, she persevered.
Sometimes, I guess, the only way to get over something is simply to do it.

Thanks for reminding me, daughter of mine.

~Susan

Bedtime stories

I meant to do my final post on dark fiction today, but I’ve had even less time than I anticipated this week. I have a slight distraction:

This is my adorable three and a half year old niece who has come to visit me.  She and I (and her mom)have so far been to the zoo, the beach, and an aquarium. Tomorrow we’re going to Disneyland  (she's never been before). 

One night, I ended up on bedtime story detail. We didn't have any picture books, so I ended up making up stories to tell. Not a big deal, really, for someone who does this all the time, right? Except I've become used to plotting and planning and working things out way in advance. When I'm trying to write a coherent story, it's the most efficient way for me to work. But it's also a long way from where I started, and from when I would spontaneously come up with ideas on the fly.

So in telling these stories, which ended up being about a princess and people who didn't like giraffes, or another about a walrus who wanted friends. And even though I love my method for writing stories, it was still kind of nice to remember that I can come up with ideas on the fly, and that I can come up with a cohesive story completely off the top of my head that actually makes sense.

At least from a three year old's perspective. And this time, that was all I needed.

Angel Choirs Sing

Girl Child: "Kick, kick, I'm kicking you."
Boy Child "No, don't kick me." Quiet. "Hey Mom, I saw this on the commercial, that's why I told you to buy it."
Girl Child: "I'm kicking you." Giggling. "I'm kicking you. I'm punching you, I'm tickling you, Ian, I'm getting all your tickle out."
Boy Child: "This level's gonna be easy."
Girl Child: "Now it's my turn." Silence. "Ian! I never had a turn."
Boy Child: "Okay." Continues to play video game.
Girl Child: "Ian!"
Boy Child: "Okay, you can try all the rest. Don't fight because we didn't... "
Girl Child: "I'll do this level."
Girl Child grabs Mom's kindle from Boy Child's hand.
Boy Child "Oh." Quiet. "Wonder why you can't...You don't have to tri-duck it. Did you know that?" Quiet. Boy Child attempts to steal kindle.
Girl Child: "Ah!"
Boy Child: "I'll help you."
Girl Child glares, and takes back the kindle.
Boy Child: "Oh, you cracked the code."
Girl Child: "I made it! I'll check the collection. We found the bar of soap! Your turn."
Boy Child: "Okay, I'll try two levels. What the? There's..." Humming. "Oh I found it. I did it. Owt." Girl Child sits on Boy Child's back to see. Boy Child goes back to video game. "This is it! This is eight."
Girl Child: "Let's play dodge ball."
Boy Child: "Hey, do you know what this level is called, Mom?
Girl Child: Simultaneously. "Mom, can I have a banana?"

School starts tomorrow.

Angel choirs sing!

In case you were wondering, this is the game they are currently playing, wheres my water.

Baby Talk & First Drafts*

* aka, my little pep talk

When my little girl turned one, my mother made her a pink flannel blanket. It was covered with smiley daisies, and it took about 30 seconds for her to glom onto it as an inseparable appendage. She couldn't say blanky yet, so she simply called it 'wahggie.' Mornings were not complete until she was wrapped in her wahggie, playtime never the same unless it was within arm's reach.

And then one day she woke up and asked for her banky. It was the same flannel (now a bit faded), the same smiley daisies. I sniffed a little and sighed; a piece of her childhood had ended. The banky went on to become her 'fler banky,' at which point it began fraying around the edges, and then the 'flawr blanky.' Finally, when it had lost nearly all it's stuffing and my little girl was old enough to read and write, it became her 'flower blanket.' She still occasionally snuggles with its deflated remains.

So often  when I write, I want the words to come out perfectly the first time. Oh, I've read all the posts from authors about how horrid their first drafts are, but I've also read their published books, and I have this sneaking suspicion that their horrid and my horrid are on completely different planes of existence. I despair, I mourn. Sometimes I can't get the words onto the paper because of how awful I know they will be.

But...
But...

What if I had expected the same perfection from my daughter? What if 'wahggie' just wasn't good enough and nothing else would do but 'flower blanket?' I would have missed out on so much. Her smiles, would have turned to frowns, her unbridled passion for that brand new, bright and cheery blanky would have been lost.

I guess what I'm trying to say is (for those of you like me who stress yourselves out when writing), would it really be so bad to treat our stories like our babies? We call them our babies (I know you do). We have hopes and dreams and aspirations for them. And yet, how many of us wish they would leap from our brow like Athena from Zeus, fully formed and ready for battle with agents and publishers.

Maybe there is joy to be found in the imperfection of a childish first draft. Maybe we can trust that our manuscripts will grow up through the various revisions, the words will mature, the fabric of the story will wear to a comfortable softness that we couldn't imagine any other way (maybe we'll even lose some stuffing in the process).

Maybe, we really can relax enough to love and nurture the unbridled passion of writing and know that there will be time enough later to take care of the rest.


~ Susan