Writing makes the World Go Round

Hello proser peoples! I’m Karen T. Smith, a newbie to the proser team, but a non-newbie to this great group of women and to the writing world in general. I’ve been friendly with most of the proser set for years, having first “met” online on Hatrack.com, Orson Scott Card’s site for writers. Today is my first official post as a proser (I’ve guest posted once before.) I’m happy to join such a great group of writers, and friends.

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I am a writer. I, apparently, come from a long line of writers. I have only recently discovered this fact. You see, my father is dying of cancer. I don’t say that to force your sympathy. Instead, I want the facts present in the story from the beginning so the other parts I tell will have adequate emotional weight. Even when writing a blog post, my writer brain is telling me which parts are important when.

My father has been sick for several months. It is awful, as awful as you can imagine. I am one of five children. I am not the one who “always knew she wanted to be a writer.” Frankly, if there is such a person in our family it’s my mother, whose gifts with words are a bit astonishing. And seriously, if ever you’re in need of a parody song for a special event or just for fun – my mom can rewrite the lyrics to just about anything. My whole journey to writing surprised even me and began 6 years ago when a book took me by the throat and wouldn't let me go until I decided I had to find out how to work such magic. I've been writing for years now, but it's still a new feeling to me, writing. The joy of creating words and putting them together into stories.

When my father was first diagnosed in Feb of 2013, one of my sisters helped my mom start a blog. It helped my mom communicate the same information to many people all at once, like this early example. And, a surprising benefit, it gave her an outlet for some of the, shall we say “Cancer Crazies?” The really annoying crap you have to deal with when deeply involved in any kind of health care crisis. The strange things that happen. The frustrations. The good days. It gave her a place to talk about all of it. And as one of four children (three surviving) herself, it gave her siblings a place to check in with her, as well as their children (my cousins. Loads of us…) and even my siblings and I, too. We could all take the written temperature of things by checking the blog several times a week.

As my father’s illness has worsened, my siblings and I have taken over guest posting on Mom’s blog as her available time has decreased and she’s choosing to spend it with Dad instead of writing.

And I’ve discovered the most amazing thing. We are ALL writers. Every last one of us. Five kids, five very very different paths through the US (and some abroad) educational system. Some of us have college degrees. Some of us have multiple degrees. Some, not so much. College isn’t for everyone, after all. But all of us, to a one, are truly excellent writers.

Could this be because we’re writing about a subject as dear to us as our own father? Sure, that's part of it. However, after thinking about this quite a lot, I have come to a slightly more evolved point of view.

How often as a writer do you find yourself questioning your word choice? Wondering if you conveyed an idea correctly? Dithering over whether this or that way would be better for expressing this or that idea?

I suggest to you that every person does this all the time, because with email (and it’s red-headed stepchildren, texting and facebook statuses and twitter and the ilk) we humans find ourselves communicating in writing much more than ever before. And it’s hard.

It used to be that writers were a rare breed. Kind of like an emu. An animal maybe you’ve heard of. Possibly you’ve seen it in a zoo once or twice. But regular everyday familiarity with emus was something only zookeepers and wildlife photographers had.

But now? We are all writers. Every one. And it can be hard, painfully hard to write about the realities of life. These painful realities my family is living right now. It is so very very hard. See? I had to resort to the old writerly trick of repeating the same word to make my point, it’s that hard.

But while it is so very hard, there is beauty in the writing. In the process of writing. And in the words themselves. Even for people who don’t self-identify as writers (none of my siblings do. I stand alone in my new profession.) There is self-realization here. There is understanding. There is connection. There is truth.

Here in words on the page (be it virtual or tactile, it doesn’t matter,) is where truth lives. And as my siblings have written, and we have shared with each other these tender moments, these true stories, these meaningful bits, we are together, even while living in Seattle, Phoenix, Chicago, and Orlando (it’s almost like we were TRYING to get as far away from one another in adulthood as possible, one might think.)

And as we each have opened up a window to our souls by writing, something really amazing is happening. People all over, people who know my parents but maybe don’t know us kids very well at all., people are listening. People are reading. People are responding. People are CONNECTING.

Writing. This simple act of typing words on a screen is solidifying bonds across miles and years as my parent’s friends both past and present are finding ways to connect with our family. We are reaching people.

And all we’re doing is writing.

My family, circa 1980. I'm the one in the front in her first communion dress. Dad's mustache needs a caption of its own.

What Living Life Looks Like (In Case You've Forgotten)

Last night, I jumped out of my computer chair, rushed over to my teenage daughter, grabbed a piece of her hair and said, "What is this? What would you call it? Oh...a lock! Of course!"  Then, I hurried back over to the computer and typed the words, "picked up a lock of her hair and gave it a gentle tug." (Or something that was much more brilliant than that. But you get the general gist.) My daughter said, "It's so weird having a writer for a mom."

A few minutes later (or was it hours?) she said it again. "It's so weird having a writer for a mom. I say something to you and you laugh about it like five minutes later." That's exactly how long it takes my brain to portal from the world of my novel back to reality, process what she said and react to it. This makes writing a long arduous process when the kids are home from school. My brain is travelling from world to world constantly, and doesn't really get much done in either place.

I'm sure it is weird having a writer for a mom. But it's kind of weird being a writer here during the summer with all the kids home. This morning, as I was searching for an idea for this blog post, my younger daughter made gingerbread pancakes all by herself, and I was only half aware it was happening, even though my computer is located in the kitchen. They were delicious, and no thanks to me.

By Rosemary Ratcliff
Stock Photo - image ID: 100100281
There were not nearly this many
blueberries on our bushes.

But last week, we went on a vacation to a lake house. My youngest son and I decided to go on a walk up the dirt road, and on the way he discovered a little wild blueberry bush. There were about ten ripe berries on it, and so we immediately started looking for more. He had better eyes for finding the bushes than I did, and pretty soon both our hands were full. We hurried back to the lake house, grabbed a red solo cup and started over. The berries weren't plenteous, by any means, and we made up a story about a bear who had eaten most of the berries but left a few of the best bushes untouched for the queen bear who would be coming along shortly. Hopefully that queen bear won't find out it was us who stole her berries.

Eventually we'd nearly filled the cup, and the horse flies had discovered our presence, so we hurried back, where we proceeded to make the most delicious blueberry tart you have ever tasted. It was exactly big enough for all eleven of us to have one big bite. Soon afterward, all the cousins took off down the road to search for more, but between the bear and us, there simply weren't many left. They did find a few blackberries though.

It was unplanned. It was spontaneous. It took most of the morning. But it was with one of my favorite people in the world. He's growing fast, and I don't want his only memories of me to be that I laughed at his jokes five minutes late. I don't feel guilty for that. I don't just want to be with my children. I want to be someone with accomplishments they can admire too. I don't know how to delineate writing time and family time here in the summer, especially with a terribly beautiful deadline looming on the horizon. But I'm trying.

How about you? Do you have any funny "It's so weird knowing a writer" stories? Or advice about how to quickly and safely traverse the perilous pathway between your worlds?

On Writing, rules, and life

This is going to be my last blog post, for a while at least, so as a farewell I decided to condense all of my stored-up wisdom into a crash course in Sarah-thought. The textbook for this course is Stephen King’s On Writing. Don’t worry if you haven’t done the reading; I quote the important parts.

Writers love rules. They give us goals, guidelines for revision, and nits to pick—not to mention fodder for arguments. On Writing has rules about everything from active voice to daily word counts. King advocates pantsing over plotting, though he doesn't acknowledge the level of storytelling genius he brings to that equation. He is a Strunk & White devotee, as every writer should be. Most famously, he admonishes against adverbs and overzealous dialogue tags:

“The road to hell is paved with adverbs.”

If you have a rotten tomato handy, get ready to throw it at me. (That was a metaphor. I am not responsible for damage to your screen.) 

Here goes: I think the occasional adverb can useful. Consider:

Option 1: “I trust your judgment,” he said, but she knew from the tone of his voice and the faraway look in his eyes that he wasn’t really paying attention.

Option 2: “I trust your judgment,” he said absently.

The first is more descriptive, but what if that extra sentence slows down my pacing? I don’t buy the argument that tone can always be inferred from well-crafted dialogue. Sometimes I want a mismatch between what is said and how it’s said. An adverb can handle that problem just fine. You may call it lazy; I call it efficient.

I know better than to argue for an adverb beyond the confines of this post. But while I'm still on my soapbox, I’ve gotta say what’s in my rebel (gangsta) heart: Adverbs are just words, yo.

Mary Sue and Gary Stu's love triangle
has a heartbreak-free resolution,
 and all utterances are adverbial.
Travesty... or delightful classic? 

“To write adverbs is human, to write he said and she said is divine.”

Simplicity in dialogue tags seems as much a fashion as a rule. I just finished reading my well-worn copy of Maysie Greig’s Janice, a pulp romance published in 1932 that elevates creative dialogue attribution to art. The characters are pinnacles of propriety and there isn’t a hint of sex anywhere in the book, yet the male love interest managed to ejaculate twice. That was the only tag that gave me pause, but maybe my reaction says more about loss of innocence than abuse of vocabulary. The book was still a page-turner, still rich with well-crafted detail, and still one of my favorites.

The Heart of the Matter

I may quibble, but all of King’s advice is solid. My real argument is with those who quote his rules of mechanics while ignoring the heart of the book, which is this:

“Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It’s about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. […] Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink.

Drink and be filled up.”

The Unbreakables

Back to rules. Maybe it’s the beach living, but as I get older I’m becoming one of those free spirits who owns a few too many peasant skirts and tends to say: Rules, schmules. I advocate learning rules only so that breaking them becomes a conscious choice.

Even in my most contrary moods, though, I still think two of King's rules are unbreakable. The first is a practical matter:

“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.”

The second is about finding balance:

“It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support-system for art. It’s the other way around."

Moving Furniture 

Sadly, not my actual desk.

I have to say thank you to the wonderful Prosers who invited me here. Thank you for your support, for your friendship, for the chance to have my voice heard. The inspiration I’ve found from your posts is part of what helped me recognize when I was starting to lose my way. When I was getting busy instead of getting happy.

It’s time to push my metaphorical desk into the corner. Writing isn’t the only water that’s free, that sustains me, that’s magic. My five-year-old read Hop on Pop to me the other night. He truly read, and he was so proud of himself. 

During the hour or two I can steal while the kids are in school, I want to focus on finishing a first novel that I might be at least a little bit proud of, starting a sure-to-be-better second novel, and reconnecting with the joy in fiction. But when the school bell rings, my laptop really ought to turn into a pumpkin. 

(Don't worry. You'll find me lurking around these parts after dark, like a vampire...)

With love to Sheena, MaryAnn, Sabrina, Susan, and Melanie. Drink and be filled up.

~Sarah

A Writer's Point of View

Springtime in my garden

As I mentioned in my last post, my netbook used to be very portable. I wrote wherever I felt like, on a couch, in the car, outside in a lounge chair. Since my battery is now defunct and my netbook is jury rigged into a permanent position with duct tape, I have only one place to write, and one view to see. It’s a pretty view out my back window with birch and spruce and cherry trees (that will blossom soon – I demand it! I’m tired of gray). But it got me thinking about where people choose to do their writing. And that got me to thinking about how, with everyone's crazy schedules, people can carve out space and time to write. I think I’m trying to give myself a pep talk here that writing and life together are possible, so I hope you don’t mind if I share a few anecdotes and observations about such things (in no particular order).

Jane Austen

Jane Austen composed many her masterpieces on the original kind of laptop, a portable slanted writing desk with an interior area to hold papers and writing supplies. I suppose I’d always imagined her working on her brilliantly witty dialogues undisturbed in a quiet room, but according to this website, she was anything but alone when she wrote.

Courtesy of the Jane Austen Museum

“[S]he had no separate study to retire to, and most of the work must have been done in the general sitting-room, subject to all kinds of casual interruptions. She was careful that her occupation should not be suspected by servants, or visitors, or any persons beyond her own family party. She wrote upon small sheets of paper which could easily be put away, or covered with a piece of blotting paper. There was, between the front door and the offices, a swing door which creaked when it was opened; but she objected to having this little inconvenience remedied, because it gave her notice when anyone was coming.”

Who knew that Jane Austen faced interruptions just like so many of us? And who knew that she was so secretive about her writing? Do any of you Austen aficionados know if this was because of the impropriety of a woman writing, a reticence for anyone to see early drafts or something else?

My Family

For over 50 years my grandmother wrote and published delightful children’s stories both in books and children’s magazines (she was a regular contributor to Highlights for Children). Later in life she was honored as a poet laureate of her state. I’ve always found it interesting that she did her best writing of these sweet stories in the dead of night in a little pitch-roofed attic room overlooking a golf course and a cemetery.

Food of the gods

My sister is a playwright. Each year she writes, choreographs, produces and directs an elementary school Broadway-like musical with over 100 children participating (she is simply, unbelievably amazing). She writes most of her plays in her car in between shuttling her kids from one sports practice to another. When she finds a (rare) few hours free she locks herself in the spare bedroom with a supply of chocolate covered cinnamon bears (if you haven’t tried these, you must – pure ambrosia) and binge writes.

Even though my sister and my grandmother’s writing schedules are about as opposite as can be, I’m inspired because they each found what worked for them and ran with it.

Shannon Hale

One of my favorite authors, Shannon Hale, has not only written some fabulous books (just finished Midnight in Austenland – superb), but on her blog she has also been very candid about what it takes for her to juggle life, motherhood, and writing.  As a mother of four (including twin toddlers) she’s so busy that she probably couldn’t find the time to write if she wanted to, so instead she makes the time. From her blog:

Oh man, I am so sapped. I am a Vermont maple in winter... Finding time to bathe and feed myself is an uphill battle every day. I had a couple of visitors coming over this morning, so I worked so hard to clean my kitchen and living room, trying to keep kiddos entertained for 3 hours while I cleaned non-stop between caring for their needs. And when my visitors came in, I looked around and realized that I had achieved Normal Messy, no more.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, I'm in no shape to be dolling out advice. I barely survive. I'm sure you know what I mean. This marvelous, marvelous chaos. But my center is my creative time. For 2 1/2 hours four times a week, I have a babysitter, and I close my door and write. Turn off the mommy craziness, turn on Writer Woman. It's not an easy transition, but I have to do it. I just have to.

Wow, she sounds so – human. And yet because of her discipline, in those mere ten hours of writing a week, she publishes at least one book every year (oh, and the movie for Austenland is in post production – squee!).

Wrap Up
 

 Henry David Thoreau said,  "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

I used to think that there would be a magical point in my life where I would suddenly be endowed with time to accomplish Important Things. Maybe I could go on a pilgrimage of enlightenment like Thoreau (I like trees, after all, and cute little cabins in the woods). The conclusion I’ve come to, though, is that the choices I’ve made over the years have put me on a path where the essential things of my life aren’t found in solitude, but in the here and now of everyday life with family and friends. And that if I want to live deliberately in my goals to be a writer (or whatever else), it’ll have to be with them along for the ride. With Jane Austen and Shannon Hale and Sheena and MaryAnn and Sabrina and Sarah and Melanie, I think I’m in some pretty good company, in trying to figure out this balancing act.

~ Susan

The Other Reason I Sometimes Don't Write

We all know I love Vampire Diaries which sometimes keeps me from my writing. But there is another thing that constantly takes me away, okay three things.

An awesome husband who is immensely supportive. A pale-blue eyed girl who is a fierce Karate girl and has the sweetest heart I've ever known. And a tiny brown eyed girl who loves pigs and whose eyes blaze when you cross her and gives the best kisses when you please her.

My little brown-eyed girl is in the hospital today. Nothing too serious, but serious enough that it has me thinking about what is really important.

I would love to be a published writer. To make up stories for a living. I love reading and writing and sharing these stories in my head.

But the biggest bonus to being a professional writer is being able to work from home. To be there when my kids come home from school. To take breaks with them to work on homework. To be a mother and a writer.

So I don't regret time lost by playing evil princesses (yes some princesses can be evil) or cuddling on the couch watching an episode of My Little Pony for the twentieth time or all the cookie making and outings and birthday parties for stuffed animals.

Because the only thing I've ever wanted to be more than a writer is a mother.

~MaryAnn

2 1/2 Things Worth Driving 28 Hours For

(bad grammarly title & all)

How was your Thanksgiving?

Ours? Six people squashed in a minivan for 14 hours each way to visit the relatives. Realizing two hours in that the cigarette lighter doesn’t work so we can’t plug in the computer or the portable dvd player (it has the battery life of a peanut).

28 hours, 4 children, no discernable means of entertainment. Let that sink in for a minute. Was it worth it to spend 72 hours with the people we love? Definitely.

Here are two and a half reasons why:

#1 Best Thanksgiving Speech Ever

You’ve heard them, so have I - the speeches about being thankful, maybe something about pilgrims, loving your family, blah, blah, blah. If the talking goes on too long we wonder if we’ll drown from salivating over the food piled before us. Well, this year was a little different. My amazing chef bro-in-law had lovingly brined and smoked a massive turkey. It's crisp-juicy presence drew us near, but before we dug in, we learned that my little nephew had something to say.

Interesting.

He stood up and proceeded to give a Thanksgiving speech - from the turkey’s point of view. Why are we murdering turkeys, ripping wives from their husbands, and leaving poor orphaned turkey children running around the countryside cold and homeless? The speech came complete with visual aids done in crayon. I was left dumbfounded, staring at my plate. Should I contribute to the PTSD turkey fund? Should I go vegan? Meanwhile my nephew had heaped his plate high and was munching guiltlessly away – on turkey.

It was awesome.

#2 Black Friday Shopping on Thursday

It’s a ritual I married into. Thou shalt go Black Friday shopping with the girls. This year’s rush started Thursday at 9pm hovering protectively over a pile of $5 Walmart boy pajammies for an entire hour until the sale actually started. I texted my sister (who has yet to be indoctrinated into the practice) a blow by blow as the night progressed. Midnight: Target. 4am: craft store. The best part? The two hour waits in between the ten minutes of store madness, standing out in the freezing cold, laughing and chatting and teeth-chattering with my sister-in-laws.

# 1/2 The Confession

Not so many people know I write. Okay, almost no one does – did. My dear husband suggested I let my teen nieces (who love to read and write stories) take a look at my YA novel. A critique by my target audience? It seemed like a good idea right up until my dh pried the manuscript out of my cold, dead-from-fear hands and gave it to them.

This is what it felt like:

It’s great for kids to write. It’s great for teens. But me? A grown up? That manuscript was the trash can lid around my neck. No denying who’s a little wacko now (okay, that was probably never really in question).

This is what I expected to hear: Who, who left that mess of words on these pages? You Tank, uh, Sue? You’re supposed to be the adult here. You’re supposed to know better than to leave metaphors and similes strewn around like yesterday’s garbage. You’re lucky we don’t laugh you out of here and all 14 hours back to your house.

But what I got was ‘When can you send more?’ and ‘I couldn’t put it down.’ And I don’t think they were just saying it. At least I hope not.

Maybe sticking your neck out isn’t so bad.

Unless you’re a turkey.

~ Susan

Addictions, Delusions, and other vices you can't make me drop.

Addict?

It shouldn't surprise anyone that I like to read. I've counted, and I read about eleven books every month.  Hmmm...Let me get out my calculator for a minute... That's 132 books a year.

132 books.

That's on top of my own writing, critiquing for others, and the stocking of blogs, all of which I do on a regular basis.

People often ask me... How do you find time to read? My answer, how does an alcoholic find time to drink?

Taking a turn for the serious here. I think I might be an addict. Seriously.

I can't walk past a new book without picking it up, and once I've started, I can't stop reading until I've read the words "The end." And even then, I often flip the last few blank pages back and forth hoping to find words written on them. When I'm in story-land, I walk around in a story-induced haze. I'm no good for conversation until that dern novel is finished. That's not normal.

See, I'm not one of those people who can read a chapter and then put it down and do something productive.

I'm not a social reader.

I hide my reading. My husband will come home and ask me what I did that day, and I sure as heck won't say "Oh, I read for seven hours, and then did the dishes, made dinner, got me and the kids dressed - all in the half hour it took you to drive home."

I have a secret stash of books. I have withdrawals when I'm not reading or writing. My work, my recreation, and even my friends all center around my reading.

I allow all of this... maybe justify is the better word... because it is my job.

No, I haven't been paid for it yet. Thanks for asking.

This is what I want to do for a living. And I, perhaps delusion-ally, think that it's going to happen.


One day I will be published. One day my book will be the opiate for somebody else. One day my book may get between a reader and her family.

And I don't see that's a problem.

Do you?
~Sheena Boekweg

That Might Be Poisoned: A Thanksgiving Tale

I’ve been running a low-grade fever for a week and my younger son is a walking landmine of mucus explosion. The cats just decided to get fleas, my bathrooms are science experiments, and I have a mountain of dirty laundry. My in-laws drove two days just to visit this disaster.

But... I did what I could for Thanksgiving. Anticipating continued health challenges, I pre-ordered a cooked turkey, stuffing, and gravy. That left only a couple more sides to make, plus pies.

The perfect pie ladies, they taunt me.

It should have been easy, even if my heart wasn’t in it this year. Most of my thoughts centered around bed and more bed. I stole away a lot, making little notes, sometimes tweeting the worst of it to an anonymous Internet. Here is the rundown of Thanksgiving 2012: 

9:30 Every year it haunts me. I can’t flute my pie crust so it’s pretty. Tasty, but not pretty. I have little hope this year will be different. Grateful today that there is a new American Horror Story available for download on iTunes. It’s the little things.

10:00 As predicted, my pie crust looks like I let the 5-year-old shape it. Sigh. Tastes the same. 

10:45 Something smells wrong. Not burning. Is it possible the ceramic pie plate wasn’t safe at 450? Or the silicone crust shield? WHAT SMELLS? Someone on Twitter says it’s probably the silicone, but… if it is the shield, does that make this a POISON PIE? 

10:54 I have Googled. Many people report strange smells with silicone. Strange smells make me nervous. I hope we don’t all die from the fumes. 

11:00 I live. It is a miracle. But we’ll see what happens after we eat the POISON PIE. 

1:21 Holy crap! If you order a pre-cooked turkey, you have to check under the foil before sticking in oven. For plastic wrap. And a plastic container. The parade of smells just keeps on coming. 

1:25 This is our POISON THANKSGIVING. 

1:30 But really, if they say heat it in foil, don’t you think they should also say, but not until after you’ve removed all the hidden plastic? 

1:35 I hope this doesn’t cause stomach cancer. I really don’t want stomach cancer. (I am a hypochondriac with a particular dread of digestive diseases. I’ll spare you the "why" on that one.) 

2:50 We ate, we drank, we made merry. In a subdued, small family, WASP-y sort of way. We made politely pleasant. 

3:02 Less than 30 minutes since the kids were sooo full they couldn’t possibly eat a bite of green beans, the first snack request has aririved. 

3:03 DENIED. 

3:08 So sleepy. So very, very slee… 

4:30 Don’t want to clean up the mess. Don’t wanna. Next year we’re getting turkey sandwiches from Quizno’s and that’s that. Note: I make this declaration even on non-poisonous years. At the point when I am most certain I will never cook again, I am subdued by pie. 

5:21 Diabetic relatives = more for me = will be one of them soon. 

5:30 Pumpkin pie should be a vegetable, at least by federal standards. It’s at least as vegetable-ish as pizza and fries. Pecan, though… that’s a crime against nature. Sugar, corn syrup, eggs, and butter, cooked into a caramel filling of pure insulin-spiking pleasure with just enough pecan crunch to justify naming it pecan pie instead of sugar pie. You can’t have seconds of “sugar pie,” but “pecan pie” is a two-slice confection. 

7:00 All day, I have tweeted to my writer buddies, as well as random followers such as @nomoredarkcircles and a few shady characters who may or may not be selling pornography and/or iphones. Nanowrimo people posted their word counts, and each one was a fresh stab of jealousy. Why do I have to have a fever, children, and in-laws? Why did I have to be born American? If we were Canadian, my house wouldn’t smell like turkey and burned plastic right now and maybe I'd get some real writing done.

8:20 In-laws went to their hotel. Another thing to be grateful for: not being able to afford a big enough house to host anyone. John can do bedtime. I’m sneaking out to the office. 

8:38 I don’t think The Bravery needed to re-relase The Sun and The Moon with remixes. And I would like Pandora to understand this Truth. 

8:39 I still love you, Pandora. 

8:40 It is too late. I am ruined. Carbs, wine, fever… I give up.

I cuddled, I watched over-the-top horror featuring a mysterious rubber suit, I took three kinds of cold medicine, and then the dam broke. I let the gratitude I’d been fighting all day wash over me.

Yes, I fight it sometimes. Gratitude is always a mixed bag for me. The more I think about how lucky I am, the more I have to be aware of how fleeting everything is, how quickly blessings can disappear, and how many variations of tragedy and hardship I’ve been spared for no conceivable reason. It can be a weighty emotion, one I don't always feel strong enough to carry.

I checked on the children and wished I’d hugged my older one before bed. I wondered if the younger one would crawl in between us again, and knew I wouldn’t kick him out if he did. Damn gratitude. It always leads me to this place: the feeling that everything I hold dear is slipping through my fingers like so many molecules of water. I promised myself tomorrow I would write it all down, trying to hold on a little longer, hoping I could remember - what their smiles looked like, what their wishes were, how their bodies felt in my arms - the day I cooked the turkey in plastic wrap.

~Sarah

The History of Food

First of all, Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I celebrated by eating giant quantities of food, and chasing my nieces and nephews around the yard. Later, alas, it began to rain. Fortunately, video games were there to save the day!

Pretty much a fantastic day.

In case you hadn't heard enough about food today

I have a new favorite website.

I was mining through the fabulous list of articles over at the SFWA website, and I came across this website regarding the history of food.

The main feature of a site is a timeline with the most basic origins of food and recipes, with articles giving the details of each. Who knew, for example, that mozzarella sticks have been around since the 14^th Century? Or that chocolate covered potato chips pre-date chocolate covered pretzels? Or that it took humanity until the 16^th century to figure out that you could use eggs as a raising agent (such as meringue)?

The very first thing on the timeline is water, which cracks me up. This addition of water seems to hint that there was some point in human history in which water was not consumed. But I suppose that the creators of the site just wanted another excuse to link to the articles on food at the Cambridge site.

The good folks of Cambridge have written a large number of articles for a book called The Cambridge World History of Food. I'm sure that all of them are extremely fascinating, if they weren't clogged with the worst use of jargon I've encountered in a long time (and I read a lot of scientific journal articles). For example, the following passage on rice: "The origin of rice was long shrouded by disparate postulates because of the pantropical but disjunct distribution of zzzzzzzzzzzz"

That, of course, being the point where my eyes glazed over. The article on water is even worse:

"Even earlier ideas of water as one of the four (or five) elements will mislead us, for in many such schemes elements were less fundamental substances than dynamic principles (e.g., in the case of water, the dynamic tendency is to wet things, cool them, and dissolve them) or generic labels for regular combinations of qualities. In one strand of Aristotelianism, for example, water can be understood as matter possessing the qualities of being cold and wet…."

Uh, right. As my lawyer friend commented, "This article can be understood as possessing the qualities of being obvious and stupid." That’s right, folks, this passage makes even her brain hurt.

But I digress. I was particularly fascinated by some examples, like the fact that ketchup has its origins in Asia. My lawyer friend tells me that I should spell it as "catsup," because "ketchup" is a trademarked brand that has fallen into general usage, and I told her to stop reading over my shoulder. Anyway, ketchup at its origins could really be made with any vegetables, and apparently, it was at one time a close race between tomato and eggplant ketchup. I, for one, am relieved.

Seriously though, there's a lot of really great information there. It is in no way a complete or thorough guide to food history, but it's a good starting point, and as all good websites will be, lots and lots of fun. It's certainly inspired me to look more into the topic.

Or to try my own vegetable ketchup recipe. Brussel sprouts, your day has come at last.

Let us close with another passage from the Cambridge water chapter:

"It is probably right to see this linkage of macrocosm and microcosm as something more than analogical; such linkages would remain a part of popular understanding even after the rise of a mechanistic cosmology in the seventeenth century."

For the rest of this holiday season, may both your microcosm and macrocosm continue to be so much more than analogical.

Gather Round the Dinning Room Table

I’m a hunter and a gatherer, a flea market, second-hand, never look a gift horse in the mouth, bargain shopping princess. So when it came to finding a table, Craigslist was a natural magnet. And there among the headlines calling out like orphaned royal waifs - Queen Anne chair, Louis XV buffet - I found more than once the clarion call, beckoning me to buy a dinning room table.

Did you snort at the misspelling? I did. ‘Dining,’ not ‘dinning.’ Didn’t everyone know din meant noise, hubbub, commotion?

We finally found our table, not on Craigslist, but at a local consignment store (they’d even spelled ‘dining room table’ correctly on the placard, just in case we couldn’t recognize the slab of wood with four legs and a set of six chairs.). The table is huge, and I do mean huge, with an extra leaf for the option of extra hugeness.

Over the years it’s had its share of breakfast cereal overflow, Play-doh mayhem and dinnertime calamities. But what I notice most about the table is the noise. Always around it there are voices, laughing, prattling, squabbling, tattling. I realized at last, that although I had not intended to, I had indeed purchased a dinning room table.

Some nights the clatter of dropped silverware, the repeated please pass (sometimes hold the please), the family talking over and under and sideways one another makes my head spin. But it’s nothing compared to the nights when the house is empty. Then the dinning room table is hushed to a timid murmur. A single clink of silverware on plate, a single glass set down. The paper napkin crumples up in my hand amid the stillness. Then our table transforms into what, I suppose, it was always meant to be, a dining room table. Sedate, elegant, uniformly well-mannered.

And do you know, I don’t like it. I can’t stand having a dining room table. Give me the din, the mayhem, the commotion, because in our house that is what lets us know we are alive, and together -this incredible mishmash of family and friends.

When this table has worn itself out, when it is time for it to go, I hope I will be able to proudly list it on Craigslist:

Dinning Room Table - to a good home.

And I hope that another gathering of family and friends can sit around it and fill their lives with a feast of memories.

Wishing you a very happy Thanksgiving with the people you love gathered near.

First Official Proser Post

I’ve thought a lot about what I should write for the first official blog post. But then something happened that trumped writing about my fears querying, or how I secretly think I’m like Beyonce. Prepare to read about that a little later.

My daughter just turned four, and she is the sweetest, smartest sassy pants you can imagine. She’s also gorgeous. I take a lot of pride saying that she magically came out of my gene pool.

Yesterday, my girl put her hands on her sweet little tummy, frowned, and then sucked in.

She just turned four. FOUR.

Sigh.

I write primarily for teenage girls, and so my main characters usually are unsure of themselves because;

·         You write what you know.

·         Being unsure of yourself is kind of the definition of a teenage girl.

I never thought it would define MY daughter. Who just turned four.

I’m a writer and I’m at a loss for words here. What do I say to her? I’ve told her she was pretty and smart and wonderful every day of her life- somehow that’s not enough.

Sadly, what I want to say to her most of all… I know I can’t . Here, I’ll test it out for you. Tell me what you think.

“Go get your own pain, kid. I’m still using this one.”

Work in progress, I guess.

J

~Sheena