I Was A 98 Year Old Author

One stack of books I am working my way through.

“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”             ~Aristotle

I feel like a kid in school again. There is so much I need to do if I want to realize my goal of writing a major work. Yesterday, I spent a long time in Barnes and Noble in the Writing section flipping through books on every conceivable aspect of writing and publishing. I looked through books with ideas, books about the process, books about writing every possible genre, books about self-publishing, and books about finding an agent. I sat on the floor thumbing through pages becoming more and more overwhelmed with every passing second. The amount of information is astounding. I could spend a lifetime reading about how to write a book and never even write a book. It made me question if I was insane for imagining I could do this. I left the bookstore with four books, two about writing and two about feminism, a headache, and a hole filled with doubt in the pit of my stomach.

When I got home, I opened up one of the books, A Novel in a Year by Louise Doughty, and started reading. Ms. Doughty offers 52 weeks of exercises designed to break the unconquerable task of writing down into bite-size bits. It is filled with useful advice on writing and practical exercises to “help writers develop confidence and style.” Yep. That sounds like something that might help me. I’m, more or less, starting at ground zero right now. I could use all the advice and practice I can get. The first exercise was simple. She offered a sentence for us to complete. I turned my sentence into a paragraph and felt reasonably pleased what I had written. Funny how the fear of writing goes away when you write instead of merely thinking about it, preparing for it, or talking about it.

And so I’ve decided to look on this as a journey, not a destination. The goal is to publish, but the timeline is flexible. If I work constantly thinking that the only way I will be successful is when I actually publish, then I’m unduly stressing myself out. I am on a path, not a racetrack. Every time I write, I learn something about myself through my emotion, my choice of words, the mere act of putting thoughts on paper (or a screen). I do mean to publish, but if it doesn’t happen until I’m 98 that is fine. If I write repeatedly from now until then, I might just turn myself into an excellent 98 year old author.

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The Bell Tolls for Critical Thinking

I can tell by the Recent Stories listed that this is a highly reputable news source.

I had several ideas floating around in my head today regarding things I could write about tonight, but all of them were trumped when a story flashed across my Facebook news feed. It was yet another forwarded article from an obscure, political web site. The article (and I use the term loosely) was held together by opinions, shoddy grammar, and few facts. Yet, according to the Facebook widget on the article, it had been shared over 7,200 times. Good Lord help us.

I wonder sometimes if the average American has lost all mental capacity for differentiating between propaganda and reality. Random pieces of information fly around the Internet, and people take them to be gospel. I thought at first that this behavior was mainly conducted by naive youth who were copying reports verbatim from online sources and handing them in at school, unaware that plagiarism is a punishable offense. I later discovered that some older (and otherwise truly intelligent) adults believe in the Internet’s truthfulness. That debunked my youth theory.

Why does so little thought go into reading and critiquing these articles for fictional qualities before forwarding them on? I mean, how legitimate is an article from a “news” source that would also list this video on the same page as an article about the president: “Man Kills Younger Brother By Making Him Eat Ounce Of Cocaine From His Butt in Police Car”. Seriously? I can’t make this stuff up. Before you forward an email about the killer spiders lurking under toilet seats in public restrooms, please check your facts through Snopes. (The spiders don’t lurk, by the way.)

Come on, people. THINK. Before you forward something, think critically about the source and not just the opinion behind the article. Just because you want to believe something is true does not actually make it true. Ignorance spread via disinformation is worse than ignorance alone.

The Internet is the most fascinating place on earth. It’s kind of like Vegas. There’s a lot to see, but only part of what you see can be believed.

 

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Fasten Your Seatbelts

I feel like today is the first day of the rest of my life.

“If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.”         ~Lao Tzu

You know that thing? The one you’ve always thought you should do but it seemed so daunting, so arduous, so clearly out of left field that you couldn’t bring yourself to attempt it? Well, I’ve made a decision about that thing. I’m going to do it. Today I started the wheels in motion and now there’s no turning back. Everything I’ve done up until now has led me to this point, and that’s how I know this is what I am supposed to do.

Today I made a commitment to myself to start writing with an end-goal in mind. For as long as I can remember, I’ve known I would eventually try to write something “real” and, by “real,” I mean publishable. Yes. I publish these words on my blog on the Internet, but I’m talking about something more substantial, like a book of some sort. Yes. I have a bound Master’s Thesis collecting dust on a shelf at Illinois State University, but that’s not the type of book I’m referring to either. I’m talking about something even more substantial than that 80-page paper. The idea has been germinating in my head for a year and I’ve been rolling it around on my tongue to get used to the sound of it, and today I decided I can’t put it off any longer.

On the advice of a friend, I’ve registered for a one-day, informational seminar and networking opportunity for current and prospective authors. It’s going to be my jumping off point, the official launch into my future. And, I can’t tell you how much I am filled with terror right now, facing the thing I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to attempt. Whether I will walk away from this event with useful information or merely with the experience itself, I’m taking a step in a direction I’ve been meaning to head in for a while. It could be a bumpy ride. I sort of feel like I’m in that incredibly creepy, psychedelic scene from the original Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, the one where Willy Wonka sings about not knowing exactly where they’re going. For a while there, the passengers are nervous and fearful, but I figure if they came out of the tunnel just fine, with Willy Wonka at the helm no less, then I should be fine too.

 

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Powering Off

My boys enjoying a peaceful morning with hot beverages.

A little after 4 this morning, I heard the tell-tale click of the air pump on our Select Comfort bed shutting off. That usually means an interruption in the power. In our ten years in this house, our power has rarely gone out. Occasionally, it flickers off and then on again within a matter of seconds. So, I waited. A few seconds later I raised my sleepy head and opened one eye to glance at the alarm clock across the room for verification. Yep. No light in the room whatsoever. We were without power. I told hubby, set my iPhone for his 5:10 alarm and then my 6:45 alarm, and fell back asleep.

At 6:40 the kids burst into our room to announce the exciting news that we were without power, just in case I was unaware. I was not. I’d heard hubby fumbling around in pitch black getting ready for work at 5:30. I wondered briefly if he’d managed to walk out of here wearing clothes that matched, then told my children who were all a-twitter that it was no big deal. I shuffled them into the shower and made a mental note of all the things I would not be doing this morning…making my usual latte, listening to Phineas and Ferb on the television, drying my hair, using the garage door opener.

When we arrived downstairs, the house was cold. I had Luke flip on the gas fireplace. Ooooh….it’s like camping, they said. The joy wore off when Joe realized that his Eggo waffles would remain frozen this morning. I suggested cereal and told them I would make some hot chocolate. They looked at me like I was crazy. How could I use the stove when there was no power? I walked over, flipped on the gas, and lit the burner by hand. You would have thought I had invented fire. They were in the presence of pure genius. When I lifted the garage door, I might as well have been Hercules. I couldn’t decide if I was happy that my kids finally understood how much I am capable of or I was depressed that apparently under normal circumstances they barely think I’m capable of a thing.

I feel sorry for my kids. They’ve had it so easy for so long that they have no clue what they could live without if they had to. Based on their utter amazement that life was even possible without electronics this morning, I made a unilateral decision. This Friday night we’re unplugging for an entire evening. Starting at 5 p.m., there will be no television, computers, iPads, iPhones, lights, appliances, Nintendo games, iPods, nothing with an on/off switch for any of us. We’re going to spend the evening playing cards or games, reading books by candlelight, and just spending time together without distractions. I envision one of two things happening during this grand experiment: 1) someone will have to be restrained to control their gadget-withdrawal-trembling hands or 2) we will have bored each other to sleep by 8:30. I sure hope it’s the latter because I could really use a good night’s sleep.

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Hoodiewinked

Me in one of my six hoodies. I have hoodie issues.

For the sake of my sanity, I generally refrain from watching any news. This is something that started when Hurricane Katrina hit and my then 5 year old son started asking questions about what he was seeing on television. I decided that my sensitive child didn’t need all the sensational coverage the news provides these days. Now, instead of watching the news, I read it online from a variety of sources…including sources that normally run contrary to my own opinions. That is the only way I have found to ensure fair and balanced news coverage.

Because of my antipathy for television news, I was largely out of the loop on the shooting of Trayvon Martin. I missed the President’s comments to his parents, I missed Geraldo’s crazy ranting about hoodies, and I missed hearing about Reverends Al Sharpton and Jesse Jacksons’ concerns regarding racial profiling. Today I finally sat down and read through some information to get a better perspective. There was a lot to sort through, but I found myself returning to the same thought repeatedly: this hoodie-wearing kid, armed only with Skittles and iced tea, did not have to die. George Zimmerman called 911. That was his duty as a civic-minded, neighborhood watch captain. That is all he should have done, and if he had done just that Trayvon Martin would more than likely not now be a top news story.

Despite being fairly liberal, I am not anti-gun. I’m fine with the second amendment. I’ve chosen not to own a gun because of our sons, but I don’t expect others to give up their firearms simply because they’re not my thing. What troubles me, though, is how gun possession seems to make some people believe they are the law. When Zimmerman spied Martin, Martin was not in the process of stealing someone’s car or breaking a window and entering someone’s home. He may have looked suspicious to the neighborhood watch captain, but he wasn’t doing anything illegal. Instead of allowing the authorities to address his concerns (wasn’t that the point of his call to 911?), Zimmerman apparently followed Martin on foot against the advice of the 911 operator and there was a deadly altercation. Would he have been so brave if he’d not been carrying a concealed weapon? Maybe. Maybe not.

I have six of hoodies and I do wear them, sometimes with the hood up because my ears are cold. I think about my sons. They like hoodies and Skittles too and their ears get cold. Someday I hope they will be teenagers. Do I really need to wonder about their safety if they’re out walking at 7 p.m. on a Sunday night wearing their hoodies? Do we really need to be that afraid of one another?

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The Dream Police

The end of an era

“Some of us think holding on makes us strong, but sometimes it is letting go.” ~Hermann Hesse

Last night I had a bad dream. I hesitate to call it a nightmare because, although it did wake me up and stay with me all day, it wasn’t the most horrific dream I’ve ever had. In my dream, I was in a very crowded mall with my sons. My youngest needed to go to the bathroom. So, we walked down the mall together to the bathroom where I asked his brother to take him in while I waited outside. This is the usual routine. While I was within viewing distance of the restroom where my boys were, I kept on shopping around. After what seemed like a while, I noticed Joe standing outside the restroom door alone playing games on his iPhone. I asked him where his brother was. He told me he’d left him inside. I sent Joe back in to get Luke and that was when we realized he was missing. I felt immediate and intense panic. I am not a worrier, but I was worried. I knew something was wrong. The rest of the dream was a blur of running around, calling Luke’s name, asking people if they had seen him, and wondering how I could have been so stupid to leave him in his brother’s care when the mall was overly crowded.

I’m not ashamed to admit that the dream shook me. When Luke came into my room a few minutes after I had awoken, I called him over and gave him a huge hug. I was near tears. The feelings from my dream were still palpable. I was angry at myself for letting him go. I held onto him this morning until he began to writhe from my grasp.

I thought a lot today about that dream. Because I’m not a worrier and I haven’t thought twice about letting the boys go alone into the men’s room since they were roughly 7 and 5, I know that the dream was not about stranger danger. It was my way of working through the fact that my baby is gone. He’s almost 9. I know it’s foolish to be sad about this thing that I cannot change (nor would I want to because I am truly excited to see where life takes my ambitious, creative, and determined son), but it’s painfully clear that I am sad. Maybe I haven’t wanted to admit it, but apparently while my conscious mind is telling me that denial really is just a river in Egypt my subconscious is trying to help me resolve my issues…against my will, whether I like it or not.

I know that my mind wants me to wake up and appreciate my present with my boys before it becomes my past with my boys. It’s reminding me to make the most of this moment because this moment is the only one I’m guaranteed. Sometimes, though, I wish the dream police would pull out the billy club and beat my subconscious back into a state of quiet submission so I could enjoy a few more moments in LaLa Land, where my boys are not moving away from me faster than the speed of light. Watching your children grow up is tough, but what makes it tougher is knowing that as they’re getting older you are too.

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In Vino Veritas

Tomorrow I am certain I will be thinking, "If I had known I was going to be this thirsty today, I would have drank more last night." Pretty sure even Lake Erie doesn't hold the amount of water I will need to ingest tomorrow. 😉

“Sometimes when I reflect back on all the wine I drink, I feel shame! Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the vineyards and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn’t drink this wine, they might be out of work, and their dreams would be shattered. Then I say to myself, It is better that I drink this wine and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver.” ~Jack Handey

I had intentions to write a legitimate blog post today. But then, about 5 o’clock I opened a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the Marlborough region of New Zealand. I hadn’t eaten in hours but, dang, was I thirsty. A half a bottle later and it was suddenly time to head to dinner. At dinner, believe it or not, I was still thirsty; so I had an amber ale micro brew from Fort Collins before our food arrived. That was about the time I remembered why it’s not such a great idea for me to drink without having eaten something first.

Nevertheless, somehow, all that drinking seems to have cleared my head of any rational thought, as if all the liquid I swallowed miraculously flushed out my brain. Now that it’s 11 p.m., I find I have nothing left to offer but a fading love for all humankind and a mild headache that only copious amounts of water will cure. Before I write something incredibly inane, I am declaring myself non compos mentis and going to bed. A wise woman knows when she’s had enough; a wiser woman knows when to shut up.

“Always do sober what you said you’d do  drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.” ~ Ernest Hemingway

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Yeah, But He’s George Clooney

Steve and his older sister Karen

Last night my husband went to a party celebrating his sister’s birthday. It was what most would consider to be a “big” birthday. Steve’s sister is nearly 8 years older than he is. For years now, people who know Karen and then meet Steve automatically assume Steve is older than his sister. Why? Because he has gone prematurely grey.

When I met Steve way back in 1993, he had very dark hair. It wasn’t quite jet black but it was black and not brown. By the time our youngest son was born in 2003, the grey was definitely noticeable around the sideburns and at the temple. Now, 9 years later, about 50% of his hair is grey. While some might note that the greying of his hair neatly coincides with his marriage to me and our raising our two sons, I would like to point out that premature grey hair runs in Steve’s family. His Aunt Bobby was grey before she turned 50.

Last night, I stayed home with our boys while Steve went to the party for his sister, which was being held at a bar downtown. Through the night he was updating me via text on the party I was missing. This message came in:

“2 people thought I was older. F*** me.”

“I’m sorry,” I responded, adding a 😦 to punctuate my sympathy.

“I knew it would happen,” came his reply.

When he got home, he told me that a third person had told him they thought he was older than Karen. I tried to console him.

“It’s okay, hon. George Clooney went prematurely grey. I read an article where he was commenting that people always think he’s like 10 years older than he is because of his grey hair. At least you’re in good company.”

“Yeah. But, at the end of the day, he’s GEORGE CLOONEY.”

Well, he had me there. Can’t argue with that.

If Steve’s hair wasn’t grey, I’m fairly certain no one would suspect he’s older than he is. He’s not incredibly wrinkly. He’s healthy and fit and 20 pounds lighter now than he was when I met him. Wash out that grey hair and no way does he look older than 40. But, with it, people are going to suspect he’s at least 50, if not older. Steve is not vain, though, so he’d never color his hair. I suggested it about ten years ago and he shot the idea down immediately. He’s stuck.

I feel bad for Steve. I do. I can imagine how much it would suck to have people assuming you were a decade older than you really were. Luckily, I will likely not ever have that problem because I am vain and I refuse to age “gracefully,” whatever the hell that means. If anyone ever implied I looked ten years older than I am, I’d be at the hairdresser, dermatologist, and plastic surgeon so fast I’d leave a Road Runner-like white swoosh mark behind me. Incredibly shallow, I know, but true nonetheless.

Steve was telling me today in the car that he wholeheartedly believes in karma. I told him I think karma is what unlucky people believe in so they feel better about their misfortunes. But, then I thought about it for a second. Maybe it was karma that gave Steve his grey hair? You see, I am 18 months older than he is. Every year on my birthday, my accountant husband acts like he can’t do the math and questions my age. (“Wait…so now you’re TWO years older than me?”) Funny guy, right? Truth is that although I may be 18 months older than he is, until I decide to go grey (sometime years and years from now) I will never look 18 months older than he is. Maybe there is something to this whole karma thing after all? 😉

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My Spidey Sense

Stupid slutty wolf spider in our garage. The divot in the cement beneath the spider is the size of a nickel, in case you're looking for comparison. EWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

I hate spiders. Hate them with a passion fueled by the equivalent of a thousand suns. They freak me out something fierce. My general rule for spiders is that any spider under the size of the quarter is a creepy nuisance that I will dispatch accordingly. Any spider larger than quarter size is best left to my husband because otherwise I will not be able to sleep. True story. Because of my arachnophobia, we’ve had exterminator service every three months for the entire time we’ve lived in our current house. I don’t want to take any chances. You see, because our home is adjacent to open space, we often have large, prey-hunting wolf spiders hanging around. And, oh, how I hate they.

What makes matters worse for me when it comes to arachnids is that I seem to have a sixth sense for spotting them. It’s like my own personal spidey sense. If there is one anywhere in the garage or the yard or on the porch, I will spot it. You know how a dog or cat will gravitate toward the one person in the room who is most allergic? Spiders are like that with me. They love me. They seek me out simply to torture me. This just makes me hate them more.

Today after I pulled the car into the garage and came around the other side, I spied a large wolf spider. Seriously? It’s MARCH! Wolf spiders already? Ugh. It’s gonna be a long summer. If Steve had been home, I would have sicked him on it but he was not. I thought about it for a while and decided I could not knowingly let it stay in the garage. So, I picked up a shovel and not wanting to leave a mess I would have to hose down or forever stare at I tossed him out into the yard. But, that wasn’t good enough. I knew he would come back. So, I took that shovel and beat that ugly, eight-legged alien until I was certain it would not ever crawl again. Then, I calmly replaced the shovel in its usual spot, walked up the stairs into the house, and then slammed and bolted the door and let out a shudder and a squeal that I’m certain measured on the Richter scale. Did you feel it?

Me and Rosie...the "friendly" tarantula

Last spring I knowingly and willingly let a tarantula crawl across my hand in an attempt to overcome my aversion to spiders. Today I found out it did not work. Calling the exterminator again tomorrow for a repeat spraying of noxious chemicals, which they assure me will not actually kill the wolf spiders (only a shovel can do that, apparently) but at least the spiders “don’t like it.” At this point, I’m willing to settle for something the spiders don’t like because the day I find one of those wolf spiders in my home is the day we move to Alaska. And, you should know that I hate the cold almost as much as I hate spiders.

 

 

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Time Flies When They’re Growing Up

The four boys in 2008

Ever since our sons were small, my friend Celeste and I have been hauling them up Waterton Canyon. Since it has recently reopened and the weather has been so warm, we decided to take them up there again yesterday. It’s amazing the difference from the days when we used to have to push them in double jogger strollers hauling sippy cups, diapers, and changes of clothes. Our boys are roughly 1 month apart in age; Joe is a bit older than Celeste’s Sean and Ryan is a bit older than my Luke. Yesterday Celeste and I joked as we walked about how much more difficult the hike used to be when we each had two boys in a stroller, poking and badgering each other. We would simply pray that we’d be able to get through four miles before any meltdowns occurred and then we would dream that they would fall asleep in the car on the way home.

The boys in the canyon in 2012

Yesterday was an entirely different story. For the first time, there was relatively little complaining, and the boys walked the entire way. We walked up the first two miles, saw some mountain sheep along the way, and then stopped at our usual spot to have lunch and throw rocks into the river. Then we walked down without incident. The whole event was easy and pleasant…and shocking.

Time has flown. I look back at the photos of our boys together at Halloween parties and on these hikes and realize we’re watching them grow up. It’s sad and exciting at the same time. I hope Celeste and I are able to continue to drag our boys up Waterton on this hike as they get older, even if they’re whining and trying to text their friends (good luck with that in the canyon). Someday I want Celeste and I to look back on the photos of our boys standing in the river together. We will miss these times, but we will be glad we started a tradition we could trace together and share forever.

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