I have come to realize to my great chagrin that I have attempted to rear my burgeoning blog in the midst of the ghetto. My blog lives in the slums. It’s a terrible childhood. No one wants to step over the needles to visit. The smell is unbearable. And nameless shiftless beings cavort in the shadows here. No wonder my blog is stunted. What could grow here?
And so, I have decided to move. I will tell you where once I (or rather, my husband/sys admin) figures it out and completes the move. For those few of you who read this know this: I will post again once I have completed the move. We’re packing up the virtual truck as I speak…hope the dishes don’t break. The dog is driving me crazy by pulling all the packing material under the bed, and the cats are slinking around like ghosts, disturbed by the changes. And I, of course, have gone a little crazy, cause I just want to get this done and out there and work on the business end of things. But enough of this. This is exactly what I didn’t want to turn this blog into, this personal journal of current events, but here it is anyway. Devolution. I think there’s something in the water here.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
For the Love of Books
I am a huge bookworm. I am like those earthworms in Australia that grow several incredible feet long. But with glasses. And a book. Ok, maybe two. Ok, a whole tote full.
I’m the weird chick walking down the sidewalk, oblivious to the world, her nose buried in a book. I bring books to parties in case I need some quiet time away from it all. There is always an ‘emergency’ book in the car for the long waits at the dentist’s office. Books are stacked up in mounds all over my house, tall piles teetering beside the couch, shorter piles on the dining room table, nightstands, kitchen counters and unused chairs. (My cats give me the stink eye when I dare to throw books on their chair.) I am surrounded by books, drowning in books, obsessed with books, in love with books.
It is all my mother’s fault. She is an avid reader as well, although she doesn’t have the collection obsession that I do. (Library lurker.) There are actual bookcases in her house. Books don’t usually accost her visitors in some way. (All of my piles are notorious for sliding over onto unsuspecting housecallers.) Still, she is just as big of a bookworm as me. And thank goodness for that, because it always, even in the worst of times, gives us something to talk about.
We talk about our current reads: bad, terrible, good, great. One of my greatest accomplishments is introducing my mom to a new fabulous author, and believe me, it happens very rarely. We differ in what we read day to day… she is a mystery fan, and I can only seem to get into Janet Evanovich (All her books are funny as hell and a great escape, start with One for the Money, and keep going all the way through). I like science fiction and fantasy and my mom could care less about any of it. But we always like to hear about what the other is reading, and we often recommend novels to each other.
It is comforting to know that I can always pick up the phone and burble about the best book ever, which I have just finished, and mourn it’s passing. It’s also nice to have a back-up topic in case I have pushed her one too many times about moving to my town and she’s so fed up with me that she goes silent, or when I’ve had my fill of chatting about my son. (So far, he is her only grandson, and let me tell you, there is a love affair going on there that is beyond my capacity to understand some days, like when he has been whining for 12 days straight, or when he goes crashing through my living room as The Thing, leaving destruction in his wake.) Books have always brought us together, from the lurching beginnings of my reading career to my current status of tentative writer. My greatest hope is that one day I will write something so fantastic that after reading it, the first thing she is compelled to do is to call me up and tell me that I simply must add it to my bulging bookworm’s tote. I will know then that I have truly succeeded.
I’m the weird chick walking down the sidewalk, oblivious to the world, her nose buried in a book. I bring books to parties in case I need some quiet time away from it all. There is always an ‘emergency’ book in the car for the long waits at the dentist’s office. Books are stacked up in mounds all over my house, tall piles teetering beside the couch, shorter piles on the dining room table, nightstands, kitchen counters and unused chairs. (My cats give me the stink eye when I dare to throw books on their chair.) I am surrounded by books, drowning in books, obsessed with books, in love with books.
It is all my mother’s fault. She is an avid reader as well, although she doesn’t have the collection obsession that I do. (Library lurker.) There are actual bookcases in her house. Books don’t usually accost her visitors in some way. (All of my piles are notorious for sliding over onto unsuspecting housecallers.) Still, she is just as big of a bookworm as me. And thank goodness for that, because it always, even in the worst of times, gives us something to talk about.
We talk about our current reads: bad, terrible, good, great. One of my greatest accomplishments is introducing my mom to a new fabulous author, and believe me, it happens very rarely. We differ in what we read day to day… she is a mystery fan, and I can only seem to get into Janet Evanovich (All her books are funny as hell and a great escape, start with One for the Money, and keep going all the way through). I like science fiction and fantasy and my mom could care less about any of it. But we always like to hear about what the other is reading, and we often recommend novels to each other.
It is comforting to know that I can always pick up the phone and burble about the best book ever, which I have just finished, and mourn it’s passing. It’s also nice to have a back-up topic in case I have pushed her one too many times about moving to my town and she’s so fed up with me that she goes silent, or when I’ve had my fill of chatting about my son. (So far, he is her only grandson, and let me tell you, there is a love affair going on there that is beyond my capacity to understand some days, like when he has been whining for 12 days straight, or when he goes crashing through my living room as The Thing, leaving destruction in his wake.) Books have always brought us together, from the lurching beginnings of my reading career to my current status of tentative writer. My greatest hope is that one day I will write something so fantastic that after reading it, the first thing she is compelled to do is to call me up and tell me that I simply must add it to my bulging bookworm’s tote. I will know then that I have truly succeeded.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
The Grace of Dog
Whenever I try my hand at learning more about writing – as in, how to write so fabulously that everyone sits back, awed, thinking that is so right, after reading the masterpiece that came out of my fingers – whenever I dip back into the collective pool of knowledge, the one thing that my teachers say again and again is that a writer is not a writer until they’ve found their Voice. Ok, I think. Here we go a-hunting. But what is it, exactly? A Voice. I mean, I basically understand the concept. I could write an essay on the subject and win certain prizes. (Not the brand-new car, maybe, but something good, like a pen set.) However, I still would be unable to describe to you what it really is, or, for that matter, how to "find" it. I have agonized over this for years…well, if not agonized, at least used it as an excuse not to write, which is a kind of agony in itself, in the way constipation can be an agony. I think I get it now, though. And, as per usual, it was a book that helped me, finally, to understand.
My mother and I were talking on the phone earlier today, which we do most days unless my cell decides to play it’s own twisted game by echoing everything I say. (Which you will recognize, especially if you have kids, as one of the most supremely annoying games ever thought up by mutant children and cell phone devices.) Anyway, we were talking about books, which is also an almost daily thing, in particular about Anne Lamott's newest nonfiction, Grace (Eventually), which is a wonderful book, even though it’s kind of about faith and grace and all those things agnostics like me find uncomfortable to talk about. The thing about this book is that it’s not about the surface ritualistic religious stuff, but about real true grace, the kind that comes from inside of you. The kind that oddly, seems almost undeniably to come from outside of you. The kind that you, or at least I, have come to rely on to help climb the up-hill of life’s roller coaster. And this is the important thing, finally, that relates to writing. The Voice is a crazy form of that kind of grace. The Voice is not a thing, to be found, warmed, cuddled, cooed over and petted. The Voice is everything you are, from your ugly, callused, dirty feet to your beautiful soul-filled eyes. The Voice is you, 10 years ago, 30 years ago, yesterday. The Voice is a poetry of character, a whittling down to essentials of everything you are or have ever experienced. It cannot possibly be found. It was never lost or hiding or playing funny echo games with you in the first place. It is right here, reading this. With grace.
All this sounds lovely, of course, but as in all things, it’s not that simple either. The point of writing is to condense all that essential essence of you even further, into words and phrases that may contain the ability to touch someone else, to effect them without physical contact. This is impossible, yes? I mean, how can I condense how I felt about that red bike I got for my 10th birthday, or the time I was so mortified by vomiting in front of my entire 6th grade class that i just couldn't stop, or the breathlessness of my first wonderful, sloppy, spit-filled kiss into a story about something completely different? Impossible. And yet…. everyday, people manage to do it. I know, I read it. I sit back an amazing amount of the time, awed, thinking that is right on, girl. Do it again. But how do I do it? I want the manual. How do I coax that Voice onto paper? How is it even possible?
And I tell you this, it is impossible. But that’s the catch as well as the answer. You have to just sit back and get out of the way. Because you’ll never believe this, but that Voice wants to get heard. It’s begging to be heard. And it will find it’s way out onto the paper whether you like it or not. The trick is to move out of its way. It’s like a big hairy goofy dog, running full tilt after a ball. You can’t control his motion. You shouldn’t even try. The only thing you can do is to just get out of the way and watch him run. He is your Voice. Just let him barrel after the ball and stand back, awed by the ancient grace in his shaggy feet.
My mother and I were talking on the phone earlier today, which we do most days unless my cell decides to play it’s own twisted game by echoing everything I say. (Which you will recognize, especially if you have kids, as one of the most supremely annoying games ever thought up by mutant children and cell phone devices.) Anyway, we were talking about books, which is also an almost daily thing, in particular about Anne Lamott's newest nonfiction, Grace (Eventually), which is a wonderful book, even though it’s kind of about faith and grace and all those things agnostics like me find uncomfortable to talk about. The thing about this book is that it’s not about the surface ritualistic religious stuff, but about real true grace, the kind that comes from inside of you. The kind that oddly, seems almost undeniably to come from outside of you. The kind that you, or at least I, have come to rely on to help climb the up-hill of life’s roller coaster. And this is the important thing, finally, that relates to writing. The Voice is a crazy form of that kind of grace. The Voice is not a thing, to be found, warmed, cuddled, cooed over and petted. The Voice is everything you are, from your ugly, callused, dirty feet to your beautiful soul-filled eyes. The Voice is you, 10 years ago, 30 years ago, yesterday. The Voice is a poetry of character, a whittling down to essentials of everything you are or have ever experienced. It cannot possibly be found. It was never lost or hiding or playing funny echo games with you in the first place. It is right here, reading this. With grace.
All this sounds lovely, of course, but as in all things, it’s not that simple either. The point of writing is to condense all that essential essence of you even further, into words and phrases that may contain the ability to touch someone else, to effect them without physical contact. This is impossible, yes? I mean, how can I condense how I felt about that red bike I got for my 10th birthday, or the time I was so mortified by vomiting in front of my entire 6th grade class that i just couldn't stop, or the breathlessness of my first wonderful, sloppy, spit-filled kiss into a story about something completely different? Impossible. And yet…. everyday, people manage to do it. I know, I read it. I sit back an amazing amount of the time, awed, thinking that is right on, girl. Do it again. But how do I do it? I want the manual. How do I coax that Voice onto paper? How is it even possible?
And I tell you this, it is impossible. But that’s the catch as well as the answer. You have to just sit back and get out of the way. Because you’ll never believe this, but that Voice wants to get heard. It’s begging to be heard. And it will find it’s way out onto the paper whether you like it or not. The trick is to move out of its way. It’s like a big hairy goofy dog, running full tilt after a ball. You can’t control his motion. You shouldn’t even try. The only thing you can do is to just get out of the way and watch him run. He is your Voice. Just let him barrel after the ball and stand back, awed by the ancient grace in his shaggy feet.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
From the Bowl to the Oven, Cooking up a Small Business.
I love to cook. Cooking is an activity in which a person can expel pent-up creativity by punching things, making (almost) toxic poisons and sweetening the most mundane of foods. You can go crazy, throw the whole thing away, start again and still feel as if you've accomplished something. This is not what starting a business is like.
I have a dream, and it's a modest one, and I'm really trying to make it come true, in the tradition of a good fairy tale. Only I'm my own fairy godmother, and I've misplaced my wand, and I can't remember the words to the spell because I only got 3 hours of sleep last night, having been up with my 5 year old son, and I don't really even care if Cinderella gets to go to the damn ball or not, I just want chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate. This is what it is like to try to have a normal, small-town life and to start a business at the same time. Finishing the laundry seems like a dream to me, so how do I manage to make my business dream a priority?
No really, I was really asking. I have no clue, I tell you. It's funny, too, because the whole idea of my business revolves around the art of gift giving, and the whole idea behind gift giving is to tap into another person's dreams and desires and fulfill them, and yet....I'm having quite a time tapping into my own. I know they're there. My brain gets all jumbled up with ideas (usually at 3:00 in the morning, when I'd rather be sleeping) but getting them all out and into the world seems sometimes like just a big pit of despair. I actually visualize it as the Tar Pits in La Brea. Lots of ideas wander in....none come back out again. My 'freighbor' or friend + neighbor would tell me simply that that is why I'm having so much trouble....I just need to visualize the whole mess as organized and simple and elegant and the universe will aid me in making it happen in reality. Quite possibly, that is true. However, we have the whole 'real life' thing that gets in the way as well as my own little panic sessions, and just general logistics.
So in the mean time, while my husband works diligently on the tech side of things and I continue to scribble down ideas and vow not to spend any more money on inventory, I cook. I cook breakfast everyday for the three of us (sometimes healthy things, oftener bacon and eggs.) Lunch remains a scattered mess, but I think that's what lunch is all about anyway, and supper. Supper is where I shine, supper is when I bring down the house. Iowa Chops and Apples, Vegetarian Chili, Shepherd's Pie; recipes that involve chopping and rinsing and stirring and care.
If only I could throw my business dough in a bowl, spice it, stir it, stick it in a pan and throw it in the oven at 350 degrees, I could really make something happen.
But maybe that's all I'm really doing anyway. It always looks like a mess before it's done, right?
I think I still need the chocolate anyway.
I have a dream, and it's a modest one, and I'm really trying to make it come true, in the tradition of a good fairy tale. Only I'm my own fairy godmother, and I've misplaced my wand, and I can't remember the words to the spell because I only got 3 hours of sleep last night, having been up with my 5 year old son, and I don't really even care if Cinderella gets to go to the damn ball or not, I just want chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate. This is what it is like to try to have a normal, small-town life and to start a business at the same time. Finishing the laundry seems like a dream to me, so how do I manage to make my business dream a priority?
No really, I was really asking. I have no clue, I tell you. It's funny, too, because the whole idea of my business revolves around the art of gift giving, and the whole idea behind gift giving is to tap into another person's dreams and desires and fulfill them, and yet....I'm having quite a time tapping into my own. I know they're there. My brain gets all jumbled up with ideas (usually at 3:00 in the morning, when I'd rather be sleeping) but getting them all out and into the world seems sometimes like just a big pit of despair. I actually visualize it as the Tar Pits in La Brea. Lots of ideas wander in....none come back out again. My 'freighbor' or friend + neighbor would tell me simply that that is why I'm having so much trouble....I just need to visualize the whole mess as organized and simple and elegant and the universe will aid me in making it happen in reality. Quite possibly, that is true. However, we have the whole 'real life' thing that gets in the way as well as my own little panic sessions, and just general logistics.
So in the mean time, while my husband works diligently on the tech side of things and I continue to scribble down ideas and vow not to spend any more money on inventory, I cook. I cook breakfast everyday for the three of us (sometimes healthy things, oftener bacon and eggs.) Lunch remains a scattered mess, but I think that's what lunch is all about anyway, and supper. Supper is where I shine, supper is when I bring down the house. Iowa Chops and Apples, Vegetarian Chili, Shepherd's Pie; recipes that involve chopping and rinsing and stirring and care.
If only I could throw my business dough in a bowl, spice it, stir it, stick it in a pan and throw it in the oven at 350 degrees, I could really make something happen.
But maybe that's all I'm really doing anyway. It always looks like a mess before it's done, right?
I think I still need the chocolate anyway.
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