I played tea party today at the nursing home.
I walked in to the dining room and there sat Cookie at a table with another little old lady who wore a pink housedress with a wide pink, Peter Pan collar. Cookie smiles up at me, looks at her companion, then back at me and says, “There you are! I was wondering where you’d got off to!” She turns to her friend and says, “She’s my friend. I just love her!”
Her friend says, “I just loved the salad you made for lunch, dear.”
I smiled and said, “Why, thank you,” because by now I know better than to try and re-orient people to the misery that is the nursing home.
“I can’t remember names,” Cookie says, “but she,” indicating her new buddy, “helps me to eat more.”
Cookie was wearing her smile like Fourth of July bunting. So different from the last few weeks when Cookie’s cried and clung to my hand as if she were drowning and asked, “If I have no memories, am I still here?”
“I’m Helen Dolores,” the pink lady says. She looks like she wishes I were her friend, too, so of course, I am. “What was your name again?”
“Oh, we can’t remember names at all!” Cookie says. “Why I know her as good as I know my own face but I can’t recall her name to save my soul! She just helps me eat more, you know.”
I smile and say of course I know. I take a seat at the table and stare out the wide plate glass window, across the busy street to the parking lot of a medical building and a fancy restaurant.
“What is that place?” they ask, pointing.
“They x-ray you there,” I say, thinking they mean the medical building.
“Funny,” Cookie muses, “I thought that’s where Mike used to eat…Oh well, maybe it was somewhere else.”
“No, no, Cookie, you’re right,” I say. She remembers! Suddenly, it’s there, maybe just for the moment, or the day, but there they are- her precious memories, the son’s name she can never remember. It is all there.
We chat like we are old friends lady-lunching, until a Fed Ex truck pulls up in front of the building.
“Fexux,” Helen says. “Now what in the world is that?”
I tell them it’s a service that brings packages extra fast, overnight, “If it just absolutely, positively has to be there,” I add.
This puzzles my friends. Why on earth would something absolutely, positively have to be anywhere in such a short amount of time? What could possibly be so important?
We watch the man in brown carry a long, slender brown box into the building.
“Well,” says Cookie, turning away to focus back on me, “There you are! This is my friend,” she says, turning to Helen. “She helps me to eat more, or so they say, maybe.”
Helen smiles expectantly.
I grin, settle my elbows down on the table, lay my hands flat on the blue tablecloth before me and begin all over again.
“Well, hello,” I say. “I’m just terrible with names, you know? But you can call me Nancy.”
Cookie smiles. “I can’t remember a name to save my soul but I know your face as well as I know my own.”
And she does, just as I know hers. It is plastered all across my heart.
7/11/2006
7/03/2006
The Wisest Man in the Universe
My dad is the wisest man in the universe and he's dying. He says the good thing about knowing you're dying is that you get to look back over your life. For us kids, it's meant we have a chance to say goodbye. But as he's the wisest man in the universe, I feel like there's just so much I need to learn from him before he goes. I feel like the remedial student, always trying to "Get it." I never quite "get it," at least not all of it. I could never hope to get "it" all with Dad. There's just too much. He is rich with wisdom.
My brother asked him what was the meaning of life...(I'm telling you, we honestly think he knows!) And Dad said life is all about compassion and learning to be kind. He says we need to learn to be kinder to one another if this planet's going to survive.
In his last homily he said compassion was like amber. Thousands of years ago when a pine tree was wounded it produced sap to cover the wound and thirty to ninety million years later, that sap becomes the gem, amber.
One night, late, I said I didn't know how it was he could spend just a little time with a person and yet seem to know them so completely. "You just seem to 'get' everyone! I wish I knew how to do that!"
He was tucked under his covers, pale and looking very weak, but suddenly he became more animated. "You really want to know?"
I dropped my purse and keys on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Yeah, Dad, I really want to know."
"Don't listen to the answers people give you, listen to the questions they ask. That's what's important."
He went on to say that peoples' questions indicate what they're interested in. He said, "Think of it like a big tree. The answers are the limbs. The stuff they already have answers to, those are the dead limbs. They know the answers to those questions. But over there, where you see the leaves turning green, that's where they're growing, those are the questions. Always go with the questions."
Dad's world seems to be getting smaller as his life ebbs away. He's lost so much weight. When I hug him, I feel as if my arms are holding fragile bird bones. When he speaks his voice is softer, sometimes only a whisper. And this week, for the first time, he seems a little forgetful or confused.
I read somewhere that American Indians say of those who are dying, "Their spirit is light to the ground."
Last night my friend, Martha, dreamed that she was in a huge colliseum, filled with people. Dad sat next to her wearing his vestments, with a large gold crown on his head. She said another man in white vestments appeared, with a smaller crown, and was almost sheepish as he began to address the crowd, as if he knew he didn't belong where he was.
Martha, noting that Dad's crown was far larger, turned to him.
"Shouldn't you be the one to do this?" she asked Dad.
"Oh, that's all right," Dad answered, "They just don't know I'm here yet."
Oh, but they will.
My brother asked him what was the meaning of life...(I'm telling you, we honestly think he knows!) And Dad said life is all about compassion and learning to be kind. He says we need to learn to be kinder to one another if this planet's going to survive.
In his last homily he said compassion was like amber. Thousands of years ago when a pine tree was wounded it produced sap to cover the wound and thirty to ninety million years later, that sap becomes the gem, amber.
One night, late, I said I didn't know how it was he could spend just a little time with a person and yet seem to know them so completely. "You just seem to 'get' everyone! I wish I knew how to do that!"
He was tucked under his covers, pale and looking very weak, but suddenly he became more animated. "You really want to know?"
I dropped my purse and keys on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Yeah, Dad, I really want to know."
"Don't listen to the answers people give you, listen to the questions they ask. That's what's important."
He went on to say that peoples' questions indicate what they're interested in. He said, "Think of it like a big tree. The answers are the limbs. The stuff they already have answers to, those are the dead limbs. They know the answers to those questions. But over there, where you see the leaves turning green, that's where they're growing, those are the questions. Always go with the questions."
Dad's world seems to be getting smaller as his life ebbs away. He's lost so much weight. When I hug him, I feel as if my arms are holding fragile bird bones. When he speaks his voice is softer, sometimes only a whisper. And this week, for the first time, he seems a little forgetful or confused.
I read somewhere that American Indians say of those who are dying, "Their spirit is light to the ground."
Last night my friend, Martha, dreamed that she was in a huge colliseum, filled with people. Dad sat next to her wearing his vestments, with a large gold crown on his head. She said another man in white vestments appeared, with a smaller crown, and was almost sheepish as he began to address the crowd, as if he knew he didn't belong where he was.
Martha, noting that Dad's crown was far larger, turned to him.
"Shouldn't you be the one to do this?" she asked Dad.
"Oh, that's all right," Dad answered, "They just don't know I'm here yet."
Oh, but they will.
4/27/2006
The Writing Life...It Ain't All It's Cracked Up To Be- But It Is Cracked!
Okay, I'm a writer. This is my blog. Authors are "supposed" to be writing about their work. Who knew?! All this time I've been writing about my life...which sometimes includes my work but most often winds up being a stream-of-consciousness rant about whatever happens to be going on at the time.
Today I will be responsible. I will write about my work.
http://www.dinermuseum.org/dinersforsale/diner30/dinerforsale30.php
There it is...up there...what I'm working on. I've fallen in love with diner life.
What is wrong with me?
They request a proposal for a ghost hunter and what do I get? A diner!
I wander around the house thinking...hummmm....ghost hunter...what up with that?!
I eat some of the Easter candy that I've carefully stashed in the freezer so I won't eat it and voila! I come up with a diner.
The candy, in particular the malted milk ball eggs, is a magnificent help because next I come up with a memory of a man in the laundramat when I was in college. He had a tin foil triangle on his head and was speaking from the payphone to his mother.
"You gotta help me out here, Ma! The CIA is closing in. They know I'm in contact with the aliens."
Okay, now I've got a diner and a crazy guy with a tin foil triangle on his head.
Then I get a retro, shell pink, nubby fabric-ed Coco Channel suit and a pillbox hat...and a blonde. Tall. Leggy. And Geeze...she's got her masters in Social Work. And she lives in Philly where she has, of all things, a talk show.
Where are the freaking ghosts I ask you?
Next I get the Chicken Lady. She's wearing the tin foil hat and holding a chicken.
I keep eating Easter candy. I think there's a connection between the malted milk ball eggs and the chicken sitting in the crazy lady's lap.
And this is literally how I work. I walk around and now and then I look at one of the kids and say..."What if...?" And they do their best to answer me, even though they're thinking I'm nuts. Thank God, my son Ben is an expert on aliens, technology and Mormans (Go figure!) He tells me a lot of alien theory.
My other son just rolls his eyes and says, "Everybody writes about tin foil triangles, Mother! It's been done...a lot!"
Where was I and what exactly has he been reading?!
And then there's the diner...and a ghost named Abe who has hemmoroids. This is not my choice, he just pops into my head and asks for a small walk-on part...actually, he demands a small walk on part. As does the Marilyn Monroe/Gwen Steffani wanna-be ghost and the VW van.
But I can't write. Not yet. Not until someone starts talking to me and gives me the first line. Then the picture will start to roll, the "flash-forwards" as I call them will begin to fall into place, and I will sit back and enjoy the movie.
So, I guess you can see why I don't write much about my writing. Who would believe me?!
P.S Lately I've been reading the stats about where my blog readers come from and now I'm curious...Who are you guys? It would be wonderful to know. Maybe you could post a comment or drop me a line as I have no clue how to attach a guest book to this thing!
Today I will be responsible. I will write about my work.
http://www.dinermuseum.org/dinersforsale/diner30/dinerforsale30.php
There it is...up there...what I'm working on. I've fallen in love with diner life.
What is wrong with me?
They request a proposal for a ghost hunter and what do I get? A diner!
I wander around the house thinking...hummmm....ghost hunter...what up with that?!
I eat some of the Easter candy that I've carefully stashed in the freezer so I won't eat it and voila! I come up with a diner.
The candy, in particular the malted milk ball eggs, is a magnificent help because next I come up with a memory of a man in the laundramat when I was in college. He had a tin foil triangle on his head and was speaking from the payphone to his mother.
"You gotta help me out here, Ma! The CIA is closing in. They know I'm in contact with the aliens."
Okay, now I've got a diner and a crazy guy with a tin foil triangle on his head.
Then I get a retro, shell pink, nubby fabric-ed Coco Channel suit and a pillbox hat...and a blonde. Tall. Leggy. And Geeze...she's got her masters in Social Work. And she lives in Philly where she has, of all things, a talk show.
Where are the freaking ghosts I ask you?
Next I get the Chicken Lady. She's wearing the tin foil hat and holding a chicken.
I keep eating Easter candy. I think there's a connection between the malted milk ball eggs and the chicken sitting in the crazy lady's lap.
And this is literally how I work. I walk around and now and then I look at one of the kids and say..."What if...?" And they do their best to answer me, even though they're thinking I'm nuts. Thank God, my son Ben is an expert on aliens, technology and Mormans (Go figure!) He tells me a lot of alien theory.
My other son just rolls his eyes and says, "Everybody writes about tin foil triangles, Mother! It's been done...a lot!"
Where was I and what exactly has he been reading?!
And then there's the diner...and a ghost named Abe who has hemmoroids. This is not my choice, he just pops into my head and asks for a small walk-on part...actually, he demands a small walk on part. As does the Marilyn Monroe/Gwen Steffani wanna-be ghost and the VW van.
But I can't write. Not yet. Not until someone starts talking to me and gives me the first line. Then the picture will start to roll, the "flash-forwards" as I call them will begin to fall into place, and I will sit back and enjoy the movie.
So, I guess you can see why I don't write much about my writing. Who would believe me?!
P.S Lately I've been reading the stats about where my blog readers come from and now I'm curious...Who are you guys? It would be wonderful to know. Maybe you could post a comment or drop me a line as I have no clue how to attach a guest book to this thing!
3/07/2006
Insiders
I spend a couple of days a week consulting in two nursing homes. They're terrible. Pits. When you think about the worst kind of hell to go to in your old age, that's where I work. It's not so bad for me...I get to leave. My friends who live there can't leave.
I do everything I can to drag my "outside" friends over to visit my "inside" friends...but it's slow going. I guess at our age it's a little too close to the bone. And my outside friends say "It's so depressing! How can you stand it?!"
Oh, they are so missing out! I can walk through those doors having the worst day in the world and 20 minutes later, I'm a thousand miles away from my problems. My inside friends give me far more than I can ever hope to give them.
But...I digress!
Marti is my true best friend. She agreed to come hang with the Insiders one morning a week. She reads to Laura.
Two weeks ago, I introduced her to Cookie. Sweet little white-haired old lady with a ready smile and a great sense of humor. But lately, Cookie can't remember where she is, or what we're doing. Most days it's a struggle to form enough words to complete a sentence. It is painful for both of us because Cookie knows she's been slipping and she and I both miss "her."
We're working on it though. We're waiting for the new meds to kick in. I think she'll be back.
I know this because 2 weeks ago she met Marti. Then, last week, Marti who doesn't know Cookie's lost, stops by her room.
"Have you seen Nancy?" Marti asks. (Now, I don't even think Cookie knows my name!)
Cookie says, "She went upstairs to a meeting I think." (Which was true!!!)
Then Cookie frowns at Marti. "You don't think she's in trouble do you?" She asks Marti.
Marti smiles, shakes her head, "Oh, I really don't think so! Not Nancy!"
Cookie shakes her head. "You know," she says to Marti. "I just think they ought to go ahead and move her down here with us. I just think she'd fit in a lot better!"
Marti bites her tongue and manages to agree with Cookie.
When she finds me, she can't wait to tell me Cookie thinks I'm a resident, not staff!
I laugh with her and then I realize the most awesome thing of all...Cookie has just paid me the highest compliment. In a place where the staff is seen as harsh and busy, apart from the rest, Cookie has decided I can't be one of those people. I'm one of Them, the Insiders.
Life is good.
Very, very good.
I do everything I can to drag my "outside" friends over to visit my "inside" friends...but it's slow going. I guess at our age it's a little too close to the bone. And my outside friends say "It's so depressing! How can you stand it?!"
Oh, they are so missing out! I can walk through those doors having the worst day in the world and 20 minutes later, I'm a thousand miles away from my problems. My inside friends give me far more than I can ever hope to give them.
But...I digress!
Marti is my true best friend. She agreed to come hang with the Insiders one morning a week. She reads to Laura.
Two weeks ago, I introduced her to Cookie. Sweet little white-haired old lady with a ready smile and a great sense of humor. But lately, Cookie can't remember where she is, or what we're doing. Most days it's a struggle to form enough words to complete a sentence. It is painful for both of us because Cookie knows she's been slipping and she and I both miss "her."
We're working on it though. We're waiting for the new meds to kick in. I think she'll be back.
I know this because 2 weeks ago she met Marti. Then, last week, Marti who doesn't know Cookie's lost, stops by her room.
"Have you seen Nancy?" Marti asks. (Now, I don't even think Cookie knows my name!)
Cookie says, "She went upstairs to a meeting I think." (Which was true!!!)
Then Cookie frowns at Marti. "You don't think she's in trouble do you?" She asks Marti.
Marti smiles, shakes her head, "Oh, I really don't think so! Not Nancy!"
Cookie shakes her head. "You know," she says to Marti. "I just think they ought to go ahead and move her down here with us. I just think she'd fit in a lot better!"
Marti bites her tongue and manages to agree with Cookie.
When she finds me, she can't wait to tell me Cookie thinks I'm a resident, not staff!
I laugh with her and then I realize the most awesome thing of all...Cookie has just paid me the highest compliment. In a place where the staff is seen as harsh and busy, apart from the rest, Cookie has decided I can't be one of those people. I'm one of Them, the Insiders.
Life is good.
Very, very good.
2/21/2006
Where Does the Time Go?
Where Does the Time Go?!
How can it be…it feels like I just wrote a blog yesterday and yet, here I am in late February! Somebody whip me with a wet noodle! Okay, maybe just the cuffs…Maybe just sneak up on me and…
Never mind! As usual, I digress!
I am working, again, as always, on this new book idea…still!!! And I have now written the opening scene maybe a million times! Okay, at least 65! I’ve read some of the openings aloud, at signings or workshops, and everyone seems to love them, but they “don’t have legs.” They just won’t go any further!
Fifty versions began with “I used to be normal.” Finally, this last version began with the truth… “Who am I kidding? I have never been normal!”
Maybe now I’m getting somewhere.
I have this theory about my writing. Sometimes I just have to plod along and write until I get to know my characters, until they take on lives and voices of their own and go for it. The subplot characters were doing fine…Lucy and Modean knew who they were and what they wanted. It was just old Molly, Mollie, Kate, Isabel who couldn’t even pick a name and stick to it! Even the dog finally picked his name, Mr. Greenjeans. Once the dog speaks, you’ve got to keep writing!
So I’m trying.
In the meantime, Christmas came and went, my Dad got very, very ill and is getting worse, my mom broke her pelvis, and Ben’s not doing too well with Algebra. Such is life in the Sandwich Generation.
I did, however, get to go to Holden Beach this past weekend to write and it was awesome…When we left it was raining…little spritzes of snow intermingling with the raindrops, the gray fog just lifting over the matching gray ocean, a lone seagull, dark against the gloomy horizon. What a perfect weekend for writing!
I went to my writing partner’s house. Wendy is a quiet, delightful woman who exudes peace and well-being. We got up every morning, had simple breakfasts and then wrote (well, she painted this time.) Broke for lunch, wrote after lunch, made very low-key suppers and then read or revised until early bedtimes. Boring? Maybe but heaven sent for me. I can’t remember the last weekend without the backdrop of a TV or telephone ringing.
And then it was back to reality and the crunch of re-entry. Dirty laundry, “What’s for supper?” Missed orthodontist appointment. Sick kid. Ah, life in the fast lane!
How can it be…it feels like I just wrote a blog yesterday and yet, here I am in late February! Somebody whip me with a wet noodle! Okay, maybe just the cuffs…Maybe just sneak up on me and…
Never mind! As usual, I digress!
I am working, again, as always, on this new book idea…still!!! And I have now written the opening scene maybe a million times! Okay, at least 65! I’ve read some of the openings aloud, at signings or workshops, and everyone seems to love them, but they “don’t have legs.” They just won’t go any further!
Fifty versions began with “I used to be normal.” Finally, this last version began with the truth… “Who am I kidding? I have never been normal!”
Maybe now I’m getting somewhere.
I have this theory about my writing. Sometimes I just have to plod along and write until I get to know my characters, until they take on lives and voices of their own and go for it. The subplot characters were doing fine…Lucy and Modean knew who they were and what they wanted. It was just old Molly, Mollie, Kate, Isabel who couldn’t even pick a name and stick to it! Even the dog finally picked his name, Mr. Greenjeans. Once the dog speaks, you’ve got to keep writing!
So I’m trying.
In the meantime, Christmas came and went, my Dad got very, very ill and is getting worse, my mom broke her pelvis, and Ben’s not doing too well with Algebra. Such is life in the Sandwich Generation.
I did, however, get to go to Holden Beach this past weekend to write and it was awesome…When we left it was raining…little spritzes of snow intermingling with the raindrops, the gray fog just lifting over the matching gray ocean, a lone seagull, dark against the gloomy horizon. What a perfect weekend for writing!
I went to my writing partner’s house. Wendy is a quiet, delightful woman who exudes peace and well-being. We got up every morning, had simple breakfasts and then wrote (well, she painted this time.) Broke for lunch, wrote after lunch, made very low-key suppers and then read or revised until early bedtimes. Boring? Maybe but heaven sent for me. I can’t remember the last weekend without the backdrop of a TV or telephone ringing.
And then it was back to reality and the crunch of re-entry. Dirty laundry, “What’s for supper?” Missed orthodontist appointment. Sick kid. Ah, life in the fast lane!
11/27/2005
It's That Time....
Well, Turkey Day's a done deal and it's That Time Of Year again...
Time to drag down half of the attic and make the house into a winter wonderland, all while Ho-ho-ho-ing happily around the house.
You know how long that lasts, right?
Until I go outside, duct-tape yet another ailing reindeer into position, plug it in and find that it's suffered a stroke and only half it's dang lights work! Until I attempt neuro-surgery on the piece of wasted metal and realize that while I know how to check the fuses and bulbs, some unknown, mystery condition has afflicted my flock and it has nothing to do with anything the lighting sages have written in Chinese on the back of the box!
Ho-ho-ho my ass!
So I start working inside...
Where the same virus has infected the remaining fifty thousand lights. Where boxes, bubble wrap and tiny bits of long ago decorations litter every available surface like confetti and I can't find the one danged cookie jar I really wanted to put in the kitchen because we've moved and replaced the heating and air system, so everything's upside down...
On the upside, I did find the miniature cheesecake pans.
But then I remember,
I don't really like cheesecake. I just make it because I liked the picture on the cover of the 1998 December Bon Appetit...and who knows where the hell that is!
And then the biggest boy get sick. 102.3 degree fever sick.
There goes my workforce.
And there is nothing more pitiful than an adolescent boy with a fever and a cold.
Three days later, when he is lying in the same clothes in the same small room, playing video games, I realize there is nothing more stinky than adolescent boy who hasn't had a shower in 4 days, unless it's his small, enclosed room.
And if left unattended, Christmas decorations multiply.
So I decide to take the biggest boxes of artificial trees, animals, and decorations outside where they belong. We have lots of trees in the new front yard, so I'm envisioning a winter wonderland of half-lit, stroke victim animals...but I'm optimistic...at least they'll be outside, providing entertainment for the neighbors...
So, I put on my overalls, fling open the front door and...
it's raining!
And I do not mean drizzling!
So, I shove the boxes back inside and use them to barricade myself inside the house because I know and you should know by now that I am only using the Christmas decorations as a way to procrastinate against having to face down the story I've been trying (and need I add, failing) to write for six months about this group of women who drink one too many margaritas and solve mysteries...
Of course, I can't settle down to write in a cluttered environment, so I at least get my office into some semblance of ho-ho-ho-dom. (See the pictures)
And then I hear the dulcid tones of my oldest...
"Hey Mom, how come the hot water won't shut off? I turned it as hard as I can but it won't stop...Come look! Man, that's wierd, huh?"
Yeah, that's one word for it.
So, like, Ho Ho Ho, Y'all!
Time to drag down half of the attic and make the house into a winter wonderland, all while Ho-ho-ho-ing happily around the house.
You know how long that lasts, right?
Until I go outside, duct-tape yet another ailing reindeer into position, plug it in and find that it's suffered a stroke and only half it's dang lights work! Until I attempt neuro-surgery on the piece of wasted metal and realize that while I know how to check the fuses and bulbs, some unknown, mystery condition has afflicted my flock and it has nothing to do with anything the lighting sages have written in Chinese on the back of the box!
Ho-ho-ho my ass!
So I start working inside...
Where the same virus has infected the remaining fifty thousand lights. Where boxes, bubble wrap and tiny bits of long ago decorations litter every available surface like confetti and I can't find the one danged cookie jar I really wanted to put in the kitchen because we've moved and replaced the heating and air system, so everything's upside down...
On the upside, I did find the miniature cheesecake pans.
But then I remember,
I don't really like cheesecake. I just make it because I liked the picture on the cover of the 1998 December Bon Appetit...and who knows where the hell that is!
And then the biggest boy get sick. 102.3 degree fever sick.
There goes my workforce.
And there is nothing more pitiful than an adolescent boy with a fever and a cold.
Three days later, when he is lying in the same clothes in the same small room, playing video games, I realize there is nothing more stinky than adolescent boy who hasn't had a shower in 4 days, unless it's his small, enclosed room.
And if left unattended, Christmas decorations multiply.
So I decide to take the biggest boxes of artificial trees, animals, and decorations outside where they belong. We have lots of trees in the new front yard, so I'm envisioning a winter wonderland of half-lit, stroke victim animals...but I'm optimistic...at least they'll be outside, providing entertainment for the neighbors...
So, I put on my overalls, fling open the front door and...
it's raining!
And I do not mean drizzling!
So, I shove the boxes back inside and use them to barricade myself inside the house because I know and you should know by now that I am only using the Christmas decorations as a way to procrastinate against having to face down the story I've been trying (and need I add, failing) to write for six months about this group of women who drink one too many margaritas and solve mysteries...
Of course, I can't settle down to write in a cluttered environment, so I at least get my office into some semblance of ho-ho-ho-dom. (See the pictures)
And then I hear the dulcid tones of my oldest...
"Hey Mom, how come the hot water won't shut off? I turned it as hard as I can but it won't stop...Come look! Man, that's wierd, huh?"
Yeah, that's one word for it.
So, like, Ho Ho Ho, Y'all!
10/11/2005
True Friends Bare It All
I am so sweating this new effort of mine! I am so...pregnant with it!!! That's how books come to me...I start accumulating thoughts, then they grow inside my unconscious until at last, I'm thinking consciously...little snippets of ideas and pieces of characters...but I can't write until I hear their voices.
Sounds psychotic, doesn't it?
Well, this...thing...I'm working on now is about to drive me crazy...that is, if you accept the premise that I'm not nuts now! (Which if you ask my kids is an even up bet!) Anyway, I want to tell the story of this character and she just won't speak to me yet!!!
It is sooo frustrating when you want to write a book and she is refusing to tell the damned story!!!
Anyway...I tried again this week...for the 5th time. I wrote the first 20 pages AGAIN and took it to my friend, Marti, who reads every rough draft and puts her two cents worth in.
She read it while she was getting her nails done. Should that tell me something?
Anyway...she meets me at Starbucks and she says "It's nice, Nance. It's good."
She delivers this with all the enthusiasm of a warm fart.
It is the kiss of death.
"Nice," she says...."Good."
Finally she says...."It's just not there yet. I don't know your main character."
Well, her and me both!!!! I say, "Look, I've had it with that Molly! She just won't come out and tell me a thing about herself....She's just been dumped by her husband, furthermore, he's running off to California and not paying her any child support and her lawyer says he hates it for her but it'll be months before he can get the courts to catch up with him and well, that's all he can do."
"And what, Molly just accepts that?" Marti says. "I don't like women who just lie down and take it. That's not like one of your characters."
"No," I say. "That's just the problem. See, she's been home for 15 years, sweating the small stuff and "taking it" without getting mad. She does the same thing, over and over in life, and each time she expects the results to be different, but how can they be when she just does the same old thing. She doesn't feel she deserves any better because she blames herself for not seeing the divorce coming and ruining her kids' lives."
Marti yawns and who could blame her?
"But she won't let her kids grow up and she's so busy trying to fix everything for everyone else, she forgets that this ain't no dress rehearsal and her life is passing her by. So when the lawyer says he can't wave his magic wand and make the world just and right, Molly gets mad...and then she gets a life. She decides she has to recreate herself into someone who goes out and gets what she needs."
Marti's staring at me. "I thought you didn't know her?" she says. "Sounds like all you have to do is piss her off and you'll have a book."
Well, damn. Why didn't I think of that?
Well, I guess I did.
And then we walk out to go home and Marti starts off toward her truck, stops, and walks back over to my truck and opens the passenger side door. I figure she's got another pearl of wisdom to drop on me and I'm right, only it's not about writing.
She looks back over her shoulder at the kids sitting outside Starbucks smoking, then looks back at me. "They're going to think I'm nuts," she says, "but oh, hell!" AND SHE STARTS UNBUTTONING HER SHIRT!
"Look at this bra," she says. "I mean, I'm wearing a black bra with a white shirt but who cares? This is the most comfortable bra in the world!"
Marti is looking like one of those undercover, caught-on-video-surveillance, sex-for-hire tapes you see on TV shows like COPS...Her shirt's unbuttoned and there she is in her 38D black lace bra, doing a commercial for Victoria's Secret!
"They're 40% off," she says, like the general public will excuse her for this because it was on sale and who wouldn't strip to show off a deal like this?!
"You have just got to go get one!!" she says.
Do I say, "Marti, those kids can't see you but the rest of the shopping center can so button your shirt?"
I do not! Instead I say, "That lacy and good support, too?"
"Oh, yeah, the best! See? They're called Sexy something or others. They're in a bin."
She steps back and appraises my chest. "36B, right?"
I nod wondering if it's somehow printed on my forehead or if she's just that good at sizing up her friends. I mean, judging my cup size when I'm in a camisole and buttoned up cardigan is no small feat.
"They've got plenty of those," she says. "There was only one 38D in the whole store, but you won't have any trouble!"
Now she's taking my small breasts and turning them into a retail bonanza!
I look at Marti, half-undressed in front of God and everybody, just so she can clue me in on a deal, and think, this is a true friend. In fact, this is true friendship. I'd always heard true friends bared all, I just never really understood the depth of that statement before today.
On the other hand, maybe I did, unconsciously, because I was the one who gave her the sign that read "A friend will bail you out when you're arrested, but a true friend will sit next to you in the jail cell, laughing and saying "Damn that was fun!"
That's me and Marti.
Sounds psychotic, doesn't it?
Well, this...thing...I'm working on now is about to drive me crazy...that is, if you accept the premise that I'm not nuts now! (Which if you ask my kids is an even up bet!) Anyway, I want to tell the story of this character and she just won't speak to me yet!!!
It is sooo frustrating when you want to write a book and she is refusing to tell the damned story!!!
Anyway...I tried again this week...for the 5th time. I wrote the first 20 pages AGAIN and took it to my friend, Marti, who reads every rough draft and puts her two cents worth in.
She read it while she was getting her nails done. Should that tell me something?
Anyway...she meets me at Starbucks and she says "It's nice, Nance. It's good."
She delivers this with all the enthusiasm of a warm fart.
It is the kiss of death.
"Nice," she says...."Good."
Finally she says...."It's just not there yet. I don't know your main character."
Well, her and me both!!!! I say, "Look, I've had it with that Molly! She just won't come out and tell me a thing about herself....She's just been dumped by her husband, furthermore, he's running off to California and not paying her any child support and her lawyer says he hates it for her but it'll be months before he can get the courts to catch up with him and well, that's all he can do."
"And what, Molly just accepts that?" Marti says. "I don't like women who just lie down and take it. That's not like one of your characters."
"No," I say. "That's just the problem. See, she's been home for 15 years, sweating the small stuff and "taking it" without getting mad. She does the same thing, over and over in life, and each time she expects the results to be different, but how can they be when she just does the same old thing. She doesn't feel she deserves any better because she blames herself for not seeing the divorce coming and ruining her kids' lives."
Marti yawns and who could blame her?
"But she won't let her kids grow up and she's so busy trying to fix everything for everyone else, she forgets that this ain't no dress rehearsal and her life is passing her by. So when the lawyer says he can't wave his magic wand and make the world just and right, Molly gets mad...and then she gets a life. She decides she has to recreate herself into someone who goes out and gets what she needs."
Marti's staring at me. "I thought you didn't know her?" she says. "Sounds like all you have to do is piss her off and you'll have a book."
Well, damn. Why didn't I think of that?
Well, I guess I did.
And then we walk out to go home and Marti starts off toward her truck, stops, and walks back over to my truck and opens the passenger side door. I figure she's got another pearl of wisdom to drop on me and I'm right, only it's not about writing.
She looks back over her shoulder at the kids sitting outside Starbucks smoking, then looks back at me. "They're going to think I'm nuts," she says, "but oh, hell!" AND SHE STARTS UNBUTTONING HER SHIRT!
"Look at this bra," she says. "I mean, I'm wearing a black bra with a white shirt but who cares? This is the most comfortable bra in the world!"
Marti is looking like one of those undercover, caught-on-video-surveillance, sex-for-hire tapes you see on TV shows like COPS...Her shirt's unbuttoned and there she is in her 38D black lace bra, doing a commercial for Victoria's Secret!
"They're 40% off," she says, like the general public will excuse her for this because it was on sale and who wouldn't strip to show off a deal like this?!
"You have just got to go get one!!" she says.
Do I say, "Marti, those kids can't see you but the rest of the shopping center can so button your shirt?"
I do not! Instead I say, "That lacy and good support, too?"
"Oh, yeah, the best! See? They're called Sexy something or others. They're in a bin."
She steps back and appraises my chest. "36B, right?"
I nod wondering if it's somehow printed on my forehead or if she's just that good at sizing up her friends. I mean, judging my cup size when I'm in a camisole and buttoned up cardigan is no small feat.
"They've got plenty of those," she says. "There was only one 38D in the whole store, but you won't have any trouble!"
Now she's taking my small breasts and turning them into a retail bonanza!
I look at Marti, half-undressed in front of God and everybody, just so she can clue me in on a deal, and think, this is a true friend. In fact, this is true friendship. I'd always heard true friends bared all, I just never really understood the depth of that statement before today.
On the other hand, maybe I did, unconsciously, because I was the one who gave her the sign that read "A friend will bail you out when you're arrested, but a true friend will sit next to you in the jail cell, laughing and saying "Damn that was fun!"
That's me and Marti.
8/11/2005
Excuses Satisfy Only Those Who Make Them...and other vagaries of catching up
Okay, so I haven't been writing. And yes, I know, excuses only satisfy those who make them...but I'll just tell you anyway...I was on my way to write you, when I moved. And yes, it was only 4 houses down from the old house, but all my STUFF came with me, even the kids and the dogs!
These things take time! And then there was the urge to nest.
Heaven help us, I am after all, human and a woman. We nest when we move. We like things in their new places and everything cozy and well...I was getting settled.
And then everything in the new house broke...including the potty! And something's dripping under the house and there's mold (don't worry too much, it's white.) And everybody's got an opinion about what to do...and they want you to pay them before they tell you how to fix it...But they're not going to come and fix it TODAY..no, you have to get on the schedule for that! (Of course the schedule varies between When Hell Freezes Over and The Twelveth of Never.)
And then I remembered the next book is due in like 2 weeks or a month (I'm not going to look at the contract and find out I only have two weeks! I'm just trying to recall without having to unpack the entire house to find the piece of paper...I'm writing like it's due in two weeks. And I'm just a little over halfway through...Can you say...PANIC?)
Sigh.
Then I turned 5-0, 50.
Surprisingly, this does not bother me.
But there were celebrations and coconut cake and key lime pie to eat...so I didn't write here.
Not enough of the excusing yet?
Okay, the nursing home folks have been busy. Cookie lost a pair of her white shoes, and even though I told her she was wearing them, she couldn't quite get the concept...so I had to convince her that I was on the case and was sure they'd turn up when she went to bed...because then they'll be back in the closet.
Dorothy didn't like her roommate because of her skin color...so we had a little chat about the true meaning of Christianity (Hey, I was a minister's daughter...Sure, I cut Sunday school as often as possible and had to have a tutor for communion, but I can talk the talk when I need to! And hating someone for their skin color is just plain wrong!) So, that took up a little time.
And then Mary got confused because she thought the pimento cheese sandwhich the aide brought her was a shit sandwhich and this made her come out into the hallway and threaten to fart on someone's face if they didn't do something about it...And I was the someone elected to either fix the situation or face Mary's personal Firing Squad...
So, it's been a little hectic around here.
Did I mention the children? Yep, I need to spend time with them before they leave for college.
And in answer to the question...Will there be another Sierra book? I wish I could say yes, but I don't know. Maybe it'll help if I post the first chapter of the next book when and if someone wants to publish it!
So....that's where I've been and I promise to do better about this blogging stuff.
In the meantime, or in addition to reading my stuff...go check out Jennifer Crusie's website and blog....She's my personal idol as an author and writing coach. And, I hear she's a pretty good kid to boot.
These things take time! And then there was the urge to nest.
Heaven help us, I am after all, human and a woman. We nest when we move. We like things in their new places and everything cozy and well...I was getting settled.
And then everything in the new house broke...including the potty! And something's dripping under the house and there's mold (don't worry too much, it's white.) And everybody's got an opinion about what to do...and they want you to pay them before they tell you how to fix it...But they're not going to come and fix it TODAY..no, you have to get on the schedule for that! (Of course the schedule varies between When Hell Freezes Over and The Twelveth of Never.)
And then I remembered the next book is due in like 2 weeks or a month (I'm not going to look at the contract and find out I only have two weeks! I'm just trying to recall without having to unpack the entire house to find the piece of paper...I'm writing like it's due in two weeks. And I'm just a little over halfway through...Can you say...PANIC?)
Sigh.
Then I turned 5-0, 50.
Surprisingly, this does not bother me.
But there were celebrations and coconut cake and key lime pie to eat...so I didn't write here.
Not enough of the excusing yet?
Okay, the nursing home folks have been busy. Cookie lost a pair of her white shoes, and even though I told her she was wearing them, she couldn't quite get the concept...so I had to convince her that I was on the case and was sure they'd turn up when she went to bed...because then they'll be back in the closet.
Dorothy didn't like her roommate because of her skin color...so we had a little chat about the true meaning of Christianity (Hey, I was a minister's daughter...Sure, I cut Sunday school as often as possible and had to have a tutor for communion, but I can talk the talk when I need to! And hating someone for their skin color is just plain wrong!) So, that took up a little time.
And then Mary got confused because she thought the pimento cheese sandwhich the aide brought her was a shit sandwhich and this made her come out into the hallway and threaten to fart on someone's face if they didn't do something about it...And I was the someone elected to either fix the situation or face Mary's personal Firing Squad...
So, it's been a little hectic around here.
Did I mention the children? Yep, I need to spend time with them before they leave for college.
And in answer to the question...Will there be another Sierra book? I wish I could say yes, but I don't know. Maybe it'll help if I post the first chapter of the next book when and if someone wants to publish it!
So....that's where I've been and I promise to do better about this blogging stuff.
In the meantime, or in addition to reading my stuff...go check out Jennifer Crusie's website and blog....She's my personal idol as an author and writing coach. And, I hear she's a pretty good kid to boot.
6/02/2005
Opportunity Is Not A Lengthy Visitor!
I've been in Deadline Hell again. 3 chapters, about 60 pages and a synopsis of the next Stella book. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad just by itself, but it fell on the heel of the revisions of Lethally Blonde which is due out in November. I only had 2 weeks to come up with Stella's next adventure. So once again I'm brain dead.
Going to my day job at the nursing home was right up my alley today. I didn't have any words left and they didn't care. In the nursing home a hug is enough. In fact, a hug is a lot better than a bunch of empty words that they either can't hear, don't understand or don't believe. When your brain is not working at full capacity, hugs are the one true language.
Sometimes, when words just don't get it, a look is enough too.
My friend, Big Dawg, in Hot 'Lanta has a great look. Like I said in an earlier blog, he's a big guy, tall and imposing. He once was a manager or a bouncer or both in a strip club up north. He can talk loud and fast. He can give you a raft of shit without turning a hair. When I met him, I thought he was the most obnoxious guy in the universe. So, of course I told him this. I mean, the guy was a drug counselor and one night when we were out with him, he got drunk and loud and began giving his card out to people HE considered to be worse off than he was! "Here's my card. When you're ready to do something about your problem, call me."
Oh. My. God!
Of course, I was the one who got the "It Ain't Easy Bein' Sleezy" T-shirt from the concession stand before we left, but I digress!
Anyway...you'd think I would've hated the guy...but I just couldn't. In fact, he just melted my heart, over and over again. Maybe it was because we are both smartasses. Maybe because beneath the smartass exterior is this huge, vulnerable heart waiting to be discovered. And maybe it was Big Dawg's eyes.
Everything about Big Dawg said "Stay away from me!" except his eyes. Big Dawg could be cussing me out and all I could see was the way his eyes said, "Don't listen to what I'm saying. I really, really like you."
It's sort of like the way he farts on his wife because he loves her, only less so. Big Dawg, for all his bravado, is just a big old teddy bear. Unless he wears sunglasses 24/7, the Smart Ones will never buy his act. They'll hear the roar and want to hug him. Thank God his wife is one of the Smart Ones. Big Dawg's heart needed a safe home.
The little ladies in the nursing home would see right through my Big Dawg. He'd look at them and they'd melt. And, I don't know for sure, but I'd like to think he'd melt too.
There're lots of Big Dawgs out there. There are millions of little old ladies stuck in nursing homes, missing their babies, and feeling lonely, too.
As Patti LaBelle once said on Oprah, "Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor!"
When opportunity knocks...be one of the Smart Ones.
Going to my day job at the nursing home was right up my alley today. I didn't have any words left and they didn't care. In the nursing home a hug is enough. In fact, a hug is a lot better than a bunch of empty words that they either can't hear, don't understand or don't believe. When your brain is not working at full capacity, hugs are the one true language.
Sometimes, when words just don't get it, a look is enough too.
My friend, Big Dawg, in Hot 'Lanta has a great look. Like I said in an earlier blog, he's a big guy, tall and imposing. He once was a manager or a bouncer or both in a strip club up north. He can talk loud and fast. He can give you a raft of shit without turning a hair. When I met him, I thought he was the most obnoxious guy in the universe. So, of course I told him this. I mean, the guy was a drug counselor and one night when we were out with him, he got drunk and loud and began giving his card out to people HE considered to be worse off than he was! "Here's my card. When you're ready to do something about your problem, call me."
Oh. My. God!
Of course, I was the one who got the "It Ain't Easy Bein' Sleezy" T-shirt from the concession stand before we left, but I digress!
Anyway...you'd think I would've hated the guy...but I just couldn't. In fact, he just melted my heart, over and over again. Maybe it was because we are both smartasses. Maybe because beneath the smartass exterior is this huge, vulnerable heart waiting to be discovered. And maybe it was Big Dawg's eyes.
Everything about Big Dawg said "Stay away from me!" except his eyes. Big Dawg could be cussing me out and all I could see was the way his eyes said, "Don't listen to what I'm saying. I really, really like you."
It's sort of like the way he farts on his wife because he loves her, only less so. Big Dawg, for all his bravado, is just a big old teddy bear. Unless he wears sunglasses 24/7, the Smart Ones will never buy his act. They'll hear the roar and want to hug him. Thank God his wife is one of the Smart Ones. Big Dawg's heart needed a safe home.
The little ladies in the nursing home would see right through my Big Dawg. He'd look at them and they'd melt. And, I don't know for sure, but I'd like to think he'd melt too.
There're lots of Big Dawgs out there. There are millions of little old ladies stuck in nursing homes, missing their babies, and feeling lonely, too.
As Patti LaBelle once said on Oprah, "Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor!"
When opportunity knocks...be one of the Smart Ones.
5/26/2005
Thank God for Oprah...I think...
I have discovered, thanks to Oprah's continuing mission to bring much needed education to the unenlightened woman, that I have a defect. My arms, at least the portions from my shoulders to my elbows, are too short.
Hideous, no?
I mean, how can I go on? I have to revamp my entire way of looking at my body to accomodate this latest piece of information.
You see, Oprah was doing this show on how to buy a properly fitted bra. Quite necessary information, I thought, so I tuned in. Thank God I did! I arrived just as the expert said, "When you turn sideways and look at your profile in the mirror, you want your breasts to be located halfway between your shoulders and your elbows."
Ben was also watching. I have no idea why...maybe he thought they were going to show naked breasts. After all, he is 14. Maybe he thought he would need this information someday, so he could judge the women in his future by this standard. Or...and I really think this is a stretch...he was trying to be more female-sensitive in an effort to be non-gender biased. Yeah, right. Anyway, I digress...
Disregarding my son's presence, I walked straight over to the mirror and turned sideways. It was a huge relief...there they were, right on target.
Of course, merely fitting in has never been enough for me...Oh, no...I had to beg the question...
Later, when Ben was long gone and I was getting changed, I took off my bra and turned sideways again.
That's when I came to the horrible realization that my arms are too short.
Obviously.
There's nothing wrong with The Girls.
I mean, I'm not a large breasted woman. We're talking a B cup. And the "perky" part, that's still there. But it seems as if the bottom's falling out!
No, that is completely unacceptable. That leaves me with only one true option...
I've gone through life with short arms and never been aware of this...this...glitch in my anatomical system.
Oh well, I suppose I'll learn to live with it.
After all, things could be worse...I mean, it's not as if my breasts are sagging or anything!
Hideous, no?
I mean, how can I go on? I have to revamp my entire way of looking at my body to accomodate this latest piece of information.
You see, Oprah was doing this show on how to buy a properly fitted bra. Quite necessary information, I thought, so I tuned in. Thank God I did! I arrived just as the expert said, "When you turn sideways and look at your profile in the mirror, you want your breasts to be located halfway between your shoulders and your elbows."
Ben was also watching. I have no idea why...maybe he thought they were going to show naked breasts. After all, he is 14. Maybe he thought he would need this information someday, so he could judge the women in his future by this standard. Or...and I really think this is a stretch...he was trying to be more female-sensitive in an effort to be non-gender biased. Yeah, right. Anyway, I digress...
Disregarding my son's presence, I walked straight over to the mirror and turned sideways. It was a huge relief...there they were, right on target.
Of course, merely fitting in has never been enough for me...Oh, no...I had to beg the question...
Later, when Ben was long gone and I was getting changed, I took off my bra and turned sideways again.
That's when I came to the horrible realization that my arms are too short.
Obviously.
There's nothing wrong with The Girls.
I mean, I'm not a large breasted woman. We're talking a B cup. And the "perky" part, that's still there. But it seems as if the bottom's falling out!
No, that is completely unacceptable. That leaves me with only one true option...
I've gone through life with short arms and never been aware of this...this...glitch in my anatomical system.
Oh well, I suppose I'll learn to live with it.
After all, things could be worse...I mean, it's not as if my breasts are sagging or anything!
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