Happy Halloween everyone! This year I'm dressing up as a novelist.
I'm excited for November 1st to come, tomorrow, actually, dreading it a little, completely clueless about how it will feel and how it will all unfold. Yesterday I hung out at a computer station in the Louisville library, researching some back story details for my book. The library is an interesting place to spend any length of time as it draws folks to it who for one reason or another don't have a computer of their own to use. So why was I there? Well, for the time being I don't have a computer of my own to use. I'm actually blogging on my husband's computer (shhhh, don't tell the IT folks at his company). And his computer is particularly nice because it works. My computer is a dinosaur laptop from the 08's. The M key sticks and it still runs (tries to run) Windows XP. I took it to a PC shop here in Boulder that turned out to be the scuzziest, scariest private apartment in the whole town. I'm not sure I've ever been in a filthier, less-cared-about living space, and that says a lot because I've been in a whole bunch of scary, weird, ramshackle living spaces while visiting my out-of-state kid. Regardless of the state of his living quarters, I have a calm confidence in the PC guy to make my laptop work better. He works in a tiny back room in this apartment while his roommate (?) sits in a legal-weed stupor in front of the TV. PC guy was friendly enough, but very noticeably lacking in basic social skills, likely a side effect of 18 years of doing PC business in the tiny back room of a disgusting apartment.
Luckily he said I'd have my computer back today, in time for November 1st's start date. Whew.
I have a basic plot outline, some character development, a crisis, a back story, a potential love interest and even some names. While sipping a pinot noir from Mendocino last night at the bar at Leaf restaurant as I was waiting for my employer's staff meeting to start I looked up popular names from the 20's and 60's. There wasn't a Hunter or an Apple among them.
Must give this lovely working computer back to my husband.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Back with a mission
Hi there,
It's been a while since my last post, almost a year actually. It's good timing for my return post since I've decided...yes, decided...to participate in NaNoWriMo starting on Saturday. And what that means is that I will write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Yup, that's right. Yes, kind of random, kind of crazy but I've known or felt for a while now that there's a story inside me, maybe a few stories inside me, and if November is National Novel Writers Month, then why the hell not?
So what I'm going to do is blog about my experience as a virgin novelist, hoping that by going public with my intentions I'll be on the hook with my one blog reader, thus providing me with the motivation to slog through this project.
The truth is, I know absolutely nothing about writing a novel. I like to read novels and I live with ideas in my head that really should come out on paper, if for no other reason than as catharsis. But as I've been learning about NaNoWriMo it seems that one doesn't need any particular talent or experience in order to "win (which in NaNoWriMo land means finishing)," just a burning desire to write a novel and a deadline to up the chances that I'll actually do it.
So, dear reader, welcome to my little experiment. Can I do this? I believe I can, and I'd like you to be along for the ride. I have about 40 hours to prepare to begin to write, then I'll take off and see where it takes me. I got a copy of "No Plot, No Problem" from the library, a little guidebook written by the founder of NaNoWriMo. It's got tips, exercises and inspiration from former winners. So, armed with my guidebook, an account at NaNoWriMo and a pocketful of hubris' little sister, I will begin.
Oh, and this month I'm also volunteering at the "Veterans Speak" program at our local arts center, working at the inn, traveling to Texas to see our newborn grandbaby and then to Virginia for Thanksgiving. And I turn 53. As good a month as any to write my first novel.
It's been a while since my last post, almost a year actually. It's good timing for my return post since I've decided...yes, decided...to participate in NaNoWriMo starting on Saturday. And what that means is that I will write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Yup, that's right. Yes, kind of random, kind of crazy but I've known or felt for a while now that there's a story inside me, maybe a few stories inside me, and if November is National Novel Writers Month, then why the hell not?
So what I'm going to do is blog about my experience as a virgin novelist, hoping that by going public with my intentions I'll be on the hook with my one blog reader, thus providing me with the motivation to slog through this project.
The truth is, I know absolutely nothing about writing a novel. I like to read novels and I live with ideas in my head that really should come out on paper, if for no other reason than as catharsis. But as I've been learning about NaNoWriMo it seems that one doesn't need any particular talent or experience in order to "win (which in NaNoWriMo land means finishing)," just a burning desire to write a novel and a deadline to up the chances that I'll actually do it.
So, dear reader, welcome to my little experiment. Can I do this? I believe I can, and I'd like you to be along for the ride. I have about 40 hours to prepare to begin to write, then I'll take off and see where it takes me. I got a copy of "No Plot, No Problem" from the library, a little guidebook written by the founder of NaNoWriMo. It's got tips, exercises and inspiration from former winners. So, armed with my guidebook, an account at NaNoWriMo and a pocketful of hubris' little sister, I will begin.
Oh, and this month I'm also volunteering at the "Veterans Speak" program at our local arts center, working at the inn, traveling to Texas to see our newborn grandbaby and then to Virginia for Thanksgiving. And I turn 53. As good a month as any to write my first novel.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
The ptarmigan and the fawn
I had a dream last night. I found a tiny fawn in the grass near our house, and I slowly approached her, stroked her back and watched as she struggled onto her toothpick legs.
Then I was inside, alarmed because the fawn was being attacked and killed by a ptarmigan. It was inevitable, the fawn was going to die. In my dream I felt shocked and sad by this turn of events. Mark got a big net and started going outside to move the carnage away from the front porch. I was irritated with him, thinking that he was putting himself in harm's way (because the ptarmigan wasn't really a ptarmigan, was it?) for a lost cause. Sometimes, well, only one other time, when I was irritated with Mark I called him by my first husband's name. That usually goes over quite well.
The interesting thing about this dream is that ptarmigan are rather small, grouse-like birds that are well-adapted to high alpine environments. And (according to Wikipedia so I know it's accurate) ptarmigan are vegetarians so it's unlikely that they would attack and kill a mammal. Curious. I'm fascinated by the workings of my own subconscious mind.
One of the things I'm working on these days is being mindful, fully awake and aware during my waking hours. That way, hopefully my curious subconscious mind won't make decisions based on faulty inputs. Does that make sense? If I'm not fully aware and mindful, it's likely that my actions, thoughts and feelings will emanate from someplace below the surface that I can't readily access or refute or counter.
This is a big subject, but the homework from my women's group is to be more mindful this week, to watch and really see what happens as I move through the world. So it's worth diving right in, ptarmigans and all.
Then I was inside, alarmed because the fawn was being attacked and killed by a ptarmigan. It was inevitable, the fawn was going to die. In my dream I felt shocked and sad by this turn of events. Mark got a big net and started going outside to move the carnage away from the front porch. I was irritated with him, thinking that he was putting himself in harm's way (because the ptarmigan wasn't really a ptarmigan, was it?) for a lost cause. Sometimes, well, only one other time, when I was irritated with Mark I called him by my first husband's name. That usually goes over quite well.
The interesting thing about this dream is that ptarmigan are rather small, grouse-like birds that are well-adapted to high alpine environments. And (according to Wikipedia so I know it's accurate) ptarmigan are vegetarians so it's unlikely that they would attack and kill a mammal. Curious. I'm fascinated by the workings of my own subconscious mind.
One of the things I'm working on these days is being mindful, fully awake and aware during my waking hours. That way, hopefully my curious subconscious mind won't make decisions based on faulty inputs. Does that make sense? If I'm not fully aware and mindful, it's likely that my actions, thoughts and feelings will emanate from someplace below the surface that I can't readily access or refute or counter.
This is a big subject, but the homework from my women's group is to be more mindful this week, to watch and really see what happens as I move through the world. So it's worth diving right in, ptarmigans and all.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Bruce
I don't recall whether I ever mentioned that I've named the prairie dogs that live on the mesa with us, but I have. And just to simplify things I named every single prairie dog Bruce. So whenever I walk on the mesa I greet my chubby little neighbors with an enthusiastic "'ello Bruce!", which curiously always comes out with an Australian accent like the addicted shark in the Disney classic, Finding Nemo. They chatter back to me in prairie dog, much of which I don't understand, but I smile encouragingly anyway.
It's blustery out today and there are actual tumbleweeds rolling across the open space. There's nothing like a tumbleweed to remind you that you're not in New England anymore. Almost all the leaves are down so the space around us feels wider, more open. I finally convinced Mark ("I'm not gonna pay anybody to do anything...")to let a lawn company come and do a fall clean-up for us, this after spending many hours last weekend with a new blower/sucker thing, a rake and a dozen leaf bags. Even though there isn't too much lawn there is a huge perimeter of river stones that trap the fallen leaves; left to winter over I'm sure they would crumble down into the stones and form a nice layer of organic matter for weeds to grow in. I think it's worth the expense to have 4 guys come for a couple hours and get it done. I actually don't like the sucker/blower thing and think I'll return it to Home Depot and apply the money to the 4 guys.
I transplanted my garden sage plant to a pot on the back porch near my other potted herbs. I'm hoping I can keep them all alive until Thanksgiving so I can use fresh herbs in the stuffing. Still have to plant bulbs, maybe this coming weekend.
I appreciate the comments I got on my last blog, the one about the guys who came to my door. Most of the comments were about the efficacy of trusting one's gut instinct, to not worry about possibly offending someone when you're not comfortable in a situation. Also, to err on the side of caution for one's own safety. Not to answer the doorbell at night when I'm alone. Thanks friends, thanks mom. xoxo
It's blustery out today and there are actual tumbleweeds rolling across the open space. There's nothing like a tumbleweed to remind you that you're not in New England anymore. Almost all the leaves are down so the space around us feels wider, more open. I finally convinced Mark ("I'm not gonna pay anybody to do anything...")to let a lawn company come and do a fall clean-up for us, this after spending many hours last weekend with a new blower/sucker thing, a rake and a dozen leaf bags. Even though there isn't too much lawn there is a huge perimeter of river stones that trap the fallen leaves; left to winter over I'm sure they would crumble down into the stones and form a nice layer of organic matter for weeds to grow in. I think it's worth the expense to have 4 guys come for a couple hours and get it done. I actually don't like the sucker/blower thing and think I'll return it to Home Depot and apply the money to the 4 guys.
I transplanted my garden sage plant to a pot on the back porch near my other potted herbs. I'm hoping I can keep them all alive until Thanksgiving so I can use fresh herbs in the stuffing. Still have to plant bulbs, maybe this coming weekend.
I appreciate the comments I got on my last blog, the one about the guys who came to my door. Most of the comments were about the efficacy of trusting one's gut instinct, to not worry about possibly offending someone when you're not comfortable in a situation. Also, to err on the side of caution for one's own safety. Not to answer the doorbell at night when I'm alone. Thanks friends, thanks mom. xoxo
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
The doorbell rang last night
The doorbell rang around 6 last night as I was starting to prepare dinner. This isn't typical, as someone has come to the door only 5 or 6 times in the 6 months we've lived here. Mostly the UPS guy, once a neighborhood kid selling coupon books to fund a school trip to California. Enzo reacted to the sound with his usual crazed high-intensity alarm; I picked him up and went to the door.
Two guys were there; one seemed rather young and was wearing a grey sweatshirt with the hood up. The other was a little older, maybe in his mid-twenties. He was better dressed, with a tie, I think, and a fleece vest. No hat. The older one did all the talking. He started saying things like, "I just talked to your neighbor Bill..." and "you might remember two young ladies who came here last year..." Well, no I really don't because we're new here, and my neighbor's name is not Bill. He must have interpreted my nonverbal cues as a willingness to listen because he came up onto the front porch and stood near me by the door.
He was talking fast, it seemed to me, and I didn't quite grasp the nature of his visit. My first thought was that they were Jehovah's witnesses come to try to save me. But there was a clipboard and something about needing to gain job skills, and didn't I remember what it was like, just starting out? Something about a mentor, something about customer service skills. He held the clipboard in front of me, showing me some writing on a page, meant to impart legitimacy.
I was uncomfortable. I was home alone, it was dark and this guy was talking fast. What did he want from me? The young guy just stood there and smiled.
So I said, I'm not comfortable talking with you. I'm just not comfortable.
The older guy actually scoffed, threw up his hands and snickered as he turned and left the porch. He probably thought (my projection) that I was uncomfortable because both of the guys were black and they were not from around here. It made me uncomfortable to think that they would think that. Rich white lady in a big house in a fancy white neighborhood doesn't want to give the time of day to 2 young black kids trying to make their way in the world. Ummmm, no, not really.
Mark was more matter-of-fact about it. People don't come to your door at night just to spend time with you. They either want to save your soul or sell you something. Or worse, case your house.
When I was talking to Mark about the visit, I felt small and old and vulnerable. I felt out of practice being savvy and street-smart like I was when I lived back east near hard-hittin' New Britain. I felt unnerved at 3:30 this morning when I woke up with this on my mind. I connected this event to the horrific murders of Dr. Petit's wife and daughters in Cheshire in 2007. That time it was 2 white guys who cased the house and came back to rip a family apart. That was an event that left a permanent scar on the psyche of every person who heard about it, watched it unfold on the news, read about it day after day in the papers. It reminded us all about how vulnerable we are all of the time.
If it had been 2 young white guys last night, one standing silently wearing a hoodie, the other one a smooth-fast-talker standing a foot away from me in the thin yellow pool of the porch light, I believe I would have felt just as uncomfortable and would have tried to get them to go away just as quickly. I suppose I wouldn't have had that instantaneous internal white-oriented conflict of wanting them to leave while hoping they wouldn't think I was sending them away because they're black. But I would have wanted them to go away, of that I'm sure.
Two guys were there; one seemed rather young and was wearing a grey sweatshirt with the hood up. The other was a little older, maybe in his mid-twenties. He was better dressed, with a tie, I think, and a fleece vest. No hat. The older one did all the talking. He started saying things like, "I just talked to your neighbor Bill..." and "you might remember two young ladies who came here last year..." Well, no I really don't because we're new here, and my neighbor's name is not Bill. He must have interpreted my nonverbal cues as a willingness to listen because he came up onto the front porch and stood near me by the door.
He was talking fast, it seemed to me, and I didn't quite grasp the nature of his visit. My first thought was that they were Jehovah's witnesses come to try to save me. But there was a clipboard and something about needing to gain job skills, and didn't I remember what it was like, just starting out? Something about a mentor, something about customer service skills. He held the clipboard in front of me, showing me some writing on a page, meant to impart legitimacy.
I was uncomfortable. I was home alone, it was dark and this guy was talking fast. What did he want from me? The young guy just stood there and smiled.
So I said, I'm not comfortable talking with you. I'm just not comfortable.
The older guy actually scoffed, threw up his hands and snickered as he turned and left the porch. He probably thought (my projection) that I was uncomfortable because both of the guys were black and they were not from around here. It made me uncomfortable to think that they would think that. Rich white lady in a big house in a fancy white neighborhood doesn't want to give the time of day to 2 young black kids trying to make their way in the world. Ummmm, no, not really.
Mark was more matter-of-fact about it. People don't come to your door at night just to spend time with you. They either want to save your soul or sell you something. Or worse, case your house.
When I was talking to Mark about the visit, I felt small and old and vulnerable. I felt out of practice being savvy and street-smart like I was when I lived back east near hard-hittin' New Britain. I felt unnerved at 3:30 this morning when I woke up with this on my mind. I connected this event to the horrific murders of Dr. Petit's wife and daughters in Cheshire in 2007. That time it was 2 white guys who cased the house and came back to rip a family apart. That was an event that left a permanent scar on the psyche of every person who heard about it, watched it unfold on the news, read about it day after day in the papers. It reminded us all about how vulnerable we are all of the time.
If it had been 2 young white guys last night, one standing silently wearing a hoodie, the other one a smooth-fast-talker standing a foot away from me in the thin yellow pool of the porch light, I believe I would have felt just as uncomfortable and would have tried to get them to go away just as quickly. I suppose I wouldn't have had that instantaneous internal white-oriented conflict of wanting them to leave while hoping they wouldn't think I was sending them away because they're black. But I would have wanted them to go away, of that I'm sure.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
walking thankful
On my walk a couple of days ago, out on the mesa, I felt a powerful rush of gratefulness come over me. I was walking briskly in the cool, late October morning, thinking about my first Hospice patient, whom I was to meet the next day. She is a woman about my age who's dying of metastatic cancer. I am to be her companion, to provide companionship.
On this morning, here I was, walking, free, able, unencumbered. I chose to walk and I walked. Under the bluebird sky, a harvest breeze around my face, a quiet nod to others on the path, I chose to walk and I walked. And for that, I felt really, really grateful. I haven't even met this person and she's already had a profound impact on my life. I hope I can have a gentle, comforting impact on her life as well.
So as November, the month of thanksgiving begins, I'm ever so thankful for my life and for my healthy body that I can take walking whenever I choose. What a gift.
On this morning, here I was, walking, free, able, unencumbered. I chose to walk and I walked. Under the bluebird sky, a harvest breeze around my face, a quiet nod to others on the path, I chose to walk and I walked. And for that, I felt really, really grateful. I haven't even met this person and she's already had a profound impact on my life. I hope I can have a gentle, comforting impact on her life as well.
So as November, the month of thanksgiving begins, I'm ever so thankful for my life and for my healthy body that I can take walking whenever I choose. What a gift.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Today
It's chilly this morning after a hard frost. The mesa is starting to close up, contract. There was a flurry of bird activity a few days ago; I may have even seen a small flock of bluebirds resting on the yucca branches before continuing their migration. Just a fleeting flash of blue in the corner of my eyes, then faded into the grassland again. And the meadowlarks were full of song a few days ago. Mark thinks that they never left but it seems to me that they disappeared during the hot summer months and came back only a few days ago, also on their migratory path to somewhere else. It's always a surprise to be walking along the path and hear the clear trill of the meadowlark coming from what sounds like only a couple of feet from where you are. But they're clever ventriloquists and if you look hard into the grasses you can usually spot them sitting high on a stem, 100 feet away. When I was a new mesa-dweller I would stop walking and peer into the grass near the path, convinced that the bird was right there. Now I know better and it still thrills me.
Yesterday I took part in a 2-hour meditation practice at Naropa, one in a series of happenings during Community Practice Day. All regular university business stops and people come together to experience various types of contemplative practice. The meditation happened in a big room with about 100 mats and cushions arranged on the floor. People were called to the room by a gong and found their seat. The 10-15 minute seated meditation sessions were interspersed with walking meditations, led by a soft-spoken woman who sounded like an NPR commentator. Once I discovered how to arrange my legs so as not to develop cramps I was able to sit still for the duration. But my mind...how my mind loves to go into overdrive when it's quiet. I know this is common among new meditators so I tried hard to not go to a judgmental place. Breathe in, breathe out. Sooooo....hummmm.
During the walking meditation we walked slowly and deliberately, hands at waist, eyes softly down. Let the thoughts go, just be here now. Two circles of walkers snaked around the room, passing each other in the middle. I kept thinking about the security lines at Denver International, where you walk slowly and deliberately back and forth in the corrals, gaze diverted. You pass the same people again and again but you rarely acknowledge them or even make eye contact. Maybe I'll try to meditate in line next time I'm there.
Yesterday I took part in a 2-hour meditation practice at Naropa, one in a series of happenings during Community Practice Day. All regular university business stops and people come together to experience various types of contemplative practice. The meditation happened in a big room with about 100 mats and cushions arranged on the floor. People were called to the room by a gong and found their seat. The 10-15 minute seated meditation sessions were interspersed with walking meditations, led by a soft-spoken woman who sounded like an NPR commentator. Once I discovered how to arrange my legs so as not to develop cramps I was able to sit still for the duration. But my mind...how my mind loves to go into overdrive when it's quiet. I know this is common among new meditators so I tried hard to not go to a judgmental place. Breathe in, breathe out. Sooooo....hummmm.
During the walking meditation we walked slowly and deliberately, hands at waist, eyes softly down. Let the thoughts go, just be here now. Two circles of walkers snaked around the room, passing each other in the middle. I kept thinking about the security lines at Denver International, where you walk slowly and deliberately back and forth in the corrals, gaze diverted. You pass the same people again and again but you rarely acknowledge them or even make eye contact. Maybe I'll try to meditate in line next time I'm there.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)