I've been daydreaming a lot about being wealthy lately. In my daydreams, I am Nora Charles (from the Thin Man movies), off adventuring with my husband. Maybe I win the lottery, or sue someone for damages and win. Maybe I was just inherited Daddy's money (in the daydream, I have a wealthy father instead of my more ordinary hardworking and well-enough-off-because-of-that father). It doesn't matter where the money comes from, but in my daydream I have it.
Having money doesn't change much in my daydream. I still live in my house, though I have now expanded it to add the game room and writing garret. I don't have servants, but someone does come by and do the yard work and I have someone who makes sure my bills gets paid and the errands I don't feel like handling get done. I still teach, but for limited gigs that I select with students who all want to be there. I still cook, but I get to try all the cool expensive stuff whenever I want. I travel. I travel a lot. I buy tickets for people and take them with me. I give gifts to anyone I want, when I want to.
The main thing my daydream money does for me is give me time. Days like today make me crave free time like addicts must crave their next hit.
If my day were my own today, I would have slept late, then taken my husband to breakfast (the girls would still have school). After a leisurely breakfast (probably at Elmo's in Carrboro), we'd walk and talk. T would leave me alone and I'd go write for a little while, leaving him to do his thing for a while. We'll discreetly show you the ceiling and not talk about the afternoon. I'd read a book while I wait for the girls to come home from school.
Tonight is T's gaming night, so the girls and I would have eaten Halibut (we eat fish when T's not home) and then some kind of fancy s'more cake dessert that I made up. I wouldn't be tired and irritable from my workday, so I'd spoil both girls with attention. I'd let M teach me to apply eye makeup and try to paint N's fingernails while she reads me a comic book.We'd laugh together.
Then it would be bedtime. Since I'm Nora Charles, I'd put on something silky and beautiful, just to sleep in. I probably wouldn't stay up that late, because I still want to take the girls to school myself, but I'd be free to if I wanted to.
Hmmm . . .maybe I'd best get back to my novel. It probably won't make me rich, but I bet it would pay for a trip somewhere.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Sunday, March 10, 2013
In sickness and in Health
Contemporary family life is a lot of balancing (hence the name of my blog: Balancing Act). Me time. We time. Focused time with each child. All of us time. Out with friends time. It's a near constant trading of favors, trying to make sure everyone's needs and desires are met often enough so that no one is stretched too thin.
It's a lot of work, even when we're all well.
The Sweetman has been sick these past few days. A week before that I was sick. A week before that the eldest daughter was sick. Boy has it been a month! Even as I take a moment to kvetch about it, I know that I am fortunate, because none of these illnesses were life-threatening or longer than a week in duration. But, still, it's been challenging.
Since Sweetman is ill, this weekend it fell upon me. All of it. Whatever it happened to be. Grocery shopping, dog walking, child cleaning, taxi driving, birthday partying, meal preparing, laundry doing, errand running, dish-washing, on and on and on.
It was tough, but I made it. And Sweetman is on the mend. (He felt good enough today to be restless and feel a little bored.) So, only three days later, I can see the light at the end of this particular tunnel.
So, I think, how do single parents do this? When the light at the end of the tunnel is fifteen more years away (when the kid goes to college). I was a single parent for two years. And I had incredible support from my mother and father. And it was still damnably difficult. So, to the women and men I know who do this alone, often without the easy support that I found, I say, Wow. You guys are amazing.
I feel blinded by gratitude for my husband, my sister, my brother-in-law, my father, my mother, my mother-in-law, friends. Sometimes, it's too much for one person. Thank G-d I have all of you. And here's hoping for the "in health" side of those wedding vows. Soon, please.
It's a lot of work, even when we're all well.
The Sweetman has been sick these past few days. A week before that I was sick. A week before that the eldest daughter was sick. Boy has it been a month! Even as I take a moment to kvetch about it, I know that I am fortunate, because none of these illnesses were life-threatening or longer than a week in duration. But, still, it's been challenging.
Since Sweetman is ill, this weekend it fell upon me. All of it. Whatever it happened to be. Grocery shopping, dog walking, child cleaning, taxi driving, birthday partying, meal preparing, laundry doing, errand running, dish-washing, on and on and on.
It was tough, but I made it. And Sweetman is on the mend. (He felt good enough today to be restless and feel a little bored.) So, only three days later, I can see the light at the end of this particular tunnel.
So, I think, how do single parents do this? When the light at the end of the tunnel is fifteen more years away (when the kid goes to college). I was a single parent for two years. And I had incredible support from my mother and father. And it was still damnably difficult. So, to the women and men I know who do this alone, often without the easy support that I found, I say, Wow. You guys are amazing.
I feel blinded by gratitude for my husband, my sister, my brother-in-law, my father, my mother, my mother-in-law, friends. Sometimes, it's too much for one person. Thank G-d I have all of you. And here's hoping for the "in health" side of those wedding vows. Soon, please.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Beware the Ides of March
Someday, when I am appointed Queen on High, I am scrapping the school calendar as it stands and writing something that supports family life (for students and teachers), respects the amount of preparation time it takes to do this job well, and follows a pace it's possible to keep up without sacrificing your physical and mental health. When I do this, I fully expect to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, because of all the violence that is neatly sidestepped by making us all less frustrated and more successful.
Until then, I'm reading Tim O'Brien again and thinking about the things I carry . . .and which ones I can put down for a while.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Keeping Writing Going: 250 words at time
The +Flash Fiction Project work I've done in January and February has been a lot of fun, but is it really helping me with my big writing project? I'm not sure.
I have this great general concept for a novel: a very fun what-if question. I've had a great time meeting my characters, but I feel like I'm plodding along now. Plot is my weak point, I guess. This particular idea, at least, came with the general concept and characters followed easily enough, but I'm struggling with forward momentum for the story.
So, I dove into all those short pieces thinking I might find inspiration. So far, not so much. The pieces were fun in and of themselves, but they don't seem to be feeding my novel.
But I did hit upon another idea that might help. The Magic Spreadsheet! Have you heard about this, writing friends? It's a simple idea: you commit to write 250 words a day on your project. You track this commitment on a spreadsheet which awards you points for consistency.
What convinced me to try it was that 250 is such a reasonable expectation, even with my life. After all, 250 words is not that much. This blog post is already 206 words. Finding time for 250 words doesn't seem daunting. Not like finding time for 60,000 words (a generally accepted minimum length for a novel). 250 words can be written in the morning between my cup of tea and time to wake the kids, or while standing up in the kitchen while supper is baking or simmering. 250 words can slide out while I'm procrastinating on the next day's lesson plans.
But, if I do it--if I write 250 words a day, I'll have my 60,000 in 240 days--less than a year! It took me four years to write my first novel . .. and it's not ready for publication. It still needs a heavy rewrite. Four years to eek a first draft out of the corners of my life and scraps of energy I could steal from all my other demands. It's exciting to think about having that many words in less than one year.
I tried this last month. And got sick. Stupidly, delirious with fever sick. So, I failed in February. But March! March is going to be my month. 250 words down. 59, 750 to go.
I have this great general concept for a novel: a very fun what-if question. I've had a great time meeting my characters, but I feel like I'm plodding along now. Plot is my weak point, I guess. This particular idea, at least, came with the general concept and characters followed easily enough, but I'm struggling with forward momentum for the story.
So, I dove into all those short pieces thinking I might find inspiration. So far, not so much. The pieces were fun in and of themselves, but they don't seem to be feeding my novel.
But I did hit upon another idea that might help. The Magic Spreadsheet! Have you heard about this, writing friends? It's a simple idea: you commit to write 250 words a day on your project. You track this commitment on a spreadsheet which awards you points for consistency.
What convinced me to try it was that 250 is such a reasonable expectation, even with my life. After all, 250 words is not that much. This blog post is already 206 words. Finding time for 250 words doesn't seem daunting. Not like finding time for 60,000 words (a generally accepted minimum length for a novel). 250 words can be written in the morning between my cup of tea and time to wake the kids, or while standing up in the kitchen while supper is baking or simmering. 250 words can slide out while I'm procrastinating on the next day's lesson plans.
But, if I do it--if I write 250 words a day, I'll have my 60,000 in 240 days--less than a year! It took me four years to write my first novel . .. and it's not ready for publication. It still needs a heavy rewrite. Four years to eek a first draft out of the corners of my life and scraps of energy I could steal from all my other demands. It's exciting to think about having that many words in less than one year.
I tried this last month. And got sick. Stupidly, delirious with fever sick. So, I failed in February. But March! March is going to be my month. 250 words down. 59, 750 to go.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
February With a Twist #7: Odd Goods
This week, I'm participating in "February with a Twist" a project +Becket Moorby has organized through the +Flash Fiction Project
on Google+. These pieces are supposed to feature a twist of some kind.
This picture made me very happy to think on, puts in the hometown of my heart, Nome, Alaska. Part of me will always live there. And I miss my sled dog.
This picture made me very happy to think on, puts in the hometown of my heart, Nome, Alaska. Part of me will always live there. And I miss my sled dog.
Image courtesy of Jamie in Bytown via attribution license on Flickr Creative Commons (Attribution Link)
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It was the modern equivalent of a mail-order bride, Susan's horrified mother had claimed. But, then, trying the same thing again and expecting different results was the definition of insanity, wasn't it? And she had tried it all. Speed dating. Match.com. Church groups. Letting friends set her up on the basis of her "nice personality."
So what if he lived in Alaska. It was just another place, wasn't it? Maybe it would be better than here. Susan liked what he'd had to say in his emails and over the phone. His picture was probably an honest one. It matched the age he claimed and wasn't too handsome to be believed. She'd sent an honest photo herself and he hadn't backed away.
What was that saying about Alaskan men? The odds are good, but the goods are odd. She could do with some good odds, even at the price of odd goods. And Michael seemed less odd, at least over the phone, than many of the friends-of-friends she'd spent awkward evenings with over the past ten years.
So, she'd bought the plane ticket and taken the trip. She pushed down all the thoughts about the worst that could happen and tried to find her adventurer's spirit. No one thought this was a good idea.
She'd done her best to prepare, but she knew as soon as she stepped off the plane that the gear she bought in Ohio wasn't going to cut it. He was thoughtful though. He had a pair of bunny boots and some real gear waiting in his truck. He'd shown her the guest room in his small, but well-kept home, then walked her out to the dog kennels.
He seemed really happy when she asked if she could go for a ride. Susan had a good feeling about this one. This could be the ride of her life.
So what if he lived in Alaska. It was just another place, wasn't it? Maybe it would be better than here. Susan liked what he'd had to say in his emails and over the phone. His picture was probably an honest one. It matched the age he claimed and wasn't too handsome to be believed. She'd sent an honest photo herself and he hadn't backed away.
What was that saying about Alaskan men? The odds are good, but the goods are odd. She could do with some good odds, even at the price of odd goods. And Michael seemed less odd, at least over the phone, than many of the friends-of-friends she'd spent awkward evenings with over the past ten years.
So, she'd bought the plane ticket and taken the trip. She pushed down all the thoughts about the worst that could happen and tried to find her adventurer's spirit. No one thought this was a good idea.
She'd done her best to prepare, but she knew as soon as she stepped off the plane that the gear she bought in Ohio wasn't going to cut it. He was thoughtful though. He had a pair of bunny boots and some real gear waiting in his truck. He'd shown her the guest room in his small, but well-kept home, then walked her out to the dog kennels.
He seemed really happy when she asked if she could go for a ride. Susan had a good feeling about this one. This could be the ride of her life.
February with a Twist #6
This week, I'm participating in "February with a Twist," a project +Becket Moorby has organized through the +Flash Fiction Project on Google +. These pieces are supposed to feature a twist of some kind. I'm happy to be able to write again after suffering through a fever these past five days.
Phillip was counting the coins again. It was a meditation for him, a way to calm whenever he felt shaky and big crowds upset him. Brandon knew that, so he was grateful Phillip had agreed to come down to the park. It wasn't easy for Phillip, but he came willingly, for his brother.
There, at the end of the table, Brandon could see the girl he'd been hoping to see. He didn't know her name yet, but he already had a favorite among the pairs of short denim shorts she favored. He liked the ones with the silver fan designs on the pockets. She was wearing them now. When she looked back their direction, he smiled at her. It felt like one of those moments--shared laughter across a room, an inside joke.
Still, he was surprised when she walked their direction. He started to rise to greet her. More surprised yet when she sat down opposite Phillip and took his hand in hers. "Hi Philip!" she said. Her voice was bright, but sincere. Did she know his brother? "I've missed you, Baby." Baby? Phillip kept counting his coins, smiling his little smile, but he didn't pull back his hand. Phillip, who had trouble letting his big brother touch him, was letting this girl hold his hand?
Without letting go of Phillip's hand, the girl smiled at Brandon. "You must be Brandon. I'm Kandace. I'm Philip's girlfriend."
Image courtesy of Southern Arkansas University via attribution license on Flickr Creative Commons (Attribution Link)
_________________________________________________________________________
Phillip was counting the coins again. It was a meditation for him, a way to calm whenever he felt shaky and big crowds upset him. Brandon knew that, so he was grateful Phillip had agreed to come down to the park. It wasn't easy for Phillip, but he came willingly, for his brother.
There, at the end of the table, Brandon could see the girl he'd been hoping to see. He didn't know her name yet, but he already had a favorite among the pairs of short denim shorts she favored. He liked the ones with the silver fan designs on the pockets. She was wearing them now. When she looked back their direction, he smiled at her. It felt like one of those moments--shared laughter across a room, an inside joke.
Still, he was surprised when she walked their direction. He started to rise to greet her. More surprised yet when she sat down opposite Phillip and took his hand in hers. "Hi Philip!" she said. Her voice was bright, but sincere. Did she know his brother? "I've missed you, Baby." Baby? Phillip kept counting his coins, smiling his little smile, but he didn't pull back his hand. Phillip, who had trouble letting his big brother touch him, was letting this girl hold his hand?
Without letting go of Phillip's hand, the girl smiled at Brandon. "You must be Brandon. I'm Kandace. I'm Philip's girlfriend."
Friday, February 22, 2013
Flash Fiction February #5
This week, I'm participating in "February with a Twist" a project +Becket Moorby has organized through the +Flash Fiction Project
on Google+. These pieces are supposed to feature a twist of some kind.
I'm cheating a little tonight. I feel lousy (thanks schoolkids--so happy to have your newest virus). And this picture seems perfect for this scene: one from my first novel (the one I'm trying to finish a rewrite of so I can start submitting). So, here's Kirk at the Beach in a scene called "Decisions."
Thanks for reading!
Kirk sat in the damp sand. Sherry was asleep, and would be for a couple more hours, thanks to the Ambien her doctor had prescribed. Kirk was tired, too, but was still up early to watch the sun rise. It would be a waste to be at the beach and not watch the sunrise.
It was chilly this morning, and the dampness was seeping through Kirk’s pants. He shivered a little and pulled his knees in to hug them against his chest. Even before, well, before all this, Sherry wouldn’t have been with him this morning. Even on their honeymoon. “Vacations are for sleeping,” she said, and “I’m more of a sunset sort of girl.”
He had smiled, swallowing the disappointment that she wouldn’t share even one of the mornings with him. He didn’t want to push. Maybe he should have. He could have explained how special beach sunrises were to him, how he and his mother had shared them when he was a child, trying to sneak out of the beach house without waking his younger brothers. They would collect shells and spread them out on a towel by category. There were spindles, cups, spoons, and worry stones. After the sort, they would choose one of each kind to keep and throw the others back to the sea. In bad times, they would throw them with force. In good times, they would gently toss them or try and skip them across the waves.
He had never talked with Sherry about how he had taken his mother back to the beach one last time when the diagnosis went from bad to terminal and held her against the chill air like she was the child in his arms.
He didn’t want to push. And she never asked.
He’d always had the sense with Sherry that you don’t push her. She seemed tractable enough, a people pleaser, a go with the flow girl. But as soon as she felt forced to do anything, she could dig in her heels so hard that nothing could move her. It was one of their main causes of argument. The fact that he got this and knew when to back off was probably what had kept any of those arguments from escalating into something worse. He’d become a master of laying hints and dropping suggestions, gently manipulating her in the direction he wanted her to go. It was like sculpture. More delicate than it seems. If you force it, it’ll crack and break into pieces.
Sometimes he hated that he was good at it, that he could manipulate her. It made him feel dirty or mean. Like he was running an experiment. Other times, he thought it was just being a good husband, knowing how to handle the woman he loved, helping her the way she needed to be helped.
Still maybe he should’ve pushed. It would’ve meant a lot to him to share a beach morning with her. Had he ever really told he that? Did she even know that he wished she would go with him? There was a part of his soul that only came out early in the morning watching the sun come up on a lonely beach. He’d always imagined that, when he married, he and his wife would share everything. But here was an entire part of his life, the quiet pensive side. And she knew nothing of it.
There was something so soothing in a morning beach. Usually, there were no people, or very few. Anyone who was there wanted to be alone, too, and would smile or wave and move on. The sound of the surf was a glorious noise, tugging at the dark places in his mind and washing the ugliness out to sea. It would wash back up later, the trouble, but it would be smoothed out and bleached white. Somehow, he always left the beach feeling like he could handle it again. It was a kind of alchemy. You couldn’t analyze it. You couldn’t force it. It just was.
That’s why they were here. He said it was for Sherry, a little vacation, a chance to reconnect. But really, it was for him. He needed to think. He needed to understand. He needed to make a plan. And he had no idea what it would be.
Kirk was not a man who struggled to make decisions. He often said that the secret of his success was just a willingness to make a decision and see it through. At work, it was okay if his decision turned out to be wrong. At worst, they wasted some hours working down the wrong avenue or doing research that ended up not applying. But this was different. He had to look at all the ramifications. He had to be sure he was doing the right thing. If he left. If he stayed.
It had been two months since, since the incident. That’s what he had started to call it in his mind, anyway, an innocuous, nonjudgmental word, not a bit like “kidnapping” or “psychotic break.” It’s what he would call it if he ever spoke it aloud—The Incident.
It was November now. Pretty soon they were going to have to start the whole holiday machine. Kirk wasn’t sure he had it in him this year. He still felt sideswiped, wounded, empty, betrayed. So angry. He knew these feelings. This was grief. This was what it had felt like when he lost his mother.
But what had he lost? The baby that wasn’t a baby? That hurt. But he didn’t think it was at the heart of his grief. After all, he hadn’t even known about the baby until it was gone. Hadn’t opened his heart to him or her, hadn’t made plans for a person he hadn’t even known was formed.
Kirk got up. He was cold. He needed to walk. He hadn’t even known. That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Sherry hadn’t told him anything. In all their months, hell, years, of struggling to make a baby together, she had never let him in the room with her when she took the test. He’d never been there for the moment of truth. She’d done her grieving alone and left him to do his own.
And, when she had reason for hope, she’d done that alone, too. She’d told him it had been six weeks. For six weeks, she walked around with a light inside her, a glow called hope. And she hadn’t shared it with him.
Kirk found he was throwing shells and stones into the sea. He stopped and looked down at the shell in his hand. It was a flat one, a shard that had been worn smooth by the sea. He rubbed his thumb along it. A worry stone. He put it in his pocket. It was going to take a lot of worry stones to rub this one out.
What hope did they have? He thought he loved her. He thought she loved him. But what hope did they have if they didn’t share the hope or the grief? Were they really only fair weather friends, after all this? Did she really have his back? Did he really have hers?
I'm cheating a little tonight. I feel lousy (thanks schoolkids--so happy to have your newest virus). And this picture seems perfect for this scene: one from my first novel (the one I'm trying to finish a rewrite of so I can start submitting). So, here's Kirk at the Beach in a scene called "Decisions."
Thanks for reading!
Image courtesy of gillyberlin via attribution license on Flickr Creative Commons (Attribution Link)
_____________________________________________________________________
Kirk sat in the damp sand. Sherry was asleep, and would be for a couple more hours, thanks to the Ambien her doctor had prescribed. Kirk was tired, too, but was still up early to watch the sun rise. It would be a waste to be at the beach and not watch the sunrise.
It was chilly this morning, and the dampness was seeping through Kirk’s pants. He shivered a little and pulled his knees in to hug them against his chest. Even before, well, before all this, Sherry wouldn’t have been with him this morning. Even on their honeymoon. “Vacations are for sleeping,” she said, and “I’m more of a sunset sort of girl.”
He had smiled, swallowing the disappointment that she wouldn’t share even one of the mornings with him. He didn’t want to push. Maybe he should have. He could have explained how special beach sunrises were to him, how he and his mother had shared them when he was a child, trying to sneak out of the beach house without waking his younger brothers. They would collect shells and spread them out on a towel by category. There were spindles, cups, spoons, and worry stones. After the sort, they would choose one of each kind to keep and throw the others back to the sea. In bad times, they would throw them with force. In good times, they would gently toss them or try and skip them across the waves.
He had never talked with Sherry about how he had taken his mother back to the beach one last time when the diagnosis went from bad to terminal and held her against the chill air like she was the child in his arms.
He didn’t want to push. And she never asked.
He’d always had the sense with Sherry that you don’t push her. She seemed tractable enough, a people pleaser, a go with the flow girl. But as soon as she felt forced to do anything, she could dig in her heels so hard that nothing could move her. It was one of their main causes of argument. The fact that he got this and knew when to back off was probably what had kept any of those arguments from escalating into something worse. He’d become a master of laying hints and dropping suggestions, gently manipulating her in the direction he wanted her to go. It was like sculpture. More delicate than it seems. If you force it, it’ll crack and break into pieces.
Sometimes he hated that he was good at it, that he could manipulate her. It made him feel dirty or mean. Like he was running an experiment. Other times, he thought it was just being a good husband, knowing how to handle the woman he loved, helping her the way she needed to be helped.
Still maybe he should’ve pushed. It would’ve meant a lot to him to share a beach morning with her. Had he ever really told he that? Did she even know that he wished she would go with him? There was a part of his soul that only came out early in the morning watching the sun come up on a lonely beach. He’d always imagined that, when he married, he and his wife would share everything. But here was an entire part of his life, the quiet pensive side. And she knew nothing of it.
There was something so soothing in a morning beach. Usually, there were no people, or very few. Anyone who was there wanted to be alone, too, and would smile or wave and move on. The sound of the surf was a glorious noise, tugging at the dark places in his mind and washing the ugliness out to sea. It would wash back up later, the trouble, but it would be smoothed out and bleached white. Somehow, he always left the beach feeling like he could handle it again. It was a kind of alchemy. You couldn’t analyze it. You couldn’t force it. It just was.
That’s why they were here. He said it was for Sherry, a little vacation, a chance to reconnect. But really, it was for him. He needed to think. He needed to understand. He needed to make a plan. And he had no idea what it would be.
Kirk was not a man who struggled to make decisions. He often said that the secret of his success was just a willingness to make a decision and see it through. At work, it was okay if his decision turned out to be wrong. At worst, they wasted some hours working down the wrong avenue or doing research that ended up not applying. But this was different. He had to look at all the ramifications. He had to be sure he was doing the right thing. If he left. If he stayed.
It had been two months since, since the incident. That’s what he had started to call it in his mind, anyway, an innocuous, nonjudgmental word, not a bit like “kidnapping” or “psychotic break.” It’s what he would call it if he ever spoke it aloud—The Incident.
It was November now. Pretty soon they were going to have to start the whole holiday machine. Kirk wasn’t sure he had it in him this year. He still felt sideswiped, wounded, empty, betrayed. So angry. He knew these feelings. This was grief. This was what it had felt like when he lost his mother.
But what had he lost? The baby that wasn’t a baby? That hurt. But he didn’t think it was at the heart of his grief. After all, he hadn’t even known about the baby until it was gone. Hadn’t opened his heart to him or her, hadn’t made plans for a person he hadn’t even known was formed.
Kirk got up. He was cold. He needed to walk. He hadn’t even known. That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Sherry hadn’t told him anything. In all their months, hell, years, of struggling to make a baby together, she had never let him in the room with her when she took the test. He’d never been there for the moment of truth. She’d done her grieving alone and left him to do his own.
And, when she had reason for hope, she’d done that alone, too. She’d told him it had been six weeks. For six weeks, she walked around with a light inside her, a glow called hope. And she hadn’t shared it with him.
Kirk found he was throwing shells and stones into the sea. He stopped and looked down at the shell in his hand. It was a flat one, a shard that had been worn smooth by the sea. He rubbed his thumb along it. A worry stone. He put it in his pocket. It was going to take a lot of worry stones to rub this one out.
What hope did they have? He thought he loved her. He thought she loved him. But what hope did they have if they didn’t share the hope or the grief? Were they really only fair weather friends, after all this? Did she really have his back? Did he really have hers?
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