I've been thinking about Thoreau lately. Rather odd, as I don't live my life by poetry. My life is more of a limerick, truth be told.
Maybe it's because Earth Day just came and went, or maybe it's simply the banging hammer of "progress" outside my window with new homes coming to be and old trees being tossed away, but one quote of Henry David Thoreau's keeps swimming through my thoughts as I go about my day.
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."
I don't live in the woods per se, but they are mere steps from my home. Mostly I love it here amongst the trees, besides the pollen that rears its ugly head about twice a year. I've discovered the joy of peacefulness in the evening, listening for the owls and (I could swear) a lone whippoorwill as the majestic moon rises. By day I watch blue birds flutter along the fences and a hawk who keeps an eye on us all from the clear skies above. There are a even a pair of tiny downy woodpeckers of whom have danced before me each morning for a week during my daily sojourns.
All of us seem confused of late by the pounding and drilling and mowing going on, though. Each in our own way seem to be asking for answers and I am at a loss for words. At first I was angry. How dare my life be mowed under by more people. Then I realized that I am part of that progress that is attacking the wild's way of life. I moved here. I take up space. I am not free of blame. It saddens me and makes me wonder how hypocritical am I to claim to love Mother Earth and want to help conserve when I too am part of the problem and not the solution.
I could tie myself to a tree. But what good would that do as all the laws have been abided by and the building legal and just? I could scream and yell, but who would hear or care?
What I can do is simply be more aware. What I buy. How I live. Not just talk a good game, but play like I mean it. Learn from my surroundings and live with no regrets. I am hoping that's what Thoreau meant.
Maybe I should just get back to the limericks, they are way more upbeat than I..."There once was a woman named Bright, whose speed was much faster than light...."
Friday, April 23, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Taking a mental health day cures what ails
The first time I heard the phrase "Take a mental health day," I thought it was crazy. The words came from one of my newspaper mentors, a woman who'd been in the journalism game when it was run mainly by men. I idolized this woman. She was everything I wanted to be, strong minded, strong willed, with a strong sense of what made a good story tick. But when she mentioned to me that I needed to give myself a break and take a "mental health day" I thought she'd lost her mind.
At the time I was working a lot of 12-hour days as a newspaper section editor with a small child who spent a lot of time curled up under my desk (after day care hours). My day started a 5:30 a.m. and ended later than I would rather admit. I had everything planned, every moment of every day. I even made a special time grid (talk about crazy). And to have this woman I admired telling me I needed a mental health day (when I didn't even have time to breath without scheduling it) pretty much pissed me off.
She was right, of course. And by the end of that week I had an asthma attack and was stuck in bed missing deadlines and awaiting the "I told you so" from my editor mentor upon my return.
You'd think I'd have learned from that experience. But sometimes, you have to learn the same lessons over and over and over again. I've spent a lifetime learning this one. My personality is such that even working from home I only sit down when I am writing. I don't think about recharging my batteries or taking a time out. I go and go because, well, stopping seems so wrong.
But it's the taking a breath time that reminds me what I want. And yesterday is a perfect example. I was overtaken by a 24-hour bug that wasn't bad, but it kept me laid up on the couch. It turned into a wonderfully unproductive day. I finished a book. I watched "The Three Faces of Eve" with my movie buff son. I thought about the next step in my quest to get my latest stories published. I breathed.
I know it's easy for me to say that we all need to take a mental health day once in a while. I'm at home now with the dog, cat and kid. But I still have that drive we all have to make the most of the day and get as much done on the 'to do' list as I can.
All it takes is one day to cure what ails you, though. Turn off the cell. Don't rev up the laptop. Sit around and be a couch potato for once. I dare you.
At the time I was working a lot of 12-hour days as a newspaper section editor with a small child who spent a lot of time curled up under my desk (after day care hours). My day started a 5:30 a.m. and ended later than I would rather admit. I had everything planned, every moment of every day. I even made a special time grid (talk about crazy). And to have this woman I admired telling me I needed a mental health day (when I didn't even have time to breath without scheduling it) pretty much pissed me off.
She was right, of course. And by the end of that week I had an asthma attack and was stuck in bed missing deadlines and awaiting the "I told you so" from my editor mentor upon my return.
You'd think I'd have learned from that experience. But sometimes, you have to learn the same lessons over and over and over again. I've spent a lifetime learning this one. My personality is such that even working from home I only sit down when I am writing. I don't think about recharging my batteries or taking a time out. I go and go because, well, stopping seems so wrong.
But it's the taking a breath time that reminds me what I want. And yesterday is a perfect example. I was overtaken by a 24-hour bug that wasn't bad, but it kept me laid up on the couch. It turned into a wonderfully unproductive day. I finished a book. I watched "The Three Faces of Eve" with my movie buff son. I thought about the next step in my quest to get my latest stories published. I breathed.
I know it's easy for me to say that we all need to take a mental health day once in a while. I'm at home now with the dog, cat and kid. But I still have that drive we all have to make the most of the day and get as much done on the 'to do' list as I can.
All it takes is one day to cure what ails you, though. Turn off the cell. Don't rev up the laptop. Sit around and be a couch potato for once. I dare you.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Another rejection for the bathroom wall
I have stopped counting the rejections. It's too depressing. If I kept track of the number I'd probably give up writing all together. I think somewhere in the back of my mind I am worried that I only get so many rejections and that's it. Kind of like a batter who gets three strikes and he's out. My thought is, for writers, we get a lot more than three strikes, though. (We're not quite as quick learners, so we get a few dozen more to smarten up).
Some writers, like Stephen King, have used rejection as a badge of honor of sorts. In his book, On Writing (which I highly recommend), he mentions early in his writing career he collected rejection slips on a nail on the wall of his workspace as a reminder of how far he'd come. Of course the king of the horror genre would do such a thing. Me, well, I am not so brave. I either rip them up into a million pieces or have myself a good cry. Or both, on a given day.
My first rejection for writing came oh so long ago from my high school newspaper advisor. She didn't give me a rejection letter per se, but instead stifled a smirk at the mere thought of this rather timid young girl becoming a newspaper journalist. "You? You're seriously considering becoming a writer?" Needless to say, I harbored a huge grudge and promised myself someday she'd know how wrong she really was.
And for a while, I thought I was succeeding. I had my share of accolades for writing. I won contests as a newspaper editor, as a feature writer and even a couple for fiction writing. But somehow, in this elusive gig called writing fiction, you're only as good as your last publication. The sting of rejection is considerably stronger than any accolade can ever be.
I thought I'd amassed a pretty tough skin over the years as the rejections continued to mount to so many I could wallpaper the bathroom with them (if I'd only kept them rather than shred them).
The latest came Friday evening via email. It wasn't one of those generic "It's not right for us, but we wish you success in finding placement elsewhere." This was a personal critique. It's the first big house to ever comment on my work and not either A)Toss it in the circular file (aka trash can) or B) Send it back via SASE with nary a pen mark. I held my breath, hoping upon hope this editor wanted my young adult novel that I felt was possibly one of the best things I've ever written.
Nope. Yet another blow to the already bruised ego. Bottom line, she said I had a great voice and it was a fresh idea for a genre saturated with vampires, werewolves and anything else that can rip you apart limb by limb. But again, it wasn't what they wanted or needed. I had failed.
I truly had thought this was it, my golden ticket of sorts. My chance at sharing my stories with the world. But, alas, there are no golden tickets in publishing. I just have to keep plugging at it and hope that at some point something will hit.
I figure this batter has a few more strikes left in her. My home run will come. In the meantime, maybe I should start collecting those rejections and wallpaper my bathroom for free.
Some writers, like Stephen King, have used rejection as a badge of honor of sorts. In his book, On Writing (which I highly recommend), he mentions early in his writing career he collected rejection slips on a nail on the wall of his workspace as a reminder of how far he'd come. Of course the king of the horror genre would do such a thing. Me, well, I am not so brave. I either rip them up into a million pieces or have myself a good cry. Or both, on a given day.
My first rejection for writing came oh so long ago from my high school newspaper advisor. She didn't give me a rejection letter per se, but instead stifled a smirk at the mere thought of this rather timid young girl becoming a newspaper journalist. "You? You're seriously considering becoming a writer?" Needless to say, I harbored a huge grudge and promised myself someday she'd know how wrong she really was.
And for a while, I thought I was succeeding. I had my share of accolades for writing. I won contests as a newspaper editor, as a feature writer and even a couple for fiction writing. But somehow, in this elusive gig called writing fiction, you're only as good as your last publication. The sting of rejection is considerably stronger than any accolade can ever be.
I thought I'd amassed a pretty tough skin over the years as the rejections continued to mount to so many I could wallpaper the bathroom with them (if I'd only kept them rather than shred them).
The latest came Friday evening via email. It wasn't one of those generic "It's not right for us, but we wish you success in finding placement elsewhere." This was a personal critique. It's the first big house to ever comment on my work and not either A)Toss it in the circular file (aka trash can) or B) Send it back via SASE with nary a pen mark. I held my breath, hoping upon hope this editor wanted my young adult novel that I felt was possibly one of the best things I've ever written.
Nope. Yet another blow to the already bruised ego. Bottom line, she said I had a great voice and it was a fresh idea for a genre saturated with vampires, werewolves and anything else that can rip you apart limb by limb. But again, it wasn't what they wanted or needed. I had failed.
I truly had thought this was it, my golden ticket of sorts. My chance at sharing my stories with the world. But, alas, there are no golden tickets in publishing. I just have to keep plugging at it and hope that at some point something will hit.
I figure this batter has a few more strikes left in her. My home run will come. In the meantime, maybe I should start collecting those rejections and wallpaper my bathroom for free.
Friday, April 16, 2010
To School or not to School
I am in charge of educating my son. Of course, that's the job of every parent, is it not? But two years ago I took the leap into homeschooling my middle-school aged son.
When I tell people I homeschool an eighth grade boy, I get one of two responses: a) "You're a saint!" or b)"You really think you can do a better job than a certified teacher?"
Now these responses aren't always verbal, mind you. Sometimes it's a facial expression - you know, the one where someone's face is all scrunched up like they have just devoured a sour lemon. But the scrunchiness always fades and then the next question comes along: "Aren't you worried about socialization?"
The answers to the above questions are as follows: No, No and well, sometimes. I honestly never dreamed I would homeschool my child. I was a maladjusted newspaper journalist for 15 years chasing the story of the day who finally woke up to what she really wanted: to write fiction where the stories (mostly) ended happily ever after.
I took the leap into freelance and fiction writing and for two years joyously wrote and wrote and wrote some more. Then the bottom fell out. My husband was laid off and my freelance money started drying up. Not so different from the rest of the country, our odyssey of job changes began. It's a long, ridiculous story of four moves in less than two years, schools that didn't quite fit and a son who cried every morning before school and clammed up every day after. I saw the future before me - a scary smart kid who hated school - and it scared the hell out of me.
It was my beloved sister who told me I could do it. I never taught anyone anything (except yoga). Then she reminded me that my husband and I taught our son to walk and talk and pee in the potty. We taught him right from wrong and how to be a kind and generous person.
Which brings me to the question of sainthood on my part. NOT even close! I take it day by day (and do a lot of yoga). We've discovered a cool place called Florida Virtual School. We pick classes that sound fun and I outsource the rest. We use a combination of books and online learning, always revamping when something doesn't work. It's like all the years of using journalism research has paid off!
My son's finishing up his second year of a high school foreign language and as an eighth grader already has other high school credits. He's doing so well he was even accepted to a rigorous program here in Alachua County to continue his education at a brick and mortar high school.
That's been the dilemma of the day this spring. Which also brings us to ah, socialization. Is it holding him back to keep him at home learning? Will he be scarred for life if he doesn't attend prom, let alone his alma mater's football games?
The odd thing is, my son actually asked to stay homeschooled. Begged is more the word. He plays Upward flag football, Y basketball, takes art lessons and golf lessons. He makes movies in his spare time and volunteers weekly at a local museum.
The greatest compliment I have received was from someone who said "Your son can speak to anyone of any age, can't he?" Yep. And that's what it's all about, isn't it? Preparing our children for life in the real world where their co-workers and friends will be all different ages, cultures and backgrounds.
So, I guess we'll keep plugging along on this homeschool path. Maybe I'll be sainted after all....
When I tell people I homeschool an eighth grade boy, I get one of two responses: a) "You're a saint!" or b)"You really think you can do a better job than a certified teacher?"
Now these responses aren't always verbal, mind you. Sometimes it's a facial expression - you know, the one where someone's face is all scrunched up like they have just devoured a sour lemon. But the scrunchiness always fades and then the next question comes along: "Aren't you worried about socialization?"
The answers to the above questions are as follows: No, No and well, sometimes. I honestly never dreamed I would homeschool my child. I was a maladjusted newspaper journalist for 15 years chasing the story of the day who finally woke up to what she really wanted: to write fiction where the stories (mostly) ended happily ever after.
I took the leap into freelance and fiction writing and for two years joyously wrote and wrote and wrote some more. Then the bottom fell out. My husband was laid off and my freelance money started drying up. Not so different from the rest of the country, our odyssey of job changes began. It's a long, ridiculous story of four moves in less than two years, schools that didn't quite fit and a son who cried every morning before school and clammed up every day after. I saw the future before me - a scary smart kid who hated school - and it scared the hell out of me.
It was my beloved sister who told me I could do it. I never taught anyone anything (except yoga). Then she reminded me that my husband and I taught our son to walk and talk and pee in the potty. We taught him right from wrong and how to be a kind and generous person.
Which brings me to the question of sainthood on my part. NOT even close! I take it day by day (and do a lot of yoga). We've discovered a cool place called Florida Virtual School. We pick classes that sound fun and I outsource the rest. We use a combination of books and online learning, always revamping when something doesn't work. It's like all the years of using journalism research has paid off!
My son's finishing up his second year of a high school foreign language and as an eighth grader already has other high school credits. He's doing so well he was even accepted to a rigorous program here in Alachua County to continue his education at a brick and mortar high school.
That's been the dilemma of the day this spring. Which also brings us to ah, socialization. Is it holding him back to keep him at home learning? Will he be scarred for life if he doesn't attend prom, let alone his alma mater's football games?
The odd thing is, my son actually asked to stay homeschooled. Begged is more the word. He plays Upward flag football, Y basketball, takes art lessons and golf lessons. He makes movies in his spare time and volunteers weekly at a local museum.
The greatest compliment I have received was from someone who said "Your son can speak to anyone of any age, can't he?" Yep. And that's what it's all about, isn't it? Preparing our children for life in the real world where their co-workers and friends will be all different ages, cultures and backgrounds.
So, I guess we'll keep plugging along on this homeschool path. Maybe I'll be sainted after all....
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
A Fall from Grace
I fell flat on my face....Again. I am speaking literally, although I have fallen many times metaphorically along my rocky and sometimes rutted life path. Most of the time I have popped back up like some sort of crazed jack-in-the-box, dusted myself off and started all over again. Today I don't think it's possible for me to pop back anything (except maybe the cap to the bottle of ibuprofen).
It's Yoga's fault. Just after class last night (as I nursed a bruised nose and ego) I wanted to blame my well-intentioned teacher. But I now realize she's the innocent bystander here. The fault lies purely in the ancient practice of Yoga - the bringing together of mind, body and spirit. A practice that has included handstands, of all things, within its asana.
Within an hour of ranting (to myself) about the insanity of throwing feet over head at age 43 and vowing to never again put myself in such a position ever again, I took a deep breath and attempted to put it in perspective. That was a no go. All I could see during my hour and a half alignment class was a blissfully happy group of 20-somethings gleefully tossing their bodies into the air and flowing from pose to pose as I grunted and growled hoping it would end sooner than later.
I pushed. (There's not supposed to be any pushing in yoga). That realization hit me this morning at 3 a.m. along with the shooting pain in my shoulder. I thought, "What the (bleep) am I supposed to be learning here?" Then the light dawned - I'd broken the rules. All of them. And it was my own dad gum fault.
Basically yoga's teachings are pretty simple:
1) Breathe.
2) Follow what your body is telling you.
3) Rest between poses.
4) Don't compete with anyone (even yourself).
5) Never give up, just give in when you need to.
I broke every one of those rules. I made all the beginner mistakes and I've been practicing seriously for a while now. I held my breath hoping it would end. I didn't listen to my body when it cried out to give myself a break. I berated myself between poses, compared myself to college co-eds and decided at the end I would NEVER EVER try handstands again.
The little voice in my head is laughing now. Telling me not to take it all so seriously. It's a practice, not a perfect. It's when we encounter the unknown (or seemingly un do-able) that we close ourselves off to the possibilities.
So, what am I going to do? During my home practice today I am going to prop myself up against the wall and try a handstand again. I am going to keep trying one every day until I can do it. Patience will be my mantra. And knowing there's an ibuprofen waiting if I fall....
It's Yoga's fault. Just after class last night (as I nursed a bruised nose and ego) I wanted to blame my well-intentioned teacher. But I now realize she's the innocent bystander here. The fault lies purely in the ancient practice of Yoga - the bringing together of mind, body and spirit. A practice that has included handstands, of all things, within its asana.
Within an hour of ranting (to myself) about the insanity of throwing feet over head at age 43 and vowing to never again put myself in such a position ever again, I took a deep breath and attempted to put it in perspective. That was a no go. All I could see during my hour and a half alignment class was a blissfully happy group of 20-somethings gleefully tossing their bodies into the air and flowing from pose to pose as I grunted and growled hoping it would end sooner than later.
I pushed. (There's not supposed to be any pushing in yoga). That realization hit me this morning at 3 a.m. along with the shooting pain in my shoulder. I thought, "What the (bleep) am I supposed to be learning here?" Then the light dawned - I'd broken the rules. All of them. And it was my own dad gum fault.
Basically yoga's teachings are pretty simple:
1) Breathe.
2) Follow what your body is telling you.
3) Rest between poses.
4) Don't compete with anyone (even yourself).
5) Never give up, just give in when you need to.
I broke every one of those rules. I made all the beginner mistakes and I've been practicing seriously for a while now. I held my breath hoping it would end. I didn't listen to my body when it cried out to give myself a break. I berated myself between poses, compared myself to college co-eds and decided at the end I would NEVER EVER try handstands again.
The little voice in my head is laughing now. Telling me not to take it all so seriously. It's a practice, not a perfect. It's when we encounter the unknown (or seemingly un do-able) that we close ourselves off to the possibilities.
So, what am I going to do? During my home practice today I am going to prop myself up against the wall and try a handstand again. I am going to keep trying one every day until I can do it. Patience will be my mantra. And knowing there's an ibuprofen waiting if I fall....
Monday, April 12, 2010
Passion vs. Insanity
There are days I feel completely bonkers. Days in which I feel as if I should be locked up in a room wearing a straight jacket and my family told, "There's just no hope for her." Those are usually the days I am dry creatively. I mean bone dry. Sahara Desert dry. They are the days I think that not one remotely interesting word will ever again flow from my heart and I should throw in the towel once and for all and forget about being a writer.
Well, that's how this past weekend started for me. Not a particularly positive way to head to a day-long writer's conference in which I would find out (after months of waiting) whether or not my contest winning entry would be requested by a "big" publishing house.
Preparations seemed futile as every time I tried to print my work my computer would glitch and spit out weird black boxes on the page, rather than words. So what did I do? I fell to the floor and started to sob. Wracking sobs in which my dearly beloved husband raced in to the room and wondered what could possibly be that bad.
"It's a waste of time. All of it," I responded between sobs which turned to a fit of hyperventilation. "I have no idea why I even try. None of it matters."
I know, a little melodramatic, even for me. I admit it, passion is my problem. As a wise friend continually tells me, my greatest strength is also my greatest weakness. And she's right. (Or, should I say WRITE?) As a writer, my passion has always made my writing more colorful. But in real life, that passion can get downright crazy. Even insane on a given day.
So I ran to the bathroom, cried it out of my system, blew my nose and returned to the room where my calm and mild mannered beloved reprinted my work. He said nothing. Not a peep. Didn't even ask what came over me. I guess he's used to it.
I've been writing a long time. It's been 18 years since I attended my very first writer's conference. "I should just give up." I've said this so many times I've lost count.
Once again, no response. My husband shakes his head as he always does. He knows I don't mean it. I can't stop. It's an addiction, a need I have deep in my soul. So, I will keep writing even if no one ever reads a word. Because I can't NOT write.
Oh, and the conference? Still waiting to see if the "big" house is going to call me up. But even if they don't I know I won't stop trying. EVER.
Well, that's how this past weekend started for me. Not a particularly positive way to head to a day-long writer's conference in which I would find out (after months of waiting) whether or not my contest winning entry would be requested by a "big" publishing house.
Preparations seemed futile as every time I tried to print my work my computer would glitch and spit out weird black boxes on the page, rather than words. So what did I do? I fell to the floor and started to sob. Wracking sobs in which my dearly beloved husband raced in to the room and wondered what could possibly be that bad.
"It's a waste of time. All of it," I responded between sobs which turned to a fit of hyperventilation. "I have no idea why I even try. None of it matters."
I know, a little melodramatic, even for me. I admit it, passion is my problem. As a wise friend continually tells me, my greatest strength is also my greatest weakness. And she's right. (Or, should I say WRITE?) As a writer, my passion has always made my writing more colorful. But in real life, that passion can get downright crazy. Even insane on a given day.
So I ran to the bathroom, cried it out of my system, blew my nose and returned to the room where my calm and mild mannered beloved reprinted my work. He said nothing. Not a peep. Didn't even ask what came over me. I guess he's used to it.
I've been writing a long time. It's been 18 years since I attended my very first writer's conference. "I should just give up." I've said this so many times I've lost count.
Once again, no response. My husband shakes his head as he always does. He knows I don't mean it. I can't stop. It's an addiction, a need I have deep in my soul. So, I will keep writing even if no one ever reads a word. Because I can't NOT write.
Oh, and the conference? Still waiting to see if the "big" house is going to call me up. But even if they don't I know I won't stop trying. EVER.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Changes in Latitude Changed my Attitude
Ok, I lied. I have not posted since Monday. So much for my daily blogging. But I have a really good reason, really I do. My attitude sucked. It always does this time of year as the weather warms and I feel as if I am awakening from a long hibernation. I've been trapped indoors too long and this caged animal is antsy.
That's when my dearest friend in all the world pops up (as she always does when I am feeling pissy and cranky) and makes one more plea for me to join her family on a camp out. In a matter of moments I decide to toss my kid and gear in my car and head south down I-75.
Cayo Costa State Park is nine miles of beautiful beaches, located north and west of Fort Myers and smack dab in the middle of the most incredible islands Southwest Florida has to offer. You're probably familiar with high brow Sanibel and Captiva and maybe even Useppa. Well, Cayo Costa is nothing like them (except for the white sand and emerald surf). It's only accessible by boat and it's primitive, cave man primitive. Public showers, no a/c, sleeping in tents or rustic cabins. And when it gets dark, all that lights up are the stars.
Did I tell you it was heavenly? For 24 hours I journaled, shelled and watched my bff's husband reel in four gigantor trout (well, they were pretty big anyway). Daily performances from dancing dolphin had our group clapping as if we were watching a Sea World show.
And the best part? I came home recharged and ready to take on the world.
Maybe this Beached Mermaid needs a monthly dose of real and wild Florida to keep her head on straight. Or maybe it's just to dip the old tail in and remind herself to shake off the small stuff....
That's when my dearest friend in all the world pops up (as she always does when I am feeling pissy and cranky) and makes one more plea for me to join her family on a camp out. In a matter of moments I decide to toss my kid and gear in my car and head south down I-75.
Cayo Costa State Park is nine miles of beautiful beaches, located north and west of Fort Myers and smack dab in the middle of the most incredible islands Southwest Florida has to offer. You're probably familiar with high brow Sanibel and Captiva and maybe even Useppa. Well, Cayo Costa is nothing like them (except for the white sand and emerald surf). It's only accessible by boat and it's primitive, cave man primitive. Public showers, no a/c, sleeping in tents or rustic cabins. And when it gets dark, all that lights up are the stars.
Did I tell you it was heavenly? For 24 hours I journaled, shelled and watched my bff's husband reel in four gigantor trout (well, they were pretty big anyway). Daily performances from dancing dolphin had our group clapping as if we were watching a Sea World show.
And the best part? I came home recharged and ready to take on the world.
Maybe this Beached Mermaid needs a monthly dose of real and wild Florida to keep her head on straight. Or maybe it's just to dip the old tail in and remind herself to shake off the small stuff....
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