Becoming Salinger

Historical Writing Workshop Review, plus Bonus Fiction Assignment

2011-10-10T21:56:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I went down to visit the family (without my husband and son, who were having bonding time), with a few key points on my agenda. The initial desire to visit this particular weekend was because I had learned that a workshop was being offered at Heritage Park Village in the Pinellas Park area of Pinellas County, FL. For 2 hours and $10, we were led to believe that we'd be infused with vast amounts of knowledge on how to do research and incorporate historical aspects into our writing.

That was the hype. Did it live up to it? Meh. Was it worth it? I'd say so, if only because it got me writing and time away by myself, which is very rare.

The speaker for the group (who I won't mention by name) is a published author of multiple novels, none of which I'd ever read or known anyone to have read. She had a cheaply assembled set of documents printed with website addresses and some lists for things to consider when writing in a historical timeframe rather than in contemporary times. We were reminded to consider things like the type of clothing, food, and work that were customary in the era in which we were writing. After about 20 minutes of reviewing this packet and introducing ourselves (several of whom were already published novelists), we were told to read 4 pages of densely packed text on the culture and habits of the people of 17th Century England and write 3 pages, 2 at the very least. We were given half an hour for this.

After spending my time scanning and attempting to absorb all the data that seemed sensible (particularly given my familiarity with 19th Century England), I allowed myself to proceed with writing. And a story started to write itself. I had mental images from other stories and films sort of mashing themselves together in my head, and admittedly my visuals largely seem to borrow from the movie Ever After, but after completing my assignment as much as possible in the time allotted, I felt rather accomplished and proud of what I'd achieved.

Our group was then subjected to the unnecessary and bizarre experience of witnessing the speaker dress in period costume and pretend to be the protagonist of her latest novel (on sale for less than bookstand prices, free autographs available, on the table by the wall). This didn't seem too harrowing until it proved to last a full 20 minutes or more, providing an insanely developed synopsis of the plot of her book (which reminded me immensely of Auntie Mame, though it's really an unfair comparison).

Only then were we free to share our own writing. There were golf claps and murmurs of encouraging words for everyone, at the very least. One woman there surprised me by being far better than either herself or myself thought was likely, so I'm humbled by witnessing that. But I couldn't help but notice that I got the best reaction from the crowd of other hopeful writers and the workshop's speaker. While I'm not normally very self-congratulatory about my writing, I was pretty proud of what I had been able to throw together on the fly, so I felt the praise was well-deserved and have since subjected several family members and utter strangers to subsequent readings of this random assignment.

And therefore, given that I'm currently finding this a good thing, I'm going to share my efforts with you. Aren't you lucky? (Go on, you can throw up now. I would, too. But it's me, so, you know, I'm not going to do so just now.)

Okay, here goes (transcribed from chicken scratch by flashlight at 1am), unedited:

Jane heard the carriage wheels and hoofbeats of the horses and was startled out of her reverie. In her mind's eye, peering out the kitchen window, she had pictured how she would change things if she were the mistress of Whitcomb Park.

Jane called out to the scullery maid, "'ere, look 'a that, Colleen. 'E's gone and fetched 'imself up a bride! It'll be a fine load of work for us tonight. Mind you straighten your hems. And ne'er you mind if the new Lady Whitcomb calls ye Mary. Them as are high born 'ere willn't stoop to using your Irish name."

Jane took her own advice and promptly straightened her petticoats. She reset her head scarf and plucked a few saucy curls into good order. Dusting her apron clean of flour as best she could, Jane made one last look around the kitchen before rushing out of the kitchen house to greet the new mistress of the house.

____________

The master should look happier than this, thought Jane. He's got a wife and now his daughter can once again have a mother. But he don't even have the decency nor grace to look pleased.

Jane watched Lord Whitcomb assist Lady Elizabeth Whitcomb from the carriage. Her attire was a glorious display of velvet and silk. But the sheer disdain that her eyes displayed on viewing the house and its staff members, in line for her welcome, was one that would forever color the perceptions of those who were there that day.

Colleen finally stumbled her way awkwardly out of the kitchen house and across the lawn to join the other servants. Now it was the staff's turn to glare disdainfully at the Irish girl's disheveled status. She hadn't even seen fit to cover her flame-red locks. Without so much as a turn of their heads, the butler, upstairs maids, personal attendants, and even Jane managed to convey their disgust, and Colleen found herself suddenly standing several feet from the others.

Jane mentally prepared herself for the explanations she was certain would be demanded of her for the behavior of her only subordinate. I could say she en't right in the 'aid, that I 'ired 'er out o' charity, or so.

She contemplated her references to consider if a new location and employer might be a simpler matter. Jane watched fearfully as her new mistress approached, still squinting along her nose and daintily holding her skirts above the muck in the yard with one hand and the master's arm with the other.

=======================================================

So, that's where I finished in class, and that's probably where I'll leave it. I'd love some feedback (criticism is always welcome, provided it's constructive). What did you like? What did you think was weak? I know there are weak parts in it, so don't pretend otherwise, or I won't value your opinion. Is there anything in particular that strikes you? Why do you think it's effective?

Thank you for taking the time to read all of the above! Please be sure to leave a note in the comments!

Á La Jane Austen, Part the Second

2011-08-01T10:27:00.000-07:00

This is the second part of an earlier post. To read the previous post explaining what this is, go here. Or just read on to enjoy!

Dearest Charlotte,

Thank you ever so much for the delightful account of matters at home. I am pleased to learn that our loving father yet persists in living, despite such excessive helpings of gravy, and that dear Mamma finds herself incapable of detecting any great want of judgment in the new scullery maid. I am, however, certain that neither of these conditions will be long-lasting. Dear sister, I would invite you to join us in Bath, if it were in my power. At the least I shall make some subtle hints to my Aunt Nelly on the subject.

It has been two days since the party at the McKinnons'. How insufferably warm it was! Half of Bath must have been invited, with scarcely any regard for Consequence. I nearly had to leave the drawing room in a fit of laughter after Aunt Nelly discovered she had been speaking to a Governess. Miss Greenly is so well-mannered and unaffected a young woman, and arrived in company with the Langfords, that Aunt did not perceive her place until several minutes into a rather intimate conversation. On learning that Miss Greenly was, until very recently, governess to the Misses Langford, Aunt nearly brought on a Fit of Apoplexy in herself at the idea of such a one being in attendance. Miss Caroline did an excellent job in redirecting the conversation to the weather so that both Aunt Nelly and poor Miss Greenly could recover.

But I am making you wait and teasing you, no doubt. I can ~~nearly~~ feel your eyes demanding of me the minute particulars of Mr. Kirby and Mr. Langford. Very well, then.

Mr. Garrison Kirby is a moderately well looking man. His 40th birthday celebration is to be held Tuesday se'ennight, and I have been invited to attend. Aunt has declared to me that she does not mean to accompany me, which well suits my preference in the matter. Mr. Kirby is a tall, slim man with angular features abundant. While never destined to be the most handsome of men, I find I am not misinformed of a certain pleasantness of his features. he appears to be a man well-beloved by children and smiles almost incessantly. His apparel and hair reflect a moderate amount of unaffected carelessness, and his manner is all cheerful sincerity. miss Langford and he are indeed well-matched to one another, and I wish them joy in their marriage.

As regards Mr. L., I have little new to report. However, we had some dancing at the party at the McKinnons', and Mr. Langford saw fit to secure me for the first two dances. If I could be relate the expression of Miss McKinnon on Henry's approaching us and inviting me rather than herself, to be his partner! He danced divinely and, moreover, appeared entirely oblivious to the indignation of Miss McKinnon or the envious eyes of Miss Creighton and Miss Louisa Creighton.
I am most heartily yours,
Evelyn

Fin.

Á la young Jane Austen

2011-07-18T20:21:00.001-07:00

I've been on a Jane Austen binge lately. (Sorry, honey!)

I re-read or read all of her novels and juvenalia, other than Sandition which I understand was recently completed by another author. I've watched the correlating movies for most of her novels ad nauseum. (Sorry again, honey!) Seriously, I have watched Pride and Prejudice at least 30 times in the past month, if not more. I have watched Becoming Jane with similar vigor.

Something about her writing, her life, her time period, her experiences just really resonates with me. And so as a pre-writing exercise for part of my novel, and some pieces of which may actually form a part of the final draft thereof, I have endeavored to copy the writing style of Jane Austen in her juvenalia.

Without giving too much away, one of the characters in my Novel-In-Progress (NIP?) is obsessed with 19th Century literature, so I have allowed myself virtually unfettered absorption into the world of Jane Austen. I've already done similar immersion experiments in the past with Charlotte Brontë and Louisa May Alcott and have been trying to get some 19thC male authors into the mix as well, though their novel writing bears a very distinct contrast to that of the women of the same period.

And so, what I have done is to write letters from one girl to her sister, both in parts of England, which I've never visited. Yet, dagnabbit. As I say, they are meant in some fashion to resemble though not outright copy the writing style of Jane Austen. I only intended to copy her style insomuch as to make it as historically accurate for the period as possible without having to do significant research. As my former professor, Boris Shekhtman told us math majors, "Mathematicians are inherently lazy." He should know. The man deliberately scheduled himself to work only afternoons and evenings so he could stay out until closing every night. But he is absolutely brilliant and logical, despite his appetite for -OH and socializing in bars. (True as anything, he's still doing the same scheme: USF's website says all his classes right now start at 2pm. Love that man!)

So, in the spirit of laziness and therefore mathematical brilliance, I present to you the two letters I have written so far. Feedback is much appreciated, both positive and negative! (Also, for those not familiar, it was customary to refer to the eldest unmarried female of a family by Miss [Last Name] and her younger siblings by Miss [First Name] [Last Name].)

Letter the First, from Evelyn in Bath to her sister Charlotte back home

Dear Charlotte,

My dear sister, what shall you think of me? I have been in Bath nearly a se'ennight without any correspondence to you. Would I have some high reason for such a lapse, and yet the best excuse I have for myself is being incessantly kept busy.

Aunt Nelly goes to the pump room daily and insists on my joining her. With her great kindness in bringing me "out", I feel obligated to obey her every whim. This may soon change, however, as I have at last found a friend for myself here. Miss Caroline Langford and her brother are in Bath helping Miss Langford prepare for her upcoming nuptials to a Mr. Garrison Kirby. Miss Caroline informed me that Mr. Kirby is nearly 40--over twice Miranda's age. he has two thousand a year and a sizable estate South of Town.

Miss Caroline declares that despite his advanced years, Mr. Kirby still appears handsome of face and agile of limb. I have yet to meet him myself, though I feel sure of doing so at the McKinnons' dinner party tonight. You may expect me to relate a less partial, very faithful review of the subject.

As for the Langfords, they have been residing this twelvemonth with their mother's relations, following the illness and death of both their parents. Miss Langford appears at first a delicate, shy flower of a girl. At 19 years, she promises well with such bloom of youth persistent in her cheek. Though a little fuller of figure than is generally thought handsome on a woman, her shape and bearing and gentle manner are yet pleasing to witness.

Miss Caroline is more spritely than her sister. At 17 years, she has, like me, only just left her governess, though she has been out nearly a twelvemonth. Her fair hair possesses the perfect proportion of curl, and she styles it so elegantly and meticulously that I find myself starting to pay greater attention to my own toilette, so as to appear a more worthy companion. Caroline's elegance of form and figure, as well as her delicate and heartfelt way with a harp, are sure to secure her a most worthy husband before long.

I know what you are thinking. Shame on you! But you are right, of course. I have scarcely mentioned Mr. Langford, and so you will naturally assume it is because I am besotted with him. Tis too true for me to deny, though I fancy myself delusional should I believe myself the only eligible young woman to take notice of him.

In the pump room yesterday, I overheard the Misses Creighton praising his "pleasing open brow and friendly countenance." Miss McKinnon has often noted to me that Mr. Langford is so fortunate to have access to his inheritance at 23. She believes his income to be about four or five thousand a year and that his sisters are each to have 10,000£. Besides noting his being financially well-endowed and handsome, however, I find no other young ladies who appear to recognize his superiority to most other men in a far more worthy aspect. His wit, humour, knowledge of the world, conversation, eloquence, vocabulary, and overall-pleasing manner cannot help but win the heart of any woman with an iota of perception.

I may only hope Mr. L. could find enough similarity between our two characters to encourage him to choose me for a wife. What high hopes I have! So much room I leave myself for Disappointment!

Please find me your ever devoted and loving (though lapsed in rapid correspondence) sister,
Evelyn

My hands are getting worn out. I've written 4 letters by hand tonight before typing this post. I'll type the second letter as another post. Adieu! (Or to quote young Jane Austen, "Adeiu!")

Novel Idea!

2011-05-11T13:00:00.000-07:00

After lots of time spent wondering what I would want to write, I have finally had inspiration. An idea for a novel has come to my head, and I've already started work on it. I expect it will take me a while to get it completed, given that Jackson seldom naps anymore and the sleep habits of our household have been downright ridiculous.

BUT, I have started writing it and have a reasonable goal set for myself for what I will be able to write. There is some switching between modern day and early 19th Century stories, so I may have some research to do to accomplish this task. However, given the way I have arranged the storyline, this should not need to be a significant amount and probably amounts to what I want to do anyway.

Yes, I'm being rather cryptic about not revealing the plot. Can you blame me? I will update on my progress, though. So far I'm just shy of completing the second chapter. It's a little challenging, finding my voice, as I am having to write from the perspective of multiple characters. One is female, the other male, and I may add a third or even a fourth, if I find it feasible. Given that I want the depth of the story to be more than merely superficial, I'm spending time honing in on the mindset of the cast I have conceived thus far.

This is fun, exciting, and ...probably going to take a while. But yay! At last!

Writing Style

2011-04-20T22:36:00.000-07:00

While I may never discover what I want to be when I grow up, as I feel at times, inside, I may never indeed outgrow my own Peter Pan phase, I hope someday to solidify a writing style that is uniquely my own.

Whenever I attempt to write fiction, I find my writing always appears trite or overly styled after another author. Thus, in part, the title of this blog. If I were to want to emulate an author, or at least, with my writing to evince the sort of response that another author does, J.D. Salinger would be my ideal. But he is not my only ideal. For romance, there would be Jane Austen. For realism that inevitably turns romantic, there would be Charlotte Brontë. For modernity and feminism, Elizabeth Buchan. For wit, Terry Pratchett. For organization, Jim Butcher. For poetry, curse it all, Robert Frost. (I'm STILL mad that I like his poetry best.) For daring plots, William Shakespeare. For imagination, Neil Gaiman. For accessibility, Carole Matthews. And for whimsy, Douglas Adams.

Yet for all that I admire the lot of them more than any other authors, none of them is me. When I try to write short stories, even well before having read his work, they all come out like O. Henry. I can't seem to help it. I want to write a 19th Century romantic novel that parodies real life yet possesses a supernatural overtone and is written in a modernly feminist yet whimsical sort of accessible, poetic prose, in which the depth of thought and planning is enhanced despite a continued insistence on referring to a strange man's feet as seeming old and valued friends of mine. For some reason, I can't figure out why this isn't working for me so far.

At this moment, I am reminded of a scene in the film version of Little Women, Louisa May Alcott's most famous novel, in which Laurie accuses Amy's artistry of being "mediocre copies of another man's genius." I do not aspire to be mediocre, nor do I wish to copy anyone else's genius. And yet...I aspire to write truth and beauty and happy endings and somehow make them all mesh with one another. Surely someone else has done such a thing; surely my attempts to do so would be mere copies.

Am I too happy in my life to write well? Or is it really a problem, as I keep telling myself, of not knowing what subject on which I should best write. Typically speaking, I'm a lazy writer. I lose interest quickly and loathe editing. Oh, sure, I'll edit someone else's work and critique it no end. But my own? I become defensive, then doubtful, and then self-deprecating and eventually surrender and commit my writing to a drawer, unfinished.

Prolific authors exist. Yet how? I cannot even manage to write a solitary novel. I even failed at writing a meta-novel! Though I can't say that was surprising.... And then if I wish to be published...what likelihood is there that someone would want to read my writing? As it is, I pick up spoken accents so readily that I sound like my conversation-mates within a few minutes time. And here I am, having just watched Becoming Jane, and I can't seem to get a 19th Century British diction out of my head. If I were to write again tomorrow on the same subject, after reading Gregory Maguire, what would change? Could I be consistent enough a writer to manage a novel? According to my parenting blog (Shameless Plug) and my husband/most honest critic, the answer is no, certainly not.

So what next? Do I piss and moan my whole life about being an incapable writer of fiction? I don't wish to write just for the amusement of others. I could not be content unless the end result also pleased me, if it were something I would select to read. Do I hide behind my family, blaming their dependence on me for my lack of time spent practicing the art of writing? Do I own up to my short attention span for projects? Or is it something more?

At times, I feel a desperate need to write, but I fear that what I want to write most is from personal experience. Things that may scrape so close to the bone as to be painful to those I know and love and have no desire to wound. (And YES, I know that last sentence was a fragment, brain. Stop being a ninny pinny.) (Oh, for goodness' sake, now I'm looking up ninny pinny. I give up on me.)

I have to wonder...how many would-be authors are out there who would write but that their subject of choice is in some way forbidden. Be it by law, kindness, family, or whatever, I imagine there are many of us who hide behind the notion of being incapable of writing our hearts. Honesty forces me to acknowledge that even this meta-statement is a difficult one. It's as though I am admitting guilt to a crime that no one knows has been committed or that I am professing a desire to commit one and allowing the reader to guess which.

Oh, do not fear, reader. It is not so repellent as you may think...or perhaps it is. I am unsure. And I do not wish to tease. Forgive me, dear reader, my trespasses. One of which was to write that last sentence. Another was to make these two statements fragments.

"I am gone, though I am here." ~Beatrice in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing

Adieu.

[Exeunt]

The Worst Critic

2011-04-15T11:59:00.000-07:00

I'm sure there are artists of every kind out there who feel like nothing they ever do is quite good enough.

What's funny is that so often we find the most things to criticize of the things we do ourselves. But when it's someone else's work that we really enjoy and respect, the same criticism isn't there.

I've had a lot of people praise my writing, yet most of the things I write, later on I start to poke at them with a mental stick and say, "Hmm, this is so trite." or "Why didn't I write a cheerful story?" or "When am I going to stop (if ever) feeling like everything is a compilation of copies of things other people have already done?"

I read webcomics. I really enjoy many of them and try to keep up with them regularly, as I have for 10 or 12 years now. The main distinction with webcomics is that they are typically posted by the artist, who often leaves commentary regarding the comic. And the self-critic in the artist often finds a way to express itself. Cartoonists will complain about a line being too thick or thin, the shading not being quite right, the dialog never meeting the high standards the cartoonist would like, etc.

And today, I saw this one:

Tatsuya Ishida is a phenomenally talented comic artist. I've been reading Sinfest, from which the above comic was culled, for 10 years now. Is every comic equally marvelous to one another? No. But the vast majority are funny, lighthearted, perceptive, and humorously critical of all walks of life.

I have no intention in writing this other than to say what I did above, so before I ruin it...I publish now.

Anymore

2010-09-26T21:11:00.000-07:00

And then it hit me.

In the chest.

It's funny, though, because I don't feel it. But it's not funny, either. Nothing is funny anymore. Nothing is happy. Nothing is sad. Everything just is. Or rather was.

I watch to see if my body will move, which is somewhat ridiculous considering I'm clearly not in it anymore. I'm not sure who or what I am at this point without my body to identify me. The whole concept is so surreal. But then that should be obvious, given that I am dead and do not believe in ghosts--and yet I'm still around to dither over the details of my own death.

Sam looks panicked. I've never seen him so manic and anxious before. He knew he was going to kill me. He had just finished telling me how brilliant his plan was to kill us both as a dramatic murder-suicide. So I'll wait. I didn't get much of a view of my own death. Should be interesting to see his. This time I probably won't be able to blink, not having eyelids or eyes anymore. I wonder how I can still seem to see?

I should be angry. Why am I not angry? I really did not want to die yet. My family will be furious. They wanted us to have children. We kept telling them we were trying, but truly, I don't think it was ever going to happen. We weren't ready to move to Bolivia, and I doubt that ever would have changed. Well, it sure won't change now.

Sam is fidgeting. The way he made it sound, this was a pretty simple process. Step 1: Tell your wife you want to kill both her and yourself. Step 2: Kill your wife. Step 3: Kill yourself. I'm waiting for Step 3 to be completed. I wonder if I can make popcorn in the afterlife or whatever this is....

Now Sam is doing something I've not seen in ages. He's--wow, he's actually cleaning the kitchen! My husband who swears he is allergic to cleaning kitchens is clearly demonstrating a lack of anaphylaxis at the moment. Maybe it's a seasonal allergy.

Why would he clean up? Is he afraid the police are going to have too much mess to clean after two bodies, so he wants to sort out the first one? So weird. Even weirder is that I'm feeling a tad impatient. When is he going to get on with it? I wonder if we can talk to one another when he gets here.

Then it strikes me that I haven't tried to move or make noise. I try to speak, but nothing happens. I have no more vocal chords than I do eyelids. But maybe I can move things with my mind?

I concentrate hard on the toaster. It was a wedding gift from Sam's sister. I've always been annoyed that it was such a lousy toaster. It only holds 2 slices at a time, can't fit bagels, and burns one side while the other side almost seems to get wet somehow. So, right, the toaster. What can I do with it? Hmm. I will try to see if I can make it work. It's still plugged in...and...with...a...little...focus...I...can...do absolutely nothing.

Okay, one more try. I didn't spend years doing Sukodku and crossword puzzles every day to wuss out on afterlife Jedi mind tricks! Okay, maybe the two aren't quite the same, but if I can do this it will totally make up for my never actually getting around to taking the Mensa test. Here goes.

I focus on the idea of depressing the lever for the toaster. I can...do...it...UGH! This is really hard, but I swear I saw the lever twitch that time. Maybe if I can't push it down all the way I can try to make it play Another One Bites the Dust by Queen and give Sam The Bastard the hint that it's time to get down to business.

So, here goes. The first two tries were just warm ups. Haha, get it? Hmm. I guess jokes are just for myself now, too. I better not analyze this too much just yet. So. Toaster. Let's move it! Now...I...can...push...it...DOWN! HAHAHA! I DID it! I pushed the lever down on the toaster! I'm not impotent after all!

Even if I do sound pathetic.

Sam's eyes seem to be darting everywhere at once. He keeps eyeballing his cell phone. Is he planning to call in our deaths to the authorities? That seems highly considerate, really, rather than letting our neighbors discover our situation by the smell of decaying bodies.

All at once, Sam's phone starts to jingle and vibrate. The noise spooks Sam and he runs over to silence it. I watch as he nervously fumbles to answer the call.

Really Sam? You're going to have a chat? Helloooo! You just murdered your wife, dude. Someone may have heard that gunshot. Police may already be on the way! Oh, or maybe it is one of the neighbors calling to make sure we're okay. Safer to call than to knock, I imagine.

Sam answers, "H-h-hello? Ginnie?"

Apparently it is this Ginnie, though I've no idea who Ginnie or any Virginia could be. He's never mentioned her before. Interesting.

I can't hear her end of the conversation, but Sam responds, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I-I-I did it. I d-did it. Are you al-almost h-here?"

He's dancing nervously around the kitchen, and I notice that he's smeared some of my blood on the tile with his shoe. Whoever this Ginnie person is, she clearly had known that Sam was preparing something less than ideal for me. And I still see no sign of Sam preparing to off himself, but he's finished his conversation with "Ginnie".

Now he's...what is he doing? Wow, he was prepared! He's got a tarp and some bungee cords! When did he hide those in the kitchen cabinets? Curious. Why would he need that if he's going to kill himself, too?

The doorbell rings.

Sam jumps about as high as the counter and runs wildly toward the front door. I hear him stage whisper angrily, "Are you mad?!?" I assume this is directed at the mysterious Ginnie.

"Where is she?" The voice is sultry, its speaker clearly smiling, calm.

"Th-through here." Sam's voice becomes louder as they approach. I wonder if I could have "followed" him somehow to the front door or if I'm tethered to my body. Maybe I can move throughout the house or places I know. I'm sure I've heard similar notions from ghost films.

Sam and Ginnie enter the kitchen, and he gesticulates randomly at my cold, pale body with the blood no longer gushing out my chest wound. I want to say it's a "gaping" wound, but really, I can't even see a hole, just blood. Hollywood has made my own death a letdown.

Just as Sam's right arm extends toward me in a curt gesture, his left hugging his midsection tightly, the toaster finally dings cheerfully. Ginnie raises her eyebrows at Sam, who has just acted as though he's been shot.

"Got hungry after killing your wife, Sam?" A graceful eyebrow arches on Ginnie's equally graceful countenance.

"I-I-I d-d-didn't do that. Sh-she...someh...I don't...." Sam faints on the floor.

I'm entertained, but I'm still very annoyed. Why hasn't Sam shot himself yet? Is that why Ginnie is here? Is she a hired gun to kill him? Seems kind of pathetic, really. The man can kill his own wife in cold blood but he can't off himself?

Ginnie, wearing a business suit with a knee-length skirt and spiked heels, clicks her way over to my corpse and scrutinizes me with her eyes. I can't help but notice how pinched her toes look in those shoes and the way her blouse is cut so low that she looks so very desperate for a mate.

And then it hits me, rather late I suppose. Haha, get it? Late? Oh, that's right. It's only me here in this place still.

Sam isn't going to kill himself. He never was. He's moved on to this...creepy, corpse-poking neon-green thong-wearing, over-hairsprayed news anchor of a woman, and I'm worm fodder. At least I'm not the one who has to sort out what to do with the body.

I should be angry. I should care. My feelings, such as they used to be, should be hurt by this betrayal. After all, if his plan was to kill me, he could have just told the truth. I might have said, "Fine, I'll move out next weekend. She can take my place."

Well, I might have. Still, I think maybe I got the better end of the non-deal. I didn't exactly agree to this death. But--hey, wait, that's not cool!

Though everything is starting to get a bit fuzzy around the edges, I can just make out this Ginnie woman stealing my wedding ring from my now-rigid fingers. And Sam is starting to rouse himself from the floor.

Hazier yet, but...what is she doing? Ginnie is...oh, she's picking up the gun!

As though hearing her speak through a wall, I'm aware of Ginnie's voice directed at Sam saying, "I could never be with you, not after this. I still love you, Sam, but it's over."

Sam nervously puts up his arms in protest and looks as though he's about to try to mollify her with some trite phrase. Ginnie kindly saves me from having to hear whatever babbling nonsense Sam was going to spout. Instead I am aware of a gunshot exploding a round which impacts soundly with Sam's chest.

Sam grunts feebly and collapses back to the tile. He coughs and rolls around a bit and then goes still, eyes glazed and fixed on the under side of the kitchen counter, his body several feet from my own.

Ginnie takes a deep breath. She looks back over at what used to be me, and says, "I'm sorry, darling. I wish things had happened differently for us all."

Then she calmly, carefully places the barrel of the gun to the underside of her chin and pulls the trigger. My cabinets are splattered with a new texture, and the remains of Ginnie's body falls to the floor, one arm elegantly outstretched. Her hand, now bearing my wedding band on her ring finger, neatly lands accidentally atop my own and instinctively grasps hold.

As the last of my experience of the world fades away, I smirk emotionally at the tableau that will face the authorities left to sort out the situation they will discover. I wonder what they will think when they see Sam still wearing his police uniform, his wife and lover joining him in death with clasped hands.

Oh, what a world! And cheerfully, giddily, I relinquish my remaining hold on the terrestrial world, becoming nothingness, unbecoming, unbeing, gone.

In Progress

2010-09-03T21:21:00.000-07:00

So, I came up with an idea. And as I would expect for someone like me, I immediately began writing. Hopefully the project will continue to go as well as it has so far. I've already got nearly 2300 words written so far, so it's a good start.

I'm debating whether or not to tell you all what the subject is, but I don't want to spoil it.

Anyway, I'm still taking suggestions for a novel, as this project I started is completely alternative to what I was expecting to attempt to write.

We're also doing a horrible job of going to bed on time. We made it to bed at 11:20 the night we planned to go by 11, and then have been up until after midnight last night and tonight. Will we ever learn?

But definitely let me know if you have an idea for a novel subject.

Okay, I go to bed now.

ZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzonk.

NaNoWriMo

2010-08-31T12:26:00.000-07:00

It has been suggested to me that I attempt to participate in National Novel Writing Month this November. I have never tried NaNoWriMo before.

A part of me has always wanted to write a novel, but the biggest issue I have isn't so much the writing as the even bigger question of subject matter. I'm impressed by Terry Pratchett, Philip Pullman, and Jim Butcher for the way they have created alternate universes so completely and convincingly. The latter two do not even bother to expostulate to the reader openly about the variance from the reality we know, allowing the reader to just absorb the concept through the plot development. However, I also dearly love Elizabeth Buchan, Charlotte Bronte, J.D. Salinger, and Louisa May Alcott with their very down-to-Earth real books that do not sugarcoat or overly darken the world as we know it. The human condition is a major player, dusted off and shown to the world in a kind of clarity of aspect that is less than common in today's world of stereotype-ridden novels. (For the latter, I refer you to the abomination that is the Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich. Utter tripe.) About the lowest common denominator I can tolerate in books is Carole Matthews, who writes books that read like romantic comedy films, and even then, I would say she is generally above the curve.

So, as you may note, I'm very critical. Part of being a pantheist is recognizing that the world around you is all an extension of yourself, and that you are an extension of the world around you. There are parts of the infinity all around me that I find rather pleasing. And other parts of this cosmic relationship that I find rather embarrassing to even acknowledge that it exists. Some people have a great attitude about these things, like the elderly British women who decided to take advantage of their status as being generally "uncool" by wearing the same sort of clothing of local gangs. It's that kind of human ingenuity that I really admire: the ability to take on a saddening task with humor and pleasantry and, with some luck, shatter the foundations of a thorn on society like gangs.

When this criticism is extended to everything, as it is with me, it can be very crippling. I don't want to write things that are trite. I'd sooner throw out a work that serves no value or perpetuates negative stereotypes than aim to see it published. Whatever I construct, I would want it to be something people could read that would make them take some time to think about themselves and the ways in which they interact with their environment and the people it contains. Yet the format for such an undertaking hasn't presented itself to my brain thus far.

Admittedly, I have been chronically sleep deprived for all but a few months out of the past 3 years, so my abilities are not at their highest just now. But part of recognizing my own contribution level to the world at large is finding fault with myself, and thus I have (before even conceiving of this post) made a pact with my husband that we would be in bed with lights off by 11pm tonight, rather than the ridiculous midnight and 1am nights we have been keeping. That's a start, but it still gives me no subject matter from which to cull a novel.

No one will want to read a novel that is 50,000 words of the letter Z.

So, while I try to catch up on sleep, I have an appeal to make. Send me your suggestions (in email, facebook, comments below, whatever appeals to you most), and I'll try to get myself in a condition to write.

Deal?

....Please?

2 Years with the Old

2010-04-05T10:14:00.000-07:00

Can't sleep even though I went to bed late. I keep thinking about my patients. I'm really getting worried about them, though I really don't know why. And it doesn't seem to matter how hard I try to go to bed by a reasonable hour, it always seems like I'm barely in bed before 9pm. Which is stupid because I know, I know that come 6:45am all the low-lifes who are pissed because they can't get a job with decent hours come cruising past my window. Wouldn't be so bad hearing just some extra traffic, but they all insist on having those stupid noise enhancers on the tail pipe so my morning hatred of them can just fester with that much more fodder. As if that weren't enough, by ten after 7 the people upstairs give up and drag their sorry rear-ends out of bed and start plodding around like dinosaurs. Finally I give up and drag my own sorry rear-end out of bed to check on the elderly couple at the other end of the apartment.

They're decent folks. I mean, the pay isn't great: a hair more than room and board, including a small stipend for personal expenses like clothing and shampoo and such. Overall I've come to like them well enough over the past 2 years to make up for it, but it's tough being their home care helper in the mornings. She's usually more responsive than he is, but sometimes she gets confused and tries to pull me into bed with her. Him, on the other hand, I have to resort to more drastic measures to wake in order to get him up and ready for work. I'm not sure the boss would approve if she knew I were tickling patients, but whatever. I get the job done, and I don't hear anyone complaining (much).

Finally, the guy's alarm goes off for the 5th time, and he digs himself out of his cave. It's not a pretty site: he sleeps in just his underwear. Man, I don't get paid enough for this. Anyway, he does his scratch and piss and then slowly puts on his socks and stuff. I try to pretend it doesn't bother me that he takes forever to get his pants on and try to focus on other things. The woman has some atrocious bed-head most days, and today it's particularly awful. You'd think she was at war with an entire colony of bats in her sleep or something. She's really not a morning person, but she makes a decent breakfast and usually tosses together a lunch for the guy to bring to work. In the right light, I can sometimes see where she might have been pretty in her youth, but it's hard to tell once they get this old. Anyway, at least she wears pajamas. I don't think I could handle it if she didn't.

To be honest, I'm not really sure why they feel they need me. He's still able to take himself to and from work and doesn't seem to need any help during the day. She can still drive (which is a good thing because I still haven't gotten around to getting my permit), though she makes me sit in the back for some reason. As soon as the man leaves, she starts rushing around getting dressed and packing together all kinds of stuff she probably won't need unless the apocalypse suddenly strikes. It makes her feel better, so I usually let her go ahead with it. After that we usually go to the gym or one of her physical therapy sessions. She's always got something going on with her neck or back or whatever. Getting old must really be an awful experience.

About once a week we go to this geriatric function in a large warehouse. They've got lots of great gymnastics equipment that the old people don't really use. I'm not sure what the reason is for meeting there, but they all come with their home care helpers, so we hang out together and use the equipment. It would be a shame for it all to go to waste, right? Plus we get to spend some time with people who aren't all crippled or whatever.

Anyway, we do lunch, and then I have to help the woman read a bit before her nap. I tend to crash out pretty quickly afterward myself, probably because I'm still not getting enough sleep at night. Usually I have to wake her up so she doesn't oversleep, and then we go run errands or whatever. She cooks dinner, and then the man comes home and asks about our day. I really don't know why he bothers since it's the same thing every day it seems, but maybe he's just hoping we'll ask about his day. He sure does like to talk about it. I tend to tune him out when he goes on about work, which he doesn't seem to mind since the lady pays attention pretty well to him. Lately I've been trying to get them out for some more physical activity, so we usually head out for a walk to do some work in the community garden or get the mail if the woman and I forgot to get it earlier.

After that I have to help the guy with his bath. He may be some kind of pervert, I don't know, because really, if he's able to go to work on his own, why does he need me to help him bathe? Still, he sings funny songs, so I can't help but enjoy splashing around the water with him. He's a decent guy, even if he is a little gone in the head, but I have to respect a man who can improvise songs like he does.

The man gets his underoos back on and starts wandering around complaining about brushing teeth and flossing and how much easier it used to be "back in the day". I usually have to remind him and the woman about the importance of flossing, but they get kind of stingy with the floss. I may have to start buying my own, I guess.

Then he makes me read some stories with him, and we all go to bed. I suspect that they stay up late fairly often, though, because I check on them now and again when I have trouble falling asleep, and they always seem to be awake. Anyway, I'm falling asleep finally, so I'm heading out. See ya!

Srawrs and Special Milk

2010-03-30T11:41:00.000-07:00

He used to call it Meshul Milk, but finally he mastered "special", even if he doesn't know what it means. My special boy was looking for a way to delay naptime.

"Mommy, I still hungry. I want that." He pointed to 3 places at once.

"Do you want a banana?"

"No 'nana. I want Cheerios."

"You want Cheerios?" I showed him the box.

"No, no want Cheerios. I want that!"

"You want...."

This continued for a few minutes before I gave up and began putting away clean dishes while he tried to make up his mind about what food would taste the best and take the longest to eat. As I opened cabinets and clinked the dishes together, transporting them across the kitchen, Jackson finally concluded that what he wanted was Special Milk.

"Big special milk or --"

"Big special milk!" Jackson was delighted suddenly at the prospect of getting to drink as much Milk Chocolate Carnation Instant Breakfast as his tummy would allow.

Special milk is special not just because it is chocolatey milk but because of the presentation we give to it. Jackson loves to do Big Boy things (other than using the potty), so having a drink from a glass instead of a plastic cup is a joy all its own. And having a straw with a drink, besides being a safety measure for toes and carpeting, is a bonus that puts a sparkle in the little dear's eye.

As I held the straw dispenser out to him, Jackson proclaimed his desire for a "Green straw!" --and proceeded to grasp a blue one with his left hand and a green one with his right. Of course, what he really wanted was a blue straw, since he loves to hoard all things blue.

With some encouragement to put the blue straw away because, after all, he said he wanted a green one; thus he was left with only the green straw in his left hand. Recognizing his error, he tossed the wrong-colored sipper onto the floor. Perhaps he hoped that I would not notice and think that he hadn't received a straw at all, though more likely here merely wanted to demonstrate that green straws are not worthy of consideration.

This was time for a lesson.

"No, I want a green straw!"

"You had a green straw; you just threw it on the floor. Now pick it up and drink your special milk." Germs aren't a worry in our family so much as wastefulness. I felt no worry about him sipping the drink with this rejected item so long as it was that day and not another when time enough had elapsed for microbes to grow and spread. The time for this straw was now or never.

Of course, as any 27-month-old presented with a logical argument against his poor little brain, he promptly burst into tears, bawling at me that I would not give him the blue one, angry at himself for saying the wrong color.

"Jackson, you said you wanted green, you chose green, and you threw it onto the floor. That's the one you are going to drink, or you get no straw. It's your choice. But I'm not giving you another straw."

Clinking more dishes and glasses and silverware into their proper storage places, I tried to pretend that I was unaffected by his anguish. Jackson's incoherent sobs occasionally cleared sufficiently for me to hear, "No srawr! No geen srawr! Wahunhunhunhunh!"

"Jackson, I told you that I will not tolerate this kind of rudeness. You can have the straw you chose or no straw."

"No srawr! No green srawr! Wahhhunhunh!"

"Okay, then, I'll drink your special milk," I declared as I retrieved the discredited straw from the floor and inserted it into the glass. "Mmm, this is yummy! Do you want some?"

"Wahhhunhunh! No straw!" He followed me as I went to sit at his play table, staring as I settled the glass with the chocolatey beverage.

Taking another sip, I glanced at Jackson and watched his little face contort with envy. He wanted special milk, but he wasn't ready to surrender.

"Would you like some? Come sit. Now put your blankey down and use two hands. Drink slowly, very slowly," I said as I governed the angle of the glass being tipped toward his mouth over our carpeted flooring. With only a little dismay, I noted the smear of Milk Chocolate Carnation Instant Breakfast that followed the straw's evacuation to the table.

His little hands soon tired of the weight of the tasty burden, and I was entrusted to return the drink to the table. Jackson's mental gears were nigh visible as he glanced at the rejected green straw and then back at the glass. Quickly and without a word, he replaced it and began rapidly sipping down the yummy goodness.

After a brief minute or two, he surfaced for air, the glass nearly drained of its contents.

"Are you all done special milk?"

One last slurp, and he was done. I didn't bother to dredge up the straw debate with him: we both knew how it ended.

Reverie

2010-03-22T12:20:00.000-07:00

When my sister and I were in elementary school, we got to spend a good deal of time home alone together. She's 18 months, 9 days, and 17 hours older than me (taking Daylight Savings Time into account), so we generally found things to do together and were fairly close in size. One of our best games was Procrastination.

We played Procrastination a lot. I think one of the reasons we were so talented at the game was that we had the television as the focus of our home. It made it really easy for us to vegetate. Seriously, our family friend who lived down the alley from us had nicknamed us the Tater Sisters and even dedicated a teen horror novel to us as such: To Vanessa and Jessica S***, the Tater Sisters. (Vanessa was Spud, and I was French Fry.) There are all kinds of great photos of us in various stages of melted-human posture, watching TV in our bathing suits and Dad's motorcycle helmets.

Since both our parents worked full time, we were tasked with doing a great percentage of the household chores. In a spirit of familial responsibility and pride, we did these chores at the last possible time, as quickly and poorly as possible.

Vacuuming sometimes was merely a matter of leaving beater-bar tracks on the carpet. Washing dishes was an exception to the "poorly" concept, however, particularly after (as my sister later claimed when relating the story to me) I apparently left too much soap on the dishes in the rinsing process and gave the whole family diarrhea. We put off scrubbing the bathtub and the bathroom floor as long as possible because, frankly, it was disgusting work.

However the chore that was the most fun of all was doing the laundry. Oh, sure, you think sorting is a pain, but we didn't do much of that. Putting it into the washer and dryer wasn't all that bad because we just used the maximum settings for everything. Folding, on the other hand, was a real chore. But with a certain amount of imagination, and excessive efforts of delay tactics, folding laundry could be awesomely fun.

When we washed the sheets, we couldn't help but notice just how much our stuffed animals and dolls seemed to feel left out of the process. So Vanessa and I would load up every puppet, animal, and doll we had onto a sheet. This was an all-important part of the folding process because, um, it was. We'd each take two corners of the sheet, then, and shake it up and down until all of its load had been ejected. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I know what you're thinking: Ew, you did that with dirty sheets? No worries there, folks: we only played the doll-tossing game with the clean sheets, usually over the vacuumed carpet.

Clothing was generally less interesting to fold. You can only try on your mom's bra and your dad's underwear and socks so many times before the fun sort of drains away. Instead, we took advantage of the large play arena afforded us in our folding station: Mom and Dad's bed. This king size monstrosity could hold a LOT of clothing, which conveniently could be shaped into various mounds and islands. Being a few feet above the ground, the bed also served well for demonstrations of gravity. Vanessa and I were expert gravity testers.

How gravity is tested: the thing you have to remember when testing gravity is that you need at least two people. Luckily we had that requirement met. One player is absurdly affected by gravity and continually falls (slowly) off the edge of the bed. The other player is tasked with rescuing the faller. For added dramatic effect, wails requesting help or fear of what might lie on whatever alternate reality the floor was assigned to be could be assimilated into the game. This was a seriously dangerous line of work, however, but our injuries were seldom anything worthy of reporting.

Most adults don't seem to enjoy doing the laundry. I think maybe it's because now that we've grown up, we've forgotten how much fun folding laundry can be. Clearly we're doing it wrong.

Becoming J.D. Salinger

2010-03-21T23:22:00.000-07:00

It's nearly 2AM, and I can't sleep. I'm thinking about J.D. Salinger. He died earlier this year, but that's not really why he's on my mind.

I want to be more like him. Of course, part of me would love to be a writer, churning out novellas to sell to the unsuspecting public. But more than anything I want to be the kind of person who recognizes Jesus as the Fat Lady. To see that life is an imperfect thing but that despite its flaws it is a thing of beauty and joy.

I want to tell the world about how my elastic of my underwear melted to my thighs and separated from them to stay glued to my buttocks without it being something perverse. The world needs to see that ordinary things are lovely and deserving of attention. People need to know that failure is okay, that there are times we all have when we have no friggin' clue where to go next or what to say. We will all have moments in which we fail to predict another's behavior or to meet another's standards of propriety.

I want to be able to tell people that my heart melts when I see my son in his lion towel. I want to share my adoration of the man who collects aluminum cans to recycle for beer money. I want to demonstrate in words that I believe people smell wonderful without having to resort to perfumes, that they have beautiful hair no matter what color it is, that I love it when I visit a house that isn't pristine.

I want to be part of the Glass family. I want to be BooBoo in Down at the Dinghy, helping my emotional son resolve his issues in oblique ways. I want to be Buddy as he writes about the brother he wants to emulate, his unattainable idol. I want to be Franny who needs to be told that Jesus is the Fat Lady.

I want to show how much I love the way J.D. Salinger has helped me to see the beauty in the everyday. Without him I might never have fallen to pieces inside with joy at seeing the elderly black man with a walker in his brand new Batman t-shirt. I might never have appreciated the ramblings of my off-beat neighbors. I might never have understood that I do not have to agree with others to love them for who they are.

Part of me wants to know more about the man. Part of me really wants to do a quick web search to study up on the life of the man I know as J.D. Salinger. I might discover that he was a phony. I might learn that he never really believed there was anything special about a boy who didn't fit into boarding schools or a tiny, quiet, old man riding in a car. Perhaps I would learn that he changed his mind about it all and gave up on his belief in the intrinsic beauty of life. But it isn't what I want to believe, so I do not risk it, even though I might like what I would learn.

Salinger has helped me to recognize socks left by my husband as an allergy he has to putting them in the dirty laundry. He has helped me recognize the elegance of a quarter in the hands of my toddler. He has shown me that even a world with such a large number of phonies need not throw one into a state of despair. I can be happy with myself, with my life, however flawed. I can be happy with a world that finds me strange and disturbing because I do not fit the mold, because I do not conform.

I want to tell it to the world straight that I love everyone and everything. I may not always love your behaviors, but I love you, world. (No, I'm not drunk, though I should be tired. Probably was too much dark chocolate earlier that is keeping me awake.) Do you hear me, people? I love you and all your flaws. I love the way you are wrong and still fight to make people believe you are right. I love the way you pretend not to care what others think about you while silently hoping they will cherish you as a beautiful, cherished element of the world. I love the way you argue and hug and kiss. I love the way you laugh to be polite, even though you don't think the joke was that funny. I love the fact that you've read this much of what I had to say, just because you know I wanted you to read it.

I love you people so much my heart could burst. Thank you for existing. Thank you for giving these words a piece of your time, for letting them run through your mind for a while. Thank you for letting me in. For this, I love you even more.

Good night, and please, oh please, let me get some rest before the son wakes up.