Musings

Sol y Mar, on the Rocks

Stroll on the beach with me?

We did get to the beach the other day for a couple of hours. My peace, my soul, my bliss. I will be happy at any beach. Obviously, the ones with clean sand and water are better, but I’m not all that picky. The Brooklyn beaches with their layer of scum and floating you-don’t-want-to-know-what works for me too.

The above photo is of Sandy Hook, NJ. My favorite “local” beach. It hurt my heart to go there, seeing the damage still in evidence from Hurricane Sandy. I’m impressed and amazed at how much it’s been fixed up over the last months, and the road on the Hook is now smoothly paved. But you still see many businesses closed or closing on the highway leading to it, and the bathrooms are still out of commission. No thanks, Johnny on the Spot. I’ll skip the porta-potty and just clench those kegels until I get back home.

I’m sure I rambled about this last year, but I’m going to do so again. Mrs Fringe ❤ Beach. I don’t know the word for it, but there’s a feeling I get when on a beach that I just don’t/can’t get anywhere else. Stress levels drop, anxiety lessens, I feel…calm. I feel well. For me, it’s like being halfway through a perfectly mixed gin and lemonade. You know that point? Just enough so the gin is the most delicious substance to hit your tastebuds, smiling, relaxed, that neutral strip between this-mind-numbing-daily-grind-is-crushing-me and foolishly-relaxed-and-happy-I-CAN.

Alas, poor Yorick, we loved him well

Flower Child also loves the beach. Part of it is not mysterious, it’s a purely physical comfort. She doesn’t sweat, and playing in the water with the constant breeze off the ocean lets her enjoy a summer day. But part of it is that same mystery gene I’ve got, from before there were any known medical issues, when she was a baby, and the beach was just plain joy at first experience.

I wonder, if I lived on the beach, would my writing flow more easily? Or would I feel too good, and lose the drive to write? I wonder why I’ve never set a story on the beach, or in a beach town. Maybe it’s too hard to tap into enough conflict imagining such a life.

In my next life, I want a beach house.

But for this life, I take those days when I can, how I can. Revel in the contrast of my toes in cold waves and shoulders baking under the sun, while the scent of the saltwater wakes me from the inertia of the day to day, and the spray of the water is a protective coating.

Writing ‘Roids

Tractor-trailer crash on I-95 (Photo credit: VaDOT)

Here’s the thing about writing, or being a fiction writer; with a very few well publicized exceptions, it’s a long, potholed, overcrowded road. Most of those overnight sensations don’t really make it to the bestseller lists overnight, it just seems that way to those standing in the bookstore deciding what to buy.

A lot of people think they want to be writers, but they don’t write. Or they don’t stick with it long enough to do the learning necessary to turn their work into something resembling a manuscript. Some give up after one or two manuscripts that don’t sell, or x number of rejections, or x amount of time. A lot of others do, and with work, perseverance, and luck they get published. And then there are the long haulers.

People like me, who haven’t “hit” for whatever reason, but have gotten just enough encouragement and positive feedback on their work to keep going. I don’t mean “my spouse likes it,” “my mom likes it,” “my third grade teacher told me I should be a writer,” or form rejections they’ve read and projected meaning into. But people who supposedly have knowledge and experience of writing and the publishing world have read their work and said “keep trying, you’ve got something.” And we do.

A long fucking haul. If you’re a long haul trucker, you know you’re going to be tired, might get caught in traffic jams that leave your bladder spasming, and screw up your schedule. But eventually, you’re going to reach your destination. And then you’ll load up and do it again.

English: 1918 advertisement for Jubolitoires (hemorrhoids) Français : Publicité pour les Jubolitoires, suppositoires anti-hémorroïdaires (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hemorrhoids will just be part of the job, and you’ll learn to sleep when you can in the cab of the truck, drink battery acid masquerading as coffee, and make sure you’re always stocked up on Preparation H.

But writing isn’t long haul trucking, the analogy leaves more than a little gap. There’s no certain paycheck, no benefits, and no one pats you on the back in respect for honest and honorable work. Plenty of hemorrhoids, though. Swollen, throbbing, painful pustules that make you wince when you open that Word document. They come in the guise of writer’s block, rejection letters, plot holes, awkward expressions on the face of your significant other, and plain old moments of why-the-fuck-am-I-doing-this. Is it dishonorable to keep writing after x amount of time, or x amount of rejections? Is it dishonest? I’m not talking about people who say they write for themselves (God love you, but I’d rather earn my piles having another baby–and trust me, the last thing I want is any more babies), but those who continue to pursue publication.

If you’re another long hauler, please chime in here in the comments section, and let me know what your thoughts are. What’s the donut pillow that gets your butt behind the wheel, again and again?

Mrs Fringe Wants a Do-Over

Against the rules. Cheating. Rupture in the time-space continuum. But isn’t that the true definition of being a grown up, when you comprehend you don’t get any do-overs?

Fine, how about some duck tape?

Fix everything (Photo credit: Anders Illum)

Duck tape for a cracked life. Because you can’t really undo what’s been done or start over. But there are people out there who seem as if they can fix just about anything, create just about anything, with a roll or ten of tape.

Others get stuck staring at the crack. First they pretend it isn’t there, then they can’t look away. They touch it, push on it a bit, whip out the tape measure and chart its progress, and finally, run their tongues over it and curse the fact that their tongue is bleeding. How about a little duck tape for use as a bandaid?

English: This is a tongue (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Over the last year, I got tired of swallowing iron. Unfortunately, I hate the feel of sticky fingers. Seriously, even the thought of syrup on pancakes makes me shudder, because I hate the stick factor. Which leads me to think about my unnatural and unhealthy love of butter. It’s smooth, it’s comforting, it’s easy. But I’ve gained ten pounds this year, and it hasn’t fixed a damned thing.

My knee jerk avoidance reaction is to say I need spiritual duck tape. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? Appropriately obscure, everyone can project whatever they’d like into it. I think Mrs Fringe has been this for me–and God knows I project whatever I want onto these pages. Soon enough I’ll be hitting my one year blogoversary. It’s been great, and I hope it will continue to be a cyberaddress of fun and navel gazing for a long time to come. Not enough though.

I think women, in particular mothers-of-a-certain-age, tend to stop right here. It’s ok, dear, a little spiritual crazy glue is all I want. And if it isn’t all I want that’s ok, it’s all I need. See? My fingers don’t move, my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my lips are sealed shut.

It’s time to figure out how to use the damned duck tape for more than adhering myself to the same old shit.

Summertime

Officially, but not exactly. Happy belated Solstice! A few more days, and the school year is over. Today is a lazy day, and you get a lazy post to match. I’m ready for summer, and so is Flower Child.

Speaking of flowers, remember those seeds we planted? First blooms!

Nasturtium

Morning glories taking over–but no buds yet. The vines are now taller than I am.

Alyssum, with bunny tails behind (no blooms for the bunny tails yet)

Apparently my farming skills are on par with my photography skills; sometimes I’ll hit, mostly I won’t. Still, I’m dreaming of a garden. Flowers and veggies and fruit trees, oh my!

We haven’t gone on vacation in a long time, no plans to vacation this summer either, but we are planning on some day trips. We talk about doing this every year, and then budget, timing, illness, all kinds of not fun things get in the way. And the beach. The call of the beach is normally louder than anything else for me. But this year I believe we will venture out a bit. Of course there will be beach days, but there’s something new, some part of me that wants to check out greenery outside of the confines of the New York Botanical Gardens.

Sending good thoughts and peace to my cyber friends dealing with these horrible floods in Canada. Be safe!

Poser!

Venecian Masks (Photo credit: ChaTo (Carlos Castillo))

This morning I made Flower Child scrambled eggs for breakfast. She thought it was her lucky day. Nope, I didn’t get to the grocery store yesterday morning, and that’s all I’ve got. The last two slices of bread are for her lunch. I would have made a smoothie, but there’s brown crap running from the faucet this morning, and the blender is still sitting in the sink waiting to be washed from Nerd Child’s smoothie yesterday morning. This also means I didn’t want to make another bowl dirty by beating the eggs first. What the hell, mixing them in the pan with the spatula is the same thing, right?

Fake it ’til you make it. Kinda sorta.

My motto is probably more along the lines of fake it ’til it’s bedtime. Out of standard, practical for a school day breakfast fare? Scrambled eggs. Haven’t done laundry? Wear dress clothes. “Oh, Mrs Fringe, look at you! Doing something fun/special/important today?” Why yes, yes I am. Pretending I haven’t worn every last t-shirt I own. Except for that Dallas Cowboys one circa 1981 with very inappropriate holes worn through it, that for some reason I never toss when getting rid of old clothes.

Feel like crap? Makeup. Double crap, can’t remember where I last put my makeup bag.

Gained some weight over the winter and too lazy to work out? God bless the designer who decided empire waists should come back into style (five years ago is too still in), along with seamstresses of flowing skirts and A-lines.

Housewife (Photo credit: garryknight)

Doubting that you’ve pulled off or can pull off a fun, light beach read type novel, cause let’s face it, you aren’t all that fun and lighthearted? Keep going, start the next one, only have this one be dark, not fun, and not likely to be spotted on the boardwalk. Wait, this doesn’t quite fit with the equation, does it? Hmm, well, at least I’ll have a writah-ly-type excuse when this one doesn’t sell. Angst isn’t for everyone, after all.

Given that I’m so fucking excellent at faking it, I can’t imagine why I haven’t yet made it.

Hey You!

It’s I! Or is it she?

The Three Faces of Eve (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As mentioned last week, I’m now ~~obsessing over~~ planning my next manuscript. Today’s obsession, what point of view (POV), tense, etc. These choices will have great impact on the overall tone and voice of the narrator and by extension, the novel.

First person (I) is and has been very popular for quite a few years now. Generally speaking, I prefer third (she). I like the distance that third person offers, with the flexibility to draw in close. First person, in my opinion, too often feels breathless. It’s the acquaintance you run into on your way home who you smile when you recognize them, “Oh, how nice, I can’t remember why I lost touch with Mr Z.”

talk so fast (Photo credit: Leonard John Matthews)

Five minutes into it, “I’m glad to hear how he is, what’s going on in his life.” Ten minutes into it, “This has been lovely, but I really have to pee.” Twenty brain-numbing, eyes-twitching minutes later, “This is why I stopped returning his calls. For the love of God, make it stop!”

Second person is brilliant when it’s done well, but very few know how to do it well, and I have my doubts about my own ability. The whole goal in fiction is the suspension of disbelief. Pulling that off while directly addressing the reader? Might well be beyond my pay grade.

Wondering why I’m having this angst if these are my thoughts on POV? Me too. Except I have a certain way of writing, getting started. There’s always a very clear opening scene in my head, and I write it. This scene may or may not remain the opening, may or may not end up deleted, but it’s what gets my fingers clicking on the keyboard. Or pencil to paper, if it’s been too long since I’ve last written. The problem is the opening scene I’m “seeing” for this story is in first person. Fine if this was a short story, but I don’t know that I want to write an entire novel with that “I” voice.

And just because I know you’re all dying to know about the rest of this Fringey writing process, I usually have a song that is going through my head as I’m planning a new story. Here’s this one:

Hear that bass track? That’s the framework I’m seeing, the pacing. A little dark, a little ominous, but it keeps moving forward with that rhythm.

Lost in Space

Lost in the space (Photo credit: JimmyMac210)

Feeling kinda

Betwixt and between.

I’m trying to decide what to work on next, while I begin the process of querying. I have to be working on something, because querying without another project to focus on is a certain design plan that leads to a very fitted white jacket. Nicely accessorized with padded walls, but really, I’d prefer something loose and flowing right now. I could go back to the WIP that’s been frying brain cells for years already. I could begin something completely new. I’ve got an idea for a character, but no plot. This is new for me. Usually by the time I’m at or near the end of a project, and I’ve been writing regularly, the first portion of the next project seems to write itself, because it’s been brewing. Not this time. I’m not blocked, just unsure of which direction I want to take.

betwixt (Photo credit: Daniel*1977)

In the meantime, I’ve been trying to do some reading. In doing so, I’ve discovered a fundamental truth about Mrs Fringe has changed. I don’t remember not knowing how to read, I don’t remember not loving to read, and I’ve always been a trope of a bookworm. Sure I had books I liked, books I loved, books I raced to finish because I didn’t enjoy them, but I read them. I would read anything, and finish it. If I had nothing new to read, I would reread; hell, I remember my mother yelling at me because I was standing in the refrigerator, reading the labels on the condiments.

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been broke for long enough that I’ve adjusted to not having things to read, or because of my period earlier this year of not being able to lose myself in a novel, but it has changed. I’ve picked up at least three books in the past few months that I didn’t enjoy, and I didn’t finish them. How does this happen? Something so much a part of me, how others see me and how I define myself, no longer true.

I’ve also read several books I liked, and a couple that I loved. But now that I’m feeling this whole whichwaydoIgo in terms of writing, I wonder if the two are connected. I wonder if Heinz is still running that write-our-slogan campaign.

A gruesome accident (Photo credit: KateMonkey)

Riveting, A Literary V-8

Edward_Lear_A_Book_of_Nonsense 115.jpg (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As mentioned often, I haven’t had a day off in years. Some days contain more suckage than others. Today, not starting off so well. I got up and decided to make blueberry muffins for breakfast. Flower Child choked on a piece of kale during dinner last night, freaked out, not much was eaten, therefore I wanted to be sure she would really eat this morning. No one else was up yet, I was able to make the batter and get them in the oven. Another often touched on point here in Fringeland, I have a teeny, tiny kitchen. Rules out cooking or baking anything that involves needing a lot of space, and involves regular accidents, because I’ve got about 8 inches of counter space to work with. Got the muffins in the oven without incident, washed what I used for prep, ignored the pot and dishes still in the sink from last night. Time to get those muffins out of the oven. First tray, balanced on top of the stove. Second tray, on the lilliputian amount of space on the dining room table that isn’t used as Husband’s office (read, overflowing with papers, pens, and crap). I now want to slide the rack back inside the oven, which of course, resulted in the first (full) tray flipping off of the stove and half of the muffins flying out and decorating the kitchen. Sigh.

Historical Oven cooking depicted in a painting by Jean-François Millet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Flower Child is now up, curled on one end of the couch under a blanket, and waiting anxiously for the muffins not covered in dog hair and drool to cool off. I sit on the couch with my laptop and my coffee. After a little bit, I tell her she can take a muffin. She throws her blanket off, and my coffee spills onto the couch, the floor, my phone, and my book. Fuuuuuck! For the record, she’s been standing in front of the muffins for twenty minutes now, waiting for me to tell her which muffin to take, afraid to move at all despite the fact that I told her six times to just pick one. I don’t want to look at them anymore. Husband woke up, looked in the kitchen, and asked if I made scrambled muffins for breakfast.

So, what to do when you need to escape life and you can’t actually have a day off? Read, and try to pretend your couch doesn’t reek of cafe con leche. I was thinking about books and reading this morning, anyway.

What makes a novel great? And I mean fantastic, enduring, cross genre and cross generational. The type of book that you either can’t put down, or have to put down every so often so the perfect line of prose you just read and reread can be examined, dissected and allowed to swim through the synapses of your brain until it’s coming out of your pores like the morning after a night of drinking cheap vodka.

I think it’s when the story is so clear but so flexible you not only want to be the main character, or in that world, you can apply it to yourself in your world, your life. Open for interpretation, if you will, allowing for projection. Kind of weird, because many of my favorite novels involve stories and lives I wouldn’t really want, they’re tragic. But I can feel them. And you, opening the book with a different viewpoint, different life experiences, different locale, different socio-economic background, can see yourself in that main character, in that story, and feel them too.

I don’t want to say ambiguous, because that has negative connotations, and too often makes readers think of torturous works of literature assigned by pompous and musty professors. You know the ones, they smell like my couch. Personally, I’m ok with ambiguous, especially ambiguous endings, but many aren’t. They want to know there is a happy ever after for Joe Smith, or maybe they want to see Mrs Fringe get her comeuppance. Maybe the story, the character, needs to be pliable. Something that has it’s own form, shape, and limits, but can be stretched through a reader’s brain to mold to individual interpretations.

I’m going to make more coffee and give Flower Child a muffin. Tell me what you think.

English: Constellation of Literature pavilion in the Temple of Literature, Hanoi. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

On the Rocks, Extra Grit

Zwei Cocktails “Leap Frog” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now that it’s late Spring, we’re having some nice weather days here in NY. Not today, and not forecast for this holiday weekend, but it is that time of year. Women toss their tights, sunbathers glare at me as I walk dogs through the park, and restaurants put some tables and chairs outside to extend their seating and offer sidewalk cafes.

Stop and think about that. Al fresco dining in the middle of Manhattan. Now it’s true, we don’t have too much in the way of drive-thrus here. If I’m starving and in a hurry, you just might be able to spot me eating a slice (pizza) as I walk south on Columbus Ave. Not high on the list of dining experiences but it can work.

But I would like someone to explain to me how they think it’s a good idea to pay for a restaurant meal and drinks, and sit outside on Broadway. New York is a whole lot cleaner than it used to be, but it isn’t clean. The amount of dirt in the air is measurable (I know this because the windows in my apartment are usually open, even ten floors above the street a lot of dirt drifts in daily). Ask any person in the city wearing open sandals or flip flops what the soles of their feet look like at the end of the day.

Stephansplatz in Vienna, Austria. Pedestrians walking by. In center a young woman sits on sidewalk barefoot, with the dirty soles of her feet towards the camera. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t forget the tons of pedestrians checking out what’s in your dish as they sneeze past.

I’m not saying I never/have never had a meal outside in the city. I’ve done my share of picnics in the park with the kids. And there’s a lovely cafe in Riverside Park we used to go to. Out of budget now, but it is a nice afternoon option. Grills and tables under a cement dome that provides shade and cooler air, it feels like a public barbeque. Fancier tables are right alongside the Hudson River.

Back to those sidewalk restaurant extensions. There are trees planted along most avenues, growing from square cutouts in the sidewalk. Pretty, and if they’re big/old enough, they offer a little shade and fresh breeze. You’re really appreciate that nice oak three feet away from your table when the dogwalker goes past with a pack-walk. The standard poodle especially loves that tree. As does the mastiff and St Bernard. Splatter splish.

If it’s a popular time of day/evening, don’t forget the press of people waiting for a table. Don’t rush, they’re fine waiting. New Yorkers are much friendlier than tourists expect, they’re happy to provide entertainment. The foodies–or the picky eaters–will deconstruct the contents of your plate and debate the merits of sitting at an outside table. Many are comedians, and crack jokes about how hungry they are, offering to share your meal.

Bon apetit!

English: Looking east across Broadway, past Tom’s Restaurant, down West 112th Street on a cloudy afternoon. ZIP 10025. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Judgement Day

Judgement Day (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

is every day, here on the www.

I’ve talked before about how much I love the internet, the people I’ve met through it, blah blah yawn. It’s a funny thing, though. I continue to get lulled into a false sense of happy happy joy joy free love and learning, and then get biffed upside the head.

Not everyone you meet online is someone you’d want to sit and have a beer with. So what? Just like the offline world, smile, nod, and move on.

Except, online there seem to be a lot more people who don’t want to move along. You know who I mean, the ones who paint themselves as experts in X, and believe it is their great duty and privilege, perhaps even an obligation, to engage in argument. It took a bit for me to catch on to how this works for these cyber types. When I first became engaged with online communities where you saw this type of action, I took the bait. Argued back to explain my position, and proclaim my rights to my opinion. Then I learned a bit more about how socializing through a screen works/can work, and would attempt to steer the discussion with a more civil tone. Yah, done with that, too.

Journal of Community and Applied Social Psychology (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

From there you find the people you enjoy spending online time with, and figure out how to narrow your interactions with others while still remaining engaged in the greater community.

Or not. I no longer visit most of the forums I’ve joined over the years, because I found my “peeps” and we now interact in smaller groups through Facebook, email, sometimes even *gasp* face to face. Let’s be honest, here, do I need to post questions and have discussions with 8000 other navel gazers? Thirty, twenty, even ten can be sufficient for a lively debate and interesting discussion. Every so often someone new gets brought in for fresh air and new perspectives. Not only does everyone involved not have to agree, it’s a more productive discussion when they don’t. I learn other people’s opinions, new facts, and my mind gets opened a bit wider. As long as it’s all conducted with respect and basic courtesy, it’s all good.

Let’s look at that word again. Respect. It doesn’t matter if the poster is 14, 40, or 80 (and often you don’t know). It isn’t my job to slam anyone else in a personal way. I’m not talking about engaging in debate, but attacks that can/will be interpreted as personal. You know what I find to be one of the best parts of being a grown up? Understanding that not everyone will like me, and I won’t like everyone, and that is just fine. In person or online, still fine. Remember, I live in a small space. I can’t fit an entire forum around my dinner table. My laptop is old and cranky. A reflection of me, it stops and freezes every time I click on a new post or thread. It can easily take me 30 minutes to read two short threads, 45 if I want to reply. In many ways that’s ok, it forces me to choose carefully before clicking.

There are internet trolls who are obvious trolls. Fine. Some are annoying, some are amusing. But the tricky kind are those who don’t seem to understand

English: “Wikipedia troll at play” sign, based on a yellow “Children at Play” sign that symbolizes a child kicking a ball. The ball was replaced by a Wikipedia globe, and the child’s head was decorated with unruly “hair” reminiscent of troll dolls. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

they’re trolling, and are passionate about their way/belief being THE way. The ONLY way, for everyone, and they must “correct” any and all who question a different path. Personally, I’m a silly, flighty gal. Know what I do when I see a question/thread/post that seems pointless to me? I don’t click on it. Forgive me, I’m such a radical.

Mmm hmm. Would you and your hand like a room, buddy?<< phrased respectfully, of course.