thoughts

Mid-Winter Break

Even the beasts don’t want to be bothered until it’s Spring.

Ahh, the February break. It began during the mid? late? ’70s during the energy crisis, to save oil and of course, save money. Every June I’m cursing it, when the school year doesn’t end, and my NY kiddo is still in school 1, 2, 3 weeks after everyone else’s kiddos. But in February, when it comes? Oh yeah, we need it. This year, with the winter being absolutely unrelenting, it feels particularly necessary.

On Saturday Flower Child had a field trip with her art class. It was cold and flurrying and I had a couple of hours to myself, so I went to Loehmann’s to see if there was anything left. Not much of interest within my budget, but there were a good number of bags/purses left that were reasonable once all the discounts were applied. I saw a somewhat unattractive but neat laptop case. Predictably, I couldn’t decide if it was the right size for my laptop. But I did think about the purse I’ve been carrying, the way everything has been getting a little (ok a lot) wet with all the snow. So I saw a larger bag that closed and decided to get it. Even on the street it’s hard to find a bag for twenty bucks anymore. This store has never been known for its fabulously helpful sales staff. But now, with the certain unemployment ahead and empty racks, all bets are off. The staff seemed to divide into two camps, those who were more relaxed and nicer than I’ve experienced in there, and those who decided the time is right to lose their filter. At the register I was paying for the bag, the cashier next to the one ringing me up looked at it. She sucked through her teeth (back in my middle school days, that sound/gesture was equivalent to throwing down a gauntlet).

“That looks fake.”

I laughed. What a moment. I told her that was good, since I normally buy my bags from the guys selling knock-offs on the street.

Knock-off?

After I dumped my shit from the old bag into the new one, I was online and followed a link from somewhere to youtube. I don’t remember what the original video was, but on the side of the screen was a link to Susan Boyle’s audition for Britain’s Got Talent. You know the one, “I Dreamed a Dream.” I’ve already seen this clip several times, but it’s a beautiful song, she has a lovely voice, and I clicked on it. Three minutes into the video, my eyeballs were leaking. A connection to this Susan Boyle singing that song at that moment, taking a breath and her shot with her unstylish dress and snark to defend against the expectations of who she should be based on where she is (was, she’s surely in a better spot now). For people with advantages, 40 might be the new 30, but for the rest of us…well.

I’ve begun to query Astonishing. Slowly, but I’m moving forward. I’ve even gotten a few “bites.” (Requests to see the manuscript) It’s a slow, often frustrating process filled with ups and downs and no guarantees. Many agents have adopted a “no response means no” policy. Except as the querier, you don’t know exactly when to assume it’s a no. Agents are flooded with queries on a daily basis, so even if they say 6 weeks on their website, that could mean 8 weeks, or 10 weeks, or 12 weeks. There’s an amazing, delicious charge when you open an email and instead of seeing “Dear Author, Due to the Subjective blahblahblah” you read “Dear Mrs Fringe, I was intrigued…please send me…” Squee! Now hurry up and wait. But don’t hold your breath, it’s still a long, uncertain road in between requests for more material and an offer of representation. And that is far from the second leg, when the agent queries editors–hopefully resulting in a sale to a publisher.

The general wisdom of the internets and writing groups everywhere is to begin a new project as soon as you begin querying. Meh. I’m taking a break. I have an idea that I will likely start playing with at some point, but for now, I’m taking a breath and paying some attention to…yanno, the other areas of my life. Being a woman of 40,000 years, I’ve got other areas. Being a woman of 40,000, I know myself enough to know taking a break doesn’t mean I’ll never write again, never find the discipline again. Being a woman of 40,000, I’m not obsessing about those queries. Do I think about them? Of course. Do I have spurts of ohmyGodwhenamIgoingtohearback? Yup. And then I notice the spots on the bathroom mirror, think about how long its been since I gave Flower Child a manicure, remember how good it feels to read for pleasure, and take care of some of those things. I don’t write just to write, I write when I have a story to tell. I write when I’ve got the energy and focus to find the correct words–regardless of how long it takes to find them.

I watched Susan Boyle and leaked a little bit and then felt better than I have in days. The odds are long and not in my favor, but I do have talent, I’ve worked and continue to work on craft, and the possibility is there.

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

That’s what I think of, when I think of Valentine’s Day. Remember that scene from The Rose? Bette Midler playing a Joplin-esque character, breaking down on stage as she tries to croak out Let Me Call You Sweetheart. That and the fact that St. Valentine is the patron saint of epilepsy. Ya caught me, a true romantic. I’m also allergic to roses.

flowers for Flower Child. We need the pop of color during this endless stretch of gray and snow.

Husband is away, so we won’t be doing our normal Valentine’s Day celebrations. Oh wait, we don’t normally do anything. I don’t think we ever have done anything special for VD. We just aren’t that couple, never were. We’re both bad at stuff like that, cards, remembering specific dates, anniversaries. How many years are we married, Husband? I think it’s 43,000 years, but I could be off by a year or two. We’ve known each other for-ev-er, were friends for a long long time before anything else.

I think without getting into the realm of the spiritual, after my insane devotion to my children, I believe in the healing and strengthening powers of friendship more than anything else on earth. Friendship can come from our significant others, siblings, children, parents, classmates, workmates, online, any of the many places we humans interact. I’m very lucky to have some wonderful friends in my life, and wish that everyone could say they have at least two great, long-term friends.

Too many people are out there feeling they are alone, and “holidays” like this one seem to magnify those feelings of loneliness.

So it feels fine for Husband to be off doing his thing on Valentine’s Day, and for me to not-celebrate by having Fatigue over for Friday Night Madness. Because…friendship. In honor of low days, snowstorms, downwardly mobile lives and overly commercialized holidays, I decided comfort food is in order for tonight.

That’s right, mac n cheese. My version of macaroni and cheese involves whatever cheeses I happen to have in the fridge.

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Feel free to come join us at the cyber table, Fringelings, I’ve even got a few beers on the terrace. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Dumb Dogs

Innocent, I tell ya–and dumber than a box of rocks.

Everyone talks about how smart dogs are. I don’t get it, and I’m a dog lover. I know, I know, your dog is brilliant, it’s just my dog. I’ve had multiple dogs over the years, and between friends’ dogs and dog walking, have known many, many others very well. Mixed breeds, “designer” breeds (aka mutts), rescue dogs, purebreds.

I think my understanding of “smart” is too limited, I only comprehend it as it applies to people. And as intelligence is applied to people, dogs aren’t very smart. They’re cute, loving, protective, smooshable, eager to please, but not intelligent.

Some dogs care a lot about pleasing their owners, keeping us happy. These are often the dogs considered the smartest, because they learn the most commands. Then there are the food motivated dogs, who will do anything in the hopes of a treat. Food motivated dogs are also among the dumbest, because they will eat anything that could be food, once held food, might once have sat in the same garbage bag as food.

Yesterday I was walking a dog, and we stopped for a light. Dog starts rooting in a snowbank. Fine, lots of dogs have fun with the snow, like to roll in it, burrow their snouts in it, eat it. The light changes, we cross the street. Get to the other side, and I notice the dog has something out of his mouth. Hmmm. I pay attention, especially if I know the dog is one likely to eat stuff off of the street, but it does occasionally happen. Is that his collar, did it come off? No, collar is still on. My general rule of thumb is not to stick my hand into any dog’s mouth if it isn’t my dog. Dogs really don’t like it when you stick your hand in their mouth. I don’t care how friendly the dog is. If he/she thinks you’re trying to pull a tasty prize out of their mouth, they’re likely to bite. Because they’re dogs. I’m paid to pick up dog shit and give the dog some exercise, some company and petting, maybe food and water, not offer myself as a chew toy.

I determine this thing hanging from the dog’s mouth is definitely a strap of some sort, with a small metal loop at the end. Looks like the kind of thing used to attach babies’ children’s mittens. Crap. Can’t let the dog eat a strap. And metal! I tell the dog to drop it, leave it, try offering a treat instead. No dice. What the hell is this dog doing? He isn’t chewing or biting, he’s…sucking. Yes, the dog was sucking on the pacifier at the other end of the strap. Sigh.

Pacifier (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yeah, yeah, got it all away from Einstein and threw it away safely.

Then last night, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog started acting even weirder than usual. Jumping and barking on Man Child (she’s decided he’s the one who should take care of her needs). We see no problem, she seems ok, then curls up and goes to sleep. Fifteen minutes later she’s squatting on the living room floor. Umm, NO! I pick her up and bring her to the pad. By the second nugget the problem was apparent.

Flower Child has very, very long hair. She doesn’t want any hairs in her brush, ever. This leaves me finding hairs wherever she might have been when she picked up the brush. She does try to remember to throw it away, but sometimes, well, sometimes. Little Incredibly Dumb Dog thinks anything produced by any of our bodies is delicious. She races to the bedroom when Flower Child wakes up each the morning, to steal those yummy used tissues out of the bag next to the bed.

So that left my little fluff ball, working hard to only semi-successfully evacuate a gut full of doggie gumbo and knitted by her intestinal tract hair. Yes, yes, I helped her, all better now. Emergency bath of her back end.

Tell me again how smart these beasts are.

No Dog Poop (Photo credit: Sweet One)

Brain Freeze

We had a sizable but not crazy snowstorm again the other day. The snow itself was wet and dense, beautiful.

oops, don’t forget how slippery the steps down to the subway become.

All so pretty, everyone was out taking photos, talking about how the city looked like a fairy tale.

But then, Tuesday night, we got more snow. By Wednesday morning the falling snow turned into sleet. All freaking day. That lovely, heavy snow became piles of slush with a thick layer of ice.

It’s great that this is a walking city, but it isn’t easy to navigate when the sewers can’t handle the amount of dirty, packed, snow and slush. The corners and curb cuts become freezing lakes. You think you’re stepping onto a snow pile, and then your foot sinks through a pile of icy muck and you’re shin deep. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to navigate the streets with a stroller, and yet, every year when I see those messy corners I think about how grateful I am that I’m not trying to find the one spot you can push through–usually about halfway up the street, exactly when 5 cars are coming through. On my way to pick up Flower Child the other day, there was a woman with a big stroller at the bottom of the stairs, getting ready to carry it up.

Ugh. I remember those days. Not fun in the best weather, let alone when those metal steps are icy and people are crowding to get in or out of the subway as quickly as possible. I helped her carry the stroller. Not a big deal, not a random act of kindness, just common courtesy. Her look of gratitude made me sad, I wish helping someone in this type of scenario was the rule, not the exception.

Yesterday I went out to walk a dog in the sleet. The streets were so iced over it was all I could do to focus on staying upright. Add in the super dooper hood of my parka that blocks my peripheral vision, and I wasn’t noticing anything. Heard a thud as I walked towards a local bodega, but really, I barely noticed, just trying to get to the sidewalk before the snow plows buried me in the ever rising snowbank against the curb. Frankly, everything was so muffled through my layers and I was concentrating so hard on not busting my ass, I’ve not sure I would know I was hit by a snow plow until I was snorting slush.

Picked up the dog, went past the bodega again, now add in trying not to fall on the ice with an overexcited dog pulling towards the park. Drunk guy on a cell phone, “No, they’re being robbed right now. It doesn’t matter if I’m drunk. I’m telling you, now. Send a car from the blahblah precinct.” Oh, New York.

By this morning, the streets look a bit less magical.

Thank You Internetz

and the Coca-Cola company. For turning over the rock, and allowing light to shine on the racism that is alive and all too

Statue of liberty (Photo credit: rakkhi)

well in America.

I didn’t watch the Super Bowl, didn’t see the commercial that caused waves in our amber GMO enriched grain until this morning. If I was a gambler, I’d put money on the idea that many of the same people shitting themselves over a Coke commercial featuring people of color! language other than English! would consider me suspect, not a real American for the simple fact that I’m not a football fan, not a sports fan at all.

That’s what America’s all about, right? The Pilgrims came here so they could chase a ball and drink beer without any pesky brown people, or hearing anything other than the dulcet tones of English. Such a pure language, developed in a magical place without any influences from any other nasty, discordant languages. Mmm hmmm.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not too highbrow for football. I was annoyed there was no new episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta last night–I assume because they didn’t think they’d get enough viewers. I know, I know, RHoA, more brown people. Black women. If it makes you feel better, dear racists, I found that out after eating a slice of apple pie. My dessert, after a dinner of arroz con habichuelas.

At this point, I don’t know if I’m more angry, sad, or disgusted. I do know I wish we were a smarter country. Smart enough for everyone here to understand we are a nation built on the backs of immigrants, after stealing the land from the Native Americans already living here. Guess they didn’t count, since they didn’t speak English. Guess what? You, in your racist spouting household probably have traditional meals included in your pure American Thanksgiving dinner that are actually throwbacks to your family’s heritage. Potato salad? German. Pasta? Italian. Butter cookies? Norwegian. Corn? Beans? Squash? The three sisters are Native American, and you should stop serving all three because Native Americans certainly aren’t what you mean when you talk about real Americans. And I’ve got another little surprise for you, all the rhetoric you’re spewing, about these Mexicans/Domincans/Haitians/Koreans/fillintheblankins, you know, the crap about not learning English, not becoming American enough for your taste, their strange foods, the way they’re taking your jobs and your wimmenz…not original or new. The same tired fearful and fear mongering lines have been spouted for two centuries of immigration. I’m very sorry to tell you, the good old days weren’t what you think they were.

English: A Turkish immigrant in New York (1912). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I wish we were smart enough to understand that we are not an isolationist nation and never were. I wish we were smart enough to understand that instead of trying to fit everyone into a cracked mold that’s a figment of stultified imaginations, we need to move forward, leave this nonsense behind. I wish we were smart enough to understand that the affordable air travel, internet and cell phones have brought us more than resort vacations, Candy Crush, and sexting. We are living in a global economy. Guess who’s going to get ahead in a global economy? Those who are able to respect cultures other than the one they grew up in; those who speak more than one language, those who aren’t terrified by the sight of someone who has different skin color, eye shape, hair texture, religious beliefs, clothing or customs than their own. Those who don’t vomit hatred because their sacred game has been tainted by nothing.

That’s right, I said it. Nothing. You’re up in arms because the ridiculously priced commercials selling shit you don’t need during a game dared to show America as it is, not your fantasy of what it should be.

I just got off of the train. On the subway I hear English, spoken with a broad number of American accents. I hear English spoken with accents from Ireland, England, New Zealand, Pakistan, Guyana, Australia, South Africa, Ghana, Jamaica, Zimbabwe, Kenya, Papa New Guinea. I hear Spanish, Italian, French, German, Hebrew, Arabic, Tagalog, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Tagalog, Portuguese, Hindi, Vietnamese, Yiddish, Polish, Serbo-Croatian, languages from Scandinavia and languages from Africa. I don’t know who was born here, who’s an immigrant–documented or undocumented–who’s a tourist here to pump thousands of dollars into our economy. Shocking though this might be, I don’t care. It’s beautiful to my ears, part of being an American in New York.

I’ve spent quite a bit of time in New England, including the more rural areas where it’s truly rare to see a person of color or hear a language other than English. Also beautiful, also part of America. I’ve spent time down South, where outside of the major cities you don’t hear as many different languages, but still a few, and see many people of color. Beautiful. I’ve spent time in the Southwest, where there are more Native Americans, and I heard bits of languages rarely if ever heard in NYC. Beautiful. Time in the Pacific Northwest, where I heard more Norwegian words and influences than I hear in the east, heard languages and saw faces originating from Alaskan Native cultures. Beautiful. To me, that’s what makes America. It’s vast, our population is huge and mixed, influences from all over the world are seen, heard, and felt in our in language, music, food, and clothing. My America isn’t more or less American than yours.

I want to be clear, when you say things like “I don’t mean you,” you do. You mean my children, my family, my friends, my neighbors. When my kid is chosen for a job over you or yours, it isn’t and won’t be because of looks or last name. It will be because he has always and continues to work his ass off, speaks three languages, knows how to be respectful and appreciative of all cultures and focus on commonalities in our global economy.

I’m not a politician, not a sociologist or anthropologist, not an academic, not in marketing or advertising. I’m not a mover or shaker in any circle, no impressive degrees, haven’t traveled the world, really not that smart. A plain old gal living on the fringe. But I know the commercial that prompted this latest round of bullshit has nothing to do with anything you’re whining about. It’s about the Coca-Cola company wanting to reach the broadest possible audience, so the next time you’re in front of a display in the store, choosing between Coke and Pepsi, you spend your dollars on Coke. And I will. Or I would, if I drank soda–or pop, or coke, depending on what region of the US you’re in.

What Big Stones You Have, Mrs Fringe

A rock, an island 😉

While getting ready to take Flower Child to art class this morning, I thought about the weather being nicer than it has been, I didn’t have to wear the megaboots, a couple of hours to myself…I’m a rebel, I have big ones– I’ll take the camera, and go into Central Park, take some pictures. I didn’t talk myself out of it, didn’t think about the fact that warmer doesn’t = warm, didn’t think about being tired, maybe I’d be better off just sitting on the couch and zoning out. I remembered to take the camera.

I didn’t remember to check if the camera battery was charged, and I didn’t think about a warmer day meaning the paths would be muddy and icky. So much like the rocks of Central Park, my stones aren’t quite as natural and rugged as they first appear.

Most of the rocks in Central Park were deliberately chosen and placed in the plans.

With my comfy old barely more than slippers squishing when they weren’t slipping and the red battery alert flashing, I figured I’d walk anyway, until the battery completely died.

Nope, doesn’t make me want to run.

The mainstay wildlife of the city, unimpressed by rising real estate prices or the polar vortex, they’re staying and they’re eating.

Sparrow?

These guys were finding plenty to eat.

The reservoir looked perfect, I wish had that damn back-up battery with me.

More than half frozen

Birds going wild.

This blue jay? made me think of my wanna be writing career. Out of season, he was loud, I stalked him from tree to tree, could see him way up high but every time I raised my camera he took off again. I squinted and got this one shot of his tail feathers way, way above me.

The last shot before the camera completely shut down.

Oh Mama!

This winter is feeling very, very long. I’ve barely taken my boots off in the last six weeks.

Sure they’re ugly, but they’re warm and dry.

You know I’m just waiting for beach season, but this morning it occurred to me we’re nowhere near the end of winter. Blargh. So I thought about what’s been good. Writing and editing have been very good.

Continuing to try and capture a sharp from the terrace moon pic…not as good, but getting there. This was from this morning, somewhere between 5:30 and 6am.

But not bad, getting closer.

Flower Child began art classes, excellent. Man Child has been home, which has been beautiful. He hasn’t been home for a good length of time since last winter, and I’m thoroughly enjoying having him here. He helps out, he cooks and bakes (really, really well), and he makes me laugh. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I like my kids.

Woke to fresh, home baked by Man Child cinnamon rolls the other morning…bliss.

His goal, for his time at home this winter involved driving. New York kids aren’t as driving focused as teens in other areas, so it isn’t unusual that he didn’t get a license as soon as the law allowed. But now it just makes sense, he’s been spending more and more of his time up North, and who knows where he’ll go when he graduates. So he got his learner’s permit within days of being home, and has been practicing. If staying up North is a consideration, this was certainly the winter to learn on, plenty of opportunity for finding out about driving in snow and ice.

Today he went to take his road test. Like any mother, I felt compelled to give last minute words of wisdom. With a song.

All the Cool Kids Are Doing It

pole dance studio (Photo credit: wwphotos)

But I’m not talking about pole dancing. I’ve seen several interesting blog posts recently discussing blogging, inviting readers to talk about who they are, why they blog, what their blogs focus on. Maybe WordPress threw the idea out there, offered a challenge, I don’t know. It’s Sunday morning and the beasts woke me up too early so I’ll jump on the bandwagon, too tired to be clever on my own. Because in a way, blogging isn’t so different from pole dancing. “Look at me, check out this nifty spin, ooh, Mister, would you throw a dollar my way–I’ll give you a peek under another layer.”

There was a recent discussion on the writer’s forum about blogging. The profitability or lack thereof, return on investment, etc. I think the conclusion was that author’s blogs aren’t worth (financially) the time and work required to keep them going. I didn’t participate in the discussion, but I read, and I’m thinking about it. I don’t blog because I’m an author, I’m not selling anything. No book being hawked, no freelancing. Sure, if I ever sell a book I’ll post about it, add a link so the curious and flush can purchase it.

Buy More Stuff, Black Friday 2008 (Photo credit: Michael Holden)

A lot of writers, published and unpublished, also run blogs. Many of them blog about writing. How to. I have to admit, I find the vast majority of writing blogs boring. Is that awful to put into the foreverness that is the internet? Sorry. Doesn’t mean they’re bad. It’s subjective, after all (my favorite song). Maybe I’m delusional, but I don’t think I need to read 8000 regurgitated versions of THE FIRST FIVE PAGES, ON WRITING, or THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE. I own all three, have read them, reread them, dissected them many times.

I follow several writer’s blogs but most are talking about more than writing. They’re fun or touching or snarky, discuss a personal journey, or downright silly. They represent the person blogging. To me, that’s what blogging is, personal. I also follow a few agent/editor’s blogs–those are different, meant to inform by those who actually know what they’re talking about–and still, good reads that offer a sense of who the individual is. Or at least the persona fronting the blog.

Mrs Fringe is not only not a writing blog, I don’t consider it an “author’s blog.” I’m a blogger who also writes fiction. When the coffee grounds appear in just the right pattern and I’m offered a contract I don’t expect I’ll sell 750,000 copies as a result of this blog. I’m pretty sure that’s about what I’d need to sell to in order to say the hours spent on blogging (writing posts, responding to comments, reading other people’s posts and commenting on theirs) were monetarily worth it.

But I don’t blog as a marketing tool. I blog because it’s fun, it’s a release, I’ve made and continue to make fabulous connections with other bloggers–many of whom have nothing to do with the world of writing or publishing. And when I think about it, I don’t consider my time here in Fringeland as time I should be spending working on my fiction or wasted words. It’s rejuvenating. And when I am spending a lot of hours writing, I don’t spend a lot of hours on blogging.

If I’m on the pole it’s at home in my raggedy old yoga pants, no dollars in sight. Of course I hope that somehow, some way, the time spent blogging will provide a boost to my yet-to-be-established writing career. But that isn’t why I do it.

What about you? Do you blog for professional reasons? Marketing? Display your art? The opportunity to make connections? Be positive? Spread the Word? The chance to anonymously scream out all the suckage in your life? And if you aren’t a blogger, but you’re a reader of blogs, what draws you in and keeps you coming back?

Blog Machine (Photo credit: digitalrob70)

Comma Coma

Like a gazillion little commas.

Since finishing the draft of Astonishing, I’ve been worthless. Seriously, it sucked it all out of me. I know there is editing to do, revising to do, but I’ve yet to even sit and do a read through. And there is always editing/revisions to be done. If nothing else (ha!) I’ve got to address those pesky commas.

They know I adore them, know I won’t notice until later, so they sneak in, get fruitful and multiply between the pages of text. Each one a little love note to my fevered writing brain, slow down and think. Some say our mutual love is unnatural, I say we’re misunderstood. I want to keep each and every one, stop trying to get between us! Unless you’re an agent with interest and publishers in mind in which case ptooey i will stomp out those little marks like roaches revise the text into one long stream of consciousness

My love of this pedestrian punctuation is so great, Man Child penned an ode to us:

And,so,I,saw,no,shadow,from,anoth,r,parting.,In,my,youth,growing,up,as,a,young,boy,in,rural,K,ntucky,,I,r,m,mb,r,my,dog,,lassi,.,Lassi,,was,d,licious,dog,and,it,was,quit,,sad,wh,n,w,,had,to,,ast,h,r,out,of,n,c,ssity.,And,so,th,,sun,ros,,on,Notr,,Dam,,onc,,again!,Th,,gargoyl,s,w,r,,afoot,and,th,,ghostbust,rs,nowh,r,,to,b,,s,,n.,My,fri,nds,and,I,w,r,,fr,qu,nt,rs,of,th,,automobil,,shop,sp,cializing,in,ch,vy,,mon,ch,ri.,And,so,th,,girl,aft,r,having,com,,hom,,from,school,d,cid,d,to,wast,,tim,,idly,b,,at,th,,couch,in,st,ad,of,addr,ssing,th,,pr,ssing,cup,of,t,a,that,h,r,moth,r,d,r,ast,was,bringing.,Th,,t,a,is,known,as,African,d,w,for,it,is,produc,d,northw,st,rn,costa,rica,,which,is,in,south,Am,rica.,How,v,r,,aft,r,y,ars,of,studying,wat,r,charts,and,w,ath,r,patt,rns,on,,might,r,aliz,,that,th,,d,ws,from,Africa—ov,r,th,,cours,,of,millions,of,y,ars—,v,ntually,migrat,,from,to,south,Am,rica;,wh,r,,my,d,ar,fri,nd,Z,is,curr,ntly,r,siding,with,h,r,moth,r,,,xploring,th,,and,s.,FC,got,a,pap,r,cut,today.

There are others who would like to get between my love and I, citing disdain for my little Oxfordian friend, who toss around slanderous words like redundancy. Jealous, they’re all just jealous, wishing they had the freedom of intimacy, the long history we share.

If you couldn’t tell from my ramblings, my sleep has been a bit off for the past few days. Friday night I was snoring by 9:30. Unfortunately that left me wide awake at 3:30 Saturday morning. I thought by last night, I would be able to not only get a normal night’s sleep, I would get to sleep in this morning–MLK day, Flower Child has no school. And then I could be productive today, do my read through, maybe even make notes for when I’m ready to begin revisions. But no, my phone rang at 5:30. “Hello. Hello!” No one there. Crap. Then I had to pee. Double crap. Once I get up, I’m up, doesn’t matter if I had 2 hours or 8 hours of sleep. For the record, it wasn’t the phone ringing, it was my alarm. I forgot to turn it off, it’s set to go off automatically on weekday mornings.

Maybe I will be able to read through today. Maybe not. I’ve been thinking this could be the perfect opportunity to get back to a regular Yoga routine. It would be, if I didn’t have the motivation of a slug.

One of the things I like about waking early is seeing the sun rise. My apartment faces east, a beautiful way to have my first (or second) cup of coffee, on the terrace. I’ll share today’s.

Are you ready?

Looks like a promise of a good day, no?

Piss and Vinegar

English: Vinegar & Olive Oil (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Mrs Fringe and guilt go together like oil and vinegar. Sure you have to do all that mixing, blending, emulsifying to get them to unite, but once you do they make sense. Unlike this analogy, but I’m under the weather and Flower Child is home sick today, so that’s the best I can do. Besides, I’m a big fan of vinegar, have no less than seven different kinds in the fridge at all times.

And I just had a little mishap on the terrace. I keep a big jug of plain white vinegar for cleaning the reef tank equipment, very effective, inexpensive, doesn’t harm the critters–NOT that anyone should add vinegar to their tanks, reef or otherwise, but it doesn’t leave behind crazy levels of nitrites, nitrates or other nasties reefers don’t want measurable amounts of in our reefs. I got a huge bottle at one of those big box stores for people who like to purchase 72 rolls of toilet paper at once, and left it on the terrace. Because it’s big. And I have a small apartment. Well guess what? Vinegar freezes. And then it expands, and then the plastic bottle leaks, and then the terrace reeks of vinegar. Maybe it will keep the pigeons away.

What was I talking about? Guilt. My most recent guilt episode is one that’s old and familiar, the guilt of slow writing. Everyone has their process, I know this. Some people write faster than others. Know it. But you know when you’re already feeling low, and then you read just the right thing to make you feel like shit? And then you look for more things to read to make you feel worse because what the hell, you’ve been stuck and not making progress on the WIP, plenty of time to read about other people’s mind boggling daily word counts. They are productive. They don’t make excuses. They are working on their 87th draft of their 120,000 word manuscript–pared down from 210,000–while I continue to watch the word counter at the bottom of my page stay at exactly the same number. Which is still too far off from my 70,000 word goal of my first draft. They are disciplined, they write, they earn money, they raise children, they work out, they save the fucking whales and feed croutons to the pigeons in order to soak up the excess vinegar.

Well I was stuck. And I pondered. And then I was more stuck. And then I pissed and moaned and whined. And then I stopped reading about the fabulously prolific and closed the open Astonishing file and said I’m taking a break until I’m not. And then I found myself pondering again. Yesterday I was able to unstick myself, wrote a little.

This morning I was cruising the writer’s forum and saw this link. Hallelujah, I have found my people at last! My perfect critique partners. Ok, it’s true that all except one are dead, but doesn’t that sound like my pace? Bed, grave, is there really that much of a difference? Just my speed. Lying down is my favorite! and is there anything more secure than being in your own bed?

Couple in Bed (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was inspired, wrote more than a little today but not anything another slow writer would boggle at. Not in bed, in my corner on the couch, where I always write. Half lying, half sitting, laptop on my lap.

Come to think of it, I got a new ottoman last week . Maybe the next time I’m stuck, I can try writing from the other end of the couch.