I don't really write on here anymore. I'm so taken up with my other blog that I never think of it. "One creative outlet at a time!" I think to myself. And because I've committed to every day on that one, that's the one I'm focused on. I always have my camera with me and it has become an obsession. And, me being me, I say rather a lot on there for a photo blog.
There's no picture to go with what I want to say this morning, though. So, here I am.
I have a job. I have a job with insurance, with plenty of time off, with my own office, with enough money to pay my bills, and with co-workers I am close to. In these financial times (especially in Michigan), I am fortunate and blessed to have this job. I know this. I am grateful for this.
But there are times when I can't help wondering if a paycheck is enough of a payoff for feeling like a constant failure. And those times are coming more and more frequently of late.
My professional life has always involved writing. I have been a writer of radio scripts, of newspaper articles, of human interest profiles, of advertisements, of book covers of wide variety, and of sales copy. My current job is no different--I write for a living. Yet I have recently been told that I am a disappointing writer, a careless writer, a writer who makes no sense.
And I believed the person who told me this. I believed every word.
The problem is that it's all I really know how to do. I write. I'm a writer. I have always been a writer. So what do you do when your identity is taken from you? How do you anchor who you are when your self-portrait is destroyed?
This morning I clicked on Me Ra Koh's photography blog and found the following quote from Madeleine L'Engle:
“This (the rejection) seemed an obvious sign from heaven. I should stop trying to write. All during the decade of my thirties I went through spasms of guilt because I spent so much time writing, because I wasn’t like a good New England housewife and mother. When I scrubbed the kitchen floor, the family cheered. I couldn’t make a decent pie crust. I always managed to get something red in with the white laundry in the washing machine, so that everybody wore streaky pink underwear. And with all the hours I spent writing. I was still not pulling my own weight financially.
So the rejection on the my fortieth birthday seemed an unmistakable command: Stop this foolishness and learn to make cherry pie.
I covered the typewriter in a great gesture of renunciation. Then I walked around and around the room, bawling my head off. I was totally, unutterable miserable.
Suddenly I stopped, because I realized what my subconscious mind was doing while I was sobbing: my subconscious mind was busy working out a novel about failure.
I uncovered the typewriter. In my journal I recorded this moment of decision, for that’s what it was. I had to write. I had no choice in the matter. It was not up to me to say I would stop, because I could not. It didn’t matter how small or inadequate my talent. If I never had another book published, and it was very clear to me that this was a real possibility, I still had to go on writing.
I’m glad I made this decision in the moment of failure. It’s easy to say you’re a writer when things are going well. When the decision is made in the abyss, then it is quite clear that it is not one’s own decision at all.”
I read this quote and I cried.
I realized that in the midst of this crisis of self, I've still been writing creatively. I'm still finding characters and seeing stories and my imagination is still throwing out huge, heady, brilliant blooms--so many that I can't possibly get to them all and am sometimes completely overwhelmed.
I'm a writer. I'm a creator. I may not be the world's best, I may not live up to certain expectations in certain areas. But that doesn't negate the fact that I am a writer. I'm just not his kind of writer.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
A Tale of Deliverance
I haven't been here in a while. If you're not one of the people to whom I've bemoaned my writer's block, count yourself fortunate. But you still might enjoy the tale of deliverance below.
---------------------------------------------------------
Saturday was a lovely day. After returning from a sojourn at the library without any success in my attempt to create, I resolved to be content in my lack of creativity and settled into a comfy couch with a good book. The sliding door was open and the fresh breeze wafted through the apartment.
Suddenly I heard rattling from downstairs. Were my neighbors about to light up, thus destroying my peace as they are so often wont to do? Would the foul tobacco smoke heading straight in through my windows force me to close them once again? No, dear reader. Though it was my neighbors, it was a different smoke they had in mind. And thus they began to grill.
At first, I welcomed the change. This mix of smoke and scent I would gladly have in my apartment! Yet, as time passed on, my mood changed. I was transforming, becoming a ravening beast of hunger and salivation. I, too, wanted meat, charred and dead! I wanted those charcoals to be searing flesh of cow for me!
Finally, I could stand it no longer. I fled from my home, seeking out my own sustenance in the approved fashion, rather than rigging up some manner of hook and line and attempting to snag meat from the grill below me. After buying my slab of beef and cheese, I took it to a hilltop where I could enjoy it in peace amidst nature and words and none of my fellow humans (read: in my car in the Super Walmart parking lot overlooking some trees, listening to a book on CD).
And then, as if slaking this hunger was all the remedy my mind had been craving, I began having thoughts. Writing thoughts. I thought of something that had been bothering me about a story I wanted to finish. And suddenly with that solution came another sentence. And then another. And then several plot points. Which is when I realized the true horror of this divine moment.
Reader, I had nothing on which to write.
Panic began to set in. I scrambled for a receipt, a paper bag, anything, knowing it wouldn't be enough. Before this new madness could fully overtake me, however, I remembered: I'm sitting in the Walmart parking lot. I have the solution before me.
I rushed inside, bought a notebook, and made all haste back to my car and the writing utensils I always carry (I was not so far gone in my writer's block that I had forgotten those). And there I sat, scribbling furiously as one possessed, scribing not only those words I had earlier thought of, but new words, bold ideas, and an ending I'd never seen coming. Filled with glee, I laughed and cried loudly to the skies, "No more am I held down by your oppression, writer's block! No more will I be a pawn in your cruel game! I have seen the light of storytelling once more!"
What need of drugs when I my writing have? None, dear reader. None whatsoever.
---------------------------------------------------------
Saturday was a lovely day. After returning from a sojourn at the library without any success in my attempt to create, I resolved to be content in my lack of creativity and settled into a comfy couch with a good book. The sliding door was open and the fresh breeze wafted through the apartment.
Suddenly I heard rattling from downstairs. Were my neighbors about to light up, thus destroying my peace as they are so often wont to do? Would the foul tobacco smoke heading straight in through my windows force me to close them once again? No, dear reader. Though it was my neighbors, it was a different smoke they had in mind. And thus they began to grill.
At first, I welcomed the change. This mix of smoke and scent I would gladly have in my apartment! Yet, as time passed on, my mood changed. I was transforming, becoming a ravening beast of hunger and salivation. I, too, wanted meat, charred and dead! I wanted those charcoals to be searing flesh of cow for me!
Finally, I could stand it no longer. I fled from my home, seeking out my own sustenance in the approved fashion, rather than rigging up some manner of hook and line and attempting to snag meat from the grill below me. After buying my slab of beef and cheese, I took it to a hilltop where I could enjoy it in peace amidst nature and words and none of my fellow humans (read: in my car in the Super Walmart parking lot overlooking some trees, listening to a book on CD).
And then, as if slaking this hunger was all the remedy my mind had been craving, I began having thoughts. Writing thoughts. I thought of something that had been bothering me about a story I wanted to finish. And suddenly with that solution came another sentence. And then another. And then several plot points. Which is when I realized the true horror of this divine moment.
Reader, I had nothing on which to write.
Panic began to set in. I scrambled for a receipt, a paper bag, anything, knowing it wouldn't be enough. Before this new madness could fully overtake me, however, I remembered: I'm sitting in the Walmart parking lot. I have the solution before me.
I rushed inside, bought a notebook, and made all haste back to my car and the writing utensils I always carry (I was not so far gone in my writer's block that I had forgotten those). And there I sat, scribbling furiously as one possessed, scribing not only those words I had earlier thought of, but new words, bold ideas, and an ending I'd never seen coming. Filled with glee, I laughed and cried loudly to the skies, "No more am I held down by your oppression, writer's block! No more will I be a pawn in your cruel game! I have seen the light of storytelling once more!"
What need of drugs when I my writing have? None, dear reader. None whatsoever.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Flowers, wasps, and other such things
Last Friday, the local farmer's market opened for the year. Last Saturday, I went for the first time this season. I had grand plans of picture taking, bouquet buying, sour cherry strudel eating...*dreamy sigh*
Alas, I left my camera behind, arrived far too late to buy the Hungarian lady's strudel (it goes quite swiftly), and the only bouquets left were of dainty daffodils I didn't want to pay for. So I contented myself instead with a delicious half loaf of French bread with yummy garlic spread, four pots of flowers, and a planter pre-massed with flowers. Not terribly difficult to be content with that lot, I must say.
All but the garlic bread now make their home on my balcony, the first stage in my annual "garden." Which would be nothing but enjoyable if not for the also annual innundation of yellow jackets. I've asked the apartment complex in the past to please take care of the wasp problem. "Oh, yes, they are all over, aren't they?" the staff replies. "Have you tried going out early in the morning or after the sun sets and knocking down the nests?" Well, no. I can't reach the nests. I might try them again this year, but I may have to resort to other methods. If you have any wasp-eradicating suggestions, I'd love to hear them.
Otherwise, it's lovely to have a proper spring again. The last few years seemed to jump directly from winter into summer, from 30s to 80s with perhaps only a week in between. This year is far more moderate, which gives me hope for autumn as well. I live in Michigan because I LIKE having all four seasons. I resent the loss of my two favorites. (Leaving aside any philosophical argument about how part of why they're my favorites is precisely their fleeting nature).
And speaking of flowers and spring and all that, if you weren't already aware of it, I've begun a photo blog. The explanation can be found in the original post on the page, but suffice to say that I'm posting a picture (at least--often more) every day for the next year. Suggestions for shots are always welcome. Right now, you'll probably notice I have several shots of flowers, but there are plenty of pictures of other things as well. Do go take a look!
Alas, I left my camera behind, arrived far too late to buy the Hungarian lady's strudel (it goes quite swiftly), and the only bouquets left were of dainty daffodils I didn't want to pay for. So I contented myself instead with a delicious half loaf of French bread with yummy garlic spread, four pots of flowers, and a planter pre-massed with flowers. Not terribly difficult to be content with that lot, I must say.
All but the garlic bread now make their home on my balcony, the first stage in my annual "garden." Which would be nothing but enjoyable if not for the also annual innundation of yellow jackets. I've asked the apartment complex in the past to please take care of the wasp problem. "Oh, yes, they are all over, aren't they?" the staff replies. "Have you tried going out early in the morning or after the sun sets and knocking down the nests?" Well, no. I can't reach the nests. I might try them again this year, but I may have to resort to other methods. If you have any wasp-eradicating suggestions, I'd love to hear them.
Otherwise, it's lovely to have a proper spring again. The last few years seemed to jump directly from winter into summer, from 30s to 80s with perhaps only a week in between. This year is far more moderate, which gives me hope for autumn as well. I live in Michigan because I LIKE having all four seasons. I resent the loss of my two favorites. (Leaving aside any philosophical argument about how part of why they're my favorites is precisely their fleeting nature).
And speaking of flowers and spring and all that, if you weren't already aware of it, I've begun a photo blog. The explanation can be found in the original post on the page, but suffice to say that I'm posting a picture (at least--often more) every day for the next year. Suggestions for shots are always welcome. Right now, you'll probably notice I have several shots of flowers, but there are plenty of pictures of other things as well. Do go take a look!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Random words
Mellifluous
Pronunciation:\me-ˈli-flə-wəs, mə-\
Function:adjective
Etymology:Middle English mellyfluous, from Late Latin mellifluus, from Latin mell-, mel honey + fluere to flow; akin to Gothic milith honey, Greek melit-, meli
Date:15th century
1 : having a smooth rich flow [a mellifluous voice]
2 : filled with something (as honey) that sweetens
Susurrus
Pronunciation:\su̇-ˈsər-əs, -ˈsə-rəs\
Function:noun
Etymology:Latin, hum, whisper
Date:1826
: a whispering or rustling sound
Pronunciation:\me-ˈli-flə-wəs, mə-\
Function:adjective
Etymology:Middle English mellyfluous, from Late Latin mellifluus, from Latin mell-, mel honey + fluere to flow; akin to Gothic milith honey, Greek melit-, meli
Date:15th century
1 : having a smooth rich flow [a mellifluous voice]
2 : filled with something (as honey) that sweetens
Susurrus
Pronunciation:\su̇-ˈsər-əs, -ˈsə-rəs\
Function:noun
Etymology:Latin, hum, whisper
Date:1826
: a whispering or rustling sound
Thursday, April 16, 2009
*sigh* Cats.
On Monday night, Tabitha peed in the hallway. There is no litter box in the hallway; she chose to go there nonetheless.
The last time this happened, it heralded a urinary infection, crystalline and painful, though I didn’t figure this out until she’d done the same thing twice more in other places. “Oh,” I finally thought when the frustrated screaming had died down. “There must be something wrong with her.”
I would not be caught out again. I called the vet and made an appointment for the next day and in the meantime, she spent the night in the bathroom with one litter box, food, water, and a cozy kitty bed.
Tuesday evening I took her in, having been unable to procure the necessary urine sample. They poked and prodded her while she tried to bore her way through my abdomen to hide. Then they tried to get a sample…from what I understand this involves squeezing and manipulating and none of it sounds like a good time. Tabitha was more than a match for these efforts, though, and there was no joy. “We’ll have to keep her overnight,” they said, “and you can pick her up tomorrow after she leaves a sample.”
I took the cat carrier and trundled off to home, confident that this would be solved. It must be solved, you see, because I’m flying to Savannah for a week in a few days and poor catsitting Holly doesn’t want to clean up cat pee. Administering medicine is bad enough.
Hamlet and I spent a quiet evening, just the two of us. Occasionally he would look around for Tabitha, look somewhat confused, and then shrug his linebacker shoulders and come purring back to curl up at – or rather, on my feet.
Wednesday I called the vet at lunch to make sure I could pick Tabitha up. “No luck yet,” they informed me. “She’s being a bit stubborn.” No problem. I called back at 5, at which point she’d been at the vet for about 24 hours.
“Still no pee,” they said.
“How about I come get her and some of that fancy plastic litter and see if I can get a sample at home like I did last year?” I suggested.
We had an agreement and the carrier and I went back to the vet to take my poor, beleaguered kitter home. Apparently, she was very unhappy there: they wanted me to go back and get her myself because they didn’t want her to bite them. I looked incredulously at them, but when I got back to the cage, she was twice her normal size and had somehow fastened herself to its metal floor in the back corner.
And at once I saw the problem of her not peeing – the “litter box” they’d placed in there was half a Styrofoam take-out container with a tiny mound of plastic NoSorb litter in it. She’s apparently tipped it over more than once. How is that supposed to bear any resemblance to her litter box, and if she did figure it out and tried to use it, how was it supposed to stay upright?
At any rate, I stuck my hand in, she growled at it, I held out a finger, she sniffed it and then let me lift her out into the waiting carrier. I paid, we went home (during which trip she licked my finger repeatedly), and I set up the pee-gathering litter box, shut the bathroom door, and let her out.
First she scarfed down the food left in the dish, with frequent time outs to come rub up against my legs, meow, or sniff at the litter box. And as soon as her hunger was sated, she jumped into the litter box and peed like Austin Powers when he wakes from his cryogenic sleep. Oh, so happy kitty! The entire process took about 7 minutes.
Off I went, back to the vet’s office armed with a jar of something I really hope doesn’t spill in my car. I went in and asked brightly, “Would you like some cat urine?” The look on the receptionist’s face said, “I’d rather have syphilis,” but she took it and sent it into the back for the long-awaited urinalysis.
The results came in about fifteen minutes later.
Tabitha is fine.
“Oh,” they said knowingly. “So it was behavioral.”
“Argh!” I said.
“Yes,” they said. “Now, how many litter boxes do you have?”
“Two,” I answered, knowing that they would next say—
“We’d really recommend you get another, since you have two cats. One more litter box than you have cats is a good rule,” they said, just as I knew they would.
“Yes,” I said. “I know. But as there’s no good place to put another, I scoop the boxes about four times a day.”
“Oh,” they said. “Oh. Well. Yes, that sounds sufficient. Hmm.”
“Exactly,” I said.
I went home, let Tabitha out of the bathroom finally, and she commenced being very peeved that I’d shut her in when she thought she was finally free. No, she did NOT want to cuddle. She would rather lay here in the middle of the floor and glare pointedly, in fact.
And I also discovered that Hamlet was apparently not, as I thought, missing Tabitha the night before, but instead checking to make sure she’d really gone and it wasn’t wishful thinking. On her return, he immediately set about bullying her, following her around and smacking at her. He had apparently been saying, “Thank heavens! You finally got rid of her!”
*sigh*
Cats.
The last time this happened, it heralded a urinary infection, crystalline and painful, though I didn’t figure this out until she’d done the same thing twice more in other places. “Oh,” I finally thought when the frustrated screaming had died down. “There must be something wrong with her.”
I would not be caught out again. I called the vet and made an appointment for the next day and in the meantime, she spent the night in the bathroom with one litter box, food, water, and a cozy kitty bed.
Tuesday evening I took her in, having been unable to procure the necessary urine sample. They poked and prodded her while she tried to bore her way through my abdomen to hide. Then they tried to get a sample…from what I understand this involves squeezing and manipulating and none of it sounds like a good time. Tabitha was more than a match for these efforts, though, and there was no joy. “We’ll have to keep her overnight,” they said, “and you can pick her up tomorrow after she leaves a sample.”
I took the cat carrier and trundled off to home, confident that this would be solved. It must be solved, you see, because I’m flying to Savannah for a week in a few days and poor catsitting Holly doesn’t want to clean up cat pee. Administering medicine is bad enough.
Hamlet and I spent a quiet evening, just the two of us. Occasionally he would look around for Tabitha, look somewhat confused, and then shrug his linebacker shoulders and come purring back to curl up at – or rather, on my feet.
Wednesday I called the vet at lunch to make sure I could pick Tabitha up. “No luck yet,” they informed me. “She’s being a bit stubborn.” No problem. I called back at 5, at which point she’d been at the vet for about 24 hours.
“Still no pee,” they said.
“How about I come get her and some of that fancy plastic litter and see if I can get a sample at home like I did last year?” I suggested.
We had an agreement and the carrier and I went back to the vet to take my poor, beleaguered kitter home. Apparently, she was very unhappy there: they wanted me to go back and get her myself because they didn’t want her to bite them. I looked incredulously at them, but when I got back to the cage, she was twice her normal size and had somehow fastened herself to its metal floor in the back corner.
And at once I saw the problem of her not peeing – the “litter box” they’d placed in there was half a Styrofoam take-out container with a tiny mound of plastic NoSorb litter in it. She’s apparently tipped it over more than once. How is that supposed to bear any resemblance to her litter box, and if she did figure it out and tried to use it, how was it supposed to stay upright?
At any rate, I stuck my hand in, she growled at it, I held out a finger, she sniffed it and then let me lift her out into the waiting carrier. I paid, we went home (during which trip she licked my finger repeatedly), and I set up the pee-gathering litter box, shut the bathroom door, and let her out.
First she scarfed down the food left in the dish, with frequent time outs to come rub up against my legs, meow, or sniff at the litter box. And as soon as her hunger was sated, she jumped into the litter box and peed like Austin Powers when he wakes from his cryogenic sleep. Oh, so happy kitty! The entire process took about 7 minutes.
Off I went, back to the vet’s office armed with a jar of something I really hope doesn’t spill in my car. I went in and asked brightly, “Would you like some cat urine?” The look on the receptionist’s face said, “I’d rather have syphilis,” but she took it and sent it into the back for the long-awaited urinalysis.
The results came in about fifteen minutes later.
Tabitha is fine.
“Oh,” they said knowingly. “So it was behavioral.”
“Argh!” I said.
“Yes,” they said. “Now, how many litter boxes do you have?”
“Two,” I answered, knowing that they would next say—
“We’d really recommend you get another, since you have two cats. One more litter box than you have cats is a good rule,” they said, just as I knew they would.
“Yes,” I said. “I know. But as there’s no good place to put another, I scoop the boxes about four times a day.”
“Oh,” they said. “Oh. Well. Yes, that sounds sufficient. Hmm.”
“Exactly,” I said.
I went home, let Tabitha out of the bathroom finally, and she commenced being very peeved that I’d shut her in when she thought she was finally free. No, she did NOT want to cuddle. She would rather lay here in the middle of the floor and glare pointedly, in fact.
And I also discovered that Hamlet was apparently not, as I thought, missing Tabitha the night before, but instead checking to make sure she’d really gone and it wasn’t wishful thinking. On her return, he immediately set about bullying her, following her around and smacking at her. He had apparently been saying, “Thank heavens! You finally got rid of her!”
*sigh*
Cats.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Affirmation is nice
I don’t know about you, but I often have fears that I’m not doing my job well enough, that I’m not competent in any way at anything, that I lack some critical function that enables success (this despite my recently diagnosed “fear of success”—but that’s another story). No matter how good or effective you think you are, if no one ever acknowledges it, it erodes away your self-confidence.
Some of you remember when I worked at the Daily Iowegian. I started there working part-time as the writer for the weekend children’s page. Then not long after I got there, the typesetter quit, so they asked me to take her full-time job on top of the children’s page. They also decided that I should be a reporter, photographer, in charge of the legals, business, and farm pages, and, oh, yes, the proofreader. At the same time. So I ended up with two and a half full-time jobs – for about $8.50 an hour. *shrug* It was decent money for the area.
The problem was the… well, we’ll call it “lack of morale” at the paper. It was an incredibly messed up environment in ways I can’t (or rather, don’t feel like) describe. Suffice to say I have never before or since had a job that I literally every day wanted to slam my fist on my desk and scream, “I quit!” and just walk out. Possibly after chucking something heavy at my editor’s head.
So, not a fun place. And while I KNEW I was doing the work of at least two people, and doing it well, I never got any kind of feedback to that effect while I was there. It was all very tiring.
A year or so back, one of my former co-workers there found me online. She’d found me once or twice before and every time she wants to know when I’m moving back to Centerville. (Never ever ever, please.) That time, she regaled me with tales of the people they’d hired to replace me. It seems none of them had lasted very long. According to Patsy, some could write all right but not type, most could type but not write, and none of them could do both “as well as you could.” That was incredibly nice to hear.
Yesterday, she found me again and, once again, asked if I wanted to move back. Then she said she was finally quitting. Apparently she doesn't like the new editor—which, if you knew the past editors, you’d know would take a ridiculous level of doing. (“I’d take [a past editor’s] temper tantrums any day over this guy,” she said. And she means tantrums—throwing things, getting into fights with people who’d come in.) After much discussion about the situation we had the following exchange that prompted this over-lengthy entry:
Me:
This isn't going to happen, but do you think if I came back and talked to Becky (ed. note: the publisher of the paper) that she'd give ME the editor job? :)
patsy says:
Yes. We have said often that you were the best one we'd had in the newsroom. You always did your job - and had time left over to look at shoes and spiders.
I was the best one in the newsroom?! In the 16 years that Patsy’s been there? That sentiment alone is mind-boggling to me, much less the fact that they still bring me up. I haven’t worked there since February 2005.
I don’t want the editor’s job. I really, really don’t. But the fact that I could have it for the asking(and if Patsy says I could, I could)…that’s a pretty good feeling.
Some of you remember when I worked at the Daily Iowegian. I started there working part-time as the writer for the weekend children’s page. Then not long after I got there, the typesetter quit, so they asked me to take her full-time job on top of the children’s page. They also decided that I should be a reporter, photographer, in charge of the legals, business, and farm pages, and, oh, yes, the proofreader. At the same time. So I ended up with two and a half full-time jobs – for about $8.50 an hour. *shrug* It was decent money for the area.
The problem was the… well, we’ll call it “lack of morale” at the paper. It was an incredibly messed up environment in ways I can’t (or rather, don’t feel like) describe. Suffice to say I have never before or since had a job that I literally every day wanted to slam my fist on my desk and scream, “I quit!” and just walk out. Possibly after chucking something heavy at my editor’s head.
So, not a fun place. And while I KNEW I was doing the work of at least two people, and doing it well, I never got any kind of feedback to that effect while I was there. It was all very tiring.
A year or so back, one of my former co-workers there found me online. She’d found me once or twice before and every time she wants to know when I’m moving back to Centerville. (Never ever ever, please.) That time, she regaled me with tales of the people they’d hired to replace me. It seems none of them had lasted very long. According to Patsy, some could write all right but not type, most could type but not write, and none of them could do both “as well as you could.” That was incredibly nice to hear.
Yesterday, she found me again and, once again, asked if I wanted to move back. Then she said she was finally quitting. Apparently she doesn't like the new editor—which, if you knew the past editors, you’d know would take a ridiculous level of doing. (“I’d take [a past editor’s] temper tantrums any day over this guy,” she said. And she means tantrums—throwing things, getting into fights with people who’d come in.) After much discussion about the situation we had the following exchange that prompted this over-lengthy entry:
Me:
This isn't going to happen, but do you think if I came back and talked to Becky (ed. note: the publisher of the paper) that she'd give ME the editor job? :)
patsy says:
Yes. We have said often that you were the best one we'd had in the newsroom. You always did your job - and had time left over to look at shoes and spiders.
I was the best one in the newsroom?! In the 16 years that Patsy’s been there? That sentiment alone is mind-boggling to me, much less the fact that they still bring me up. I haven’t worked there since February 2005.
I don’t want the editor’s job. I really, really don’t. But the fact that I could have it for the asking(and if Patsy says I could, I could)…that’s a pretty good feeling.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Wrapped in a cloud of pouting
I should be working right now.
I'm taking the time to ramble and grumble and kvetch.
Today is one of those days in which you wake up and everything SEEMS fine. But the longer the day goes on (and it's only ten a.m. right now), the grumpier you get. I'm trying not to be, I swear! There's no real reason for it. There are a hundred little things that normally wouldn't bother me even all clumped together as they are--yet today they are the stinging gnats carrying teeny tiny buckets of lemon juice they release over an open wound I can't remember getting.
Yesterday I got a lot accomplished for one project and took it as far as it could go. But in so doing, I missed a very good friend's birthday, even though I KNEW it was coming up for once. I had a couple of fairly awkward phone conversations with a person I normally speak quite easily with--and it was my fault. I have another extremely important project that I should have done weeks ago, but keep putting off for reasons I don't understand. It is the possible culmination of a number of dreams and yet I can't seem to sit down and do it. And it MUST be done by the end of the month...which is swiftly approaching. (It also must be secret--I'll 'splain later). I can't seem to find the time to sit down and write for my writer's group tomorrow night, but I have to find something to take because I skipped the last meeting for lack of material. And that's when zillions of new people showed up. I forgot to take the trash out again! I only have leftover soggy pizza from last week for lunch today. I need to do laundry and I don't have quarters.
Normally, other than the frustration about the "very important project," I'd deal with the other stuff just fine. After all, against all of that, I got to see very dear friends this weekend for hours on end, I get to go to an Inklings Conference at the end of the week, next weekend I'm hitching a ride to Chicago to see very dear friends again, and my best friend is getting married in one month and two days. These are all fantastic things. I'm in controlled debt only, I have a roof over my head, I read a good book yesterday, and I'm getting a decent tax return. These are little things that are great.
It's just a Jonah day, I suppose.
I'm taking the time to ramble and grumble and kvetch.
Today is one of those days in which you wake up and everything SEEMS fine. But the longer the day goes on (and it's only ten a.m. right now), the grumpier you get. I'm trying not to be, I swear! There's no real reason for it. There are a hundred little things that normally wouldn't bother me even all clumped together as they are--yet today they are the stinging gnats carrying teeny tiny buckets of lemon juice they release over an open wound I can't remember getting.
Yesterday I got a lot accomplished for one project and took it as far as it could go. But in so doing, I missed a very good friend's birthday, even though I KNEW it was coming up for once. I had a couple of fairly awkward phone conversations with a person I normally speak quite easily with--and it was my fault. I have another extremely important project that I should have done weeks ago, but keep putting off for reasons I don't understand. It is the possible culmination of a number of dreams and yet I can't seem to sit down and do it. And it MUST be done by the end of the month...which is swiftly approaching. (It also must be secret--I'll 'splain later). I can't seem to find the time to sit down and write for my writer's group tomorrow night, but I have to find something to take because I skipped the last meeting for lack of material. And that's when zillions of new people showed up. I forgot to take the trash out again! I only have leftover soggy pizza from last week for lunch today. I need to do laundry and I don't have quarters.
Normally, other than the frustration about the "very important project," I'd deal with the other stuff just fine. After all, against all of that, I got to see very dear friends this weekend for hours on end, I get to go to an Inklings Conference at the end of the week, next weekend I'm hitching a ride to Chicago to see very dear friends again, and my best friend is getting married in one month and two days. These are all fantastic things. I'm in controlled debt only, I have a roof over my head, I read a good book yesterday, and I'm getting a decent tax return. These are little things that are great.
It's just a Jonah day, I suppose.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Thoughts on the relative nature of personality
That sounds far more high-falutin' than this is likely to end up. This is prompted by a review of my Johari window a few days ago. I noticed my old roommate Kelly jumped on board at some point to bring my grand total of "people who took the time to choose six words of me-ness" to five. (Still a bit shy of my longed-for goal of 8, but vastly beyond my expectation of 1 and a half).
I'm noticing more and more how distinct my personality is to different people. Now, I've sort of known this about myself for a very long time. I'm adaptable and polite in my interactions with people according to their expectations and my desires. I think everyone probably is. This is slightly different than that, I'd say. More along the lines of how good friends, each with their own distinct personality, draw out different facets of me. Different social situations do the same--which would explain why the two people who describe me is "silly" both lived with me for extended periods of time. I'm a freakin' nut job, people, and it's fun. I'm also often fairly guarded about it (I'm aware it can frighten the weak), so you may see only glimpses...unless you get to spend vast amounts of time with me.
You get a taste of these thoughts in the comments section for the original Johari post. So I'm going to cut and paste a bit here, because it's easier to cheat:
Kastie says:
Nonetheless, it's fascinating to see how different people think of me. John and Amy (at least, I'm almost positive the third anonymous is Amy) chose adjectives that very much describe not only me as a whole, but who *I* think they think of me as specifically with respect to them.
[Amy replies: Why yes, I AM the 3rd anonymous. You are very perceptive.]
And then there's the anonymous person who clearly thinks of me as a frightened mouse of a person--their choices are all words like "nervous" and "self-conscious," and "shy." Not that I'm not occasionally some of those things, but I'm not remotely exclusively or even mainly described by them. So I'm fascinated by who that might be (I have my suspicions) and hope that someday they'll see what those other labellers see.
So. Do you really know me as well as you think you do? As much as I crave being deeply known, I think there are probably very few people -- including those I consider close friends -- who actually do. In fact, I'm not sure one can ever really know someone else completely because of how personality tends to shift as needed. There are general traits that stay constant (most people seem to agree that I'm intelligent, for example), but others -- however true they are -- are only really apparent in relation to not only IF you trust someone but HOW you trust them.
I wander away now to get lost in a fog of happy contemplation. Please, PLEASE feel free to comment and/or add to the conversation or, if you have not yet done so, to click through to my Johari window and add your own definition of me. (I'd love to know your name if you're feeling brave. I have three anonymouses, fer cryin' out loud!)
I'm noticing more and more how distinct my personality is to different people. Now, I've sort of known this about myself for a very long time. I'm adaptable and polite in my interactions with people according to their expectations and my desires. I think everyone probably is. This is slightly different than that, I'd say. More along the lines of how good friends, each with their own distinct personality, draw out different facets of me. Different social situations do the same--which would explain why the two people who describe me is "silly" both lived with me for extended periods of time. I'm a freakin' nut job, people, and it's fun. I'm also often fairly guarded about it (I'm aware it can frighten the weak), so you may see only glimpses...unless you get to spend vast amounts of time with me.
You get a taste of these thoughts in the comments section for the original Johari post. So I'm going to cut and paste a bit here, because it's easier to cheat:
Kastie says:
Nonetheless, it's fascinating to see how different people think of me. John and Amy (at least, I'm almost positive the third anonymous is Amy) chose adjectives that very much describe not only me as a whole, but who *I* think they think of me as specifically with respect to them.
[Amy replies: Why yes, I AM the 3rd anonymous. You are very perceptive.]
And then there's the anonymous person who clearly thinks of me as a frightened mouse of a person--their choices are all words like "nervous" and "self-conscious," and "shy." Not that I'm not occasionally some of those things, but I'm not remotely exclusively or even mainly described by them. So I'm fascinated by who that might be (I have my suspicions) and hope that someday they'll see what those other labellers see.
So. Do you really know me as well as you think you do? As much as I crave being deeply known, I think there are probably very few people -- including those I consider close friends -- who actually do. In fact, I'm not sure one can ever really know someone else completely because of how personality tends to shift as needed. There are general traits that stay constant (most people seem to agree that I'm intelligent, for example), but others -- however true they are -- are only really apparent in relation to not only IF you trust someone but HOW you trust them.
I wander away now to get lost in a fog of happy contemplation. Please, PLEASE feel free to comment and/or add to the conversation or, if you have not yet done so, to click through to my Johari window and add your own definition of me. (I'd love to know your name if you're feeling brave. I have three anonymouses, fer cryin' out loud!)
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Send my friend to Australia!
There's a job opening for the Australian tourism board right now. They send you over to live on an island beach for six months as the "Island Caretaker," and periodically you send reports to the Queensland tourist bureau about how fabulous life is there.
I have no desire to do this job. My good friend Tonya, on the other hand, is dying to do it.
If you go to this link you'll get to watch her short video and vote for it. Everyone who applies has to submit a video and the most popular get shortlisted for the job. Vote early, vote generously, and vote often, from different computers if you can.
I have no desire to do this job. My good friend Tonya, on the other hand, is dying to do it.
If you go to this link you'll get to watch her short video and vote for it. Everyone who applies has to submit a video and the most popular get shortlisted for the job. Vote early, vote generously, and vote often, from different computers if you can.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Horse girl says, "Squee!"
Sunday last (Feb. 8th) I did a lovely thing on a whim--I spent my weekly grocery budget and went to see the Royal Lipizzaner Stallions perform. And I got a really great seat for my not-much money, too! There were two rows of folding chair on the actual floor, a tiny half wall, and then the first row of stadium seats. I was in that first row. So I had a better view (I think) than the people on the floor, because I was just slightly raised.
I took pictures with my cell phone, which basically means, you can tell those white blurs are horses, but not much else. Nonetheless I share them with you. And a very brief video of a couple of the more spectacular "Airs Above the Ground" if I can figure out how to add it. I was trying to be a bit surreptitious, so they're kind of truncated, but still impressive. I really should go to more things like this. I had plenty of food to last the week without that money and I have a wonderful memory. I love when money goes toward experiences!
I took pictures with my cell phone, which basically means, you can tell those white blurs are horses, but not much else. Nonetheless I share them with you. And a very brief video of a couple of the more spectacular "Airs Above the Ground" if I can figure out how to add it. I was trying to be a bit surreptitious, so they're kind of truncated, but still impressive. I really should go to more things like this. I had plenty of food to last the week without that money and I have a wonderful memory. I love when money goes toward experiences!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Johari window
My sister just posted her own Johari window and I thought it was an interesting idea, so I set up my own. (And by "set up" I mean I signed up...I didn't pick any of the words). Please, do drop by and click a few boxes, won't you?
Basically, you click this link and it takes you to a page with a bunch of adjectives and you pick the five or six that you think most closely describe me. You can leave your name or be completely anonymous, whichever you prefer. And then we see how others see me in comparison to how I see myself. You see.
I'm hoping for eight responses. No particular reason, just a nice random number that far exceeds my actual expectations. :)
Basically, you click this link and it takes you to a page with a bunch of adjectives and you pick the five or six that you think most closely describe me. You can leave your name or be completely anonymous, whichever you prefer. And then we see how others see me in comparison to how I see myself. You see.
I'm hoping for eight responses. No particular reason, just a nice random number that far exceeds my actual expectations. :)
Monday, January 26, 2009
My morning routine
My morning routine starts with my alarm going off at about 6:15 so that I'm at least partially toward awake by the time Jody calls me at 6:30 (5:30 her time, the crazy wench) to roust me out of bed for our respective exercising. Then when I hang up, I'll lie there all muffled and grumpy until my snooze goes off for (hopefully) the final time about a minute or two later.
Thus commences the wrestling out from under multiple blankets pinned down around me by purring cats who suddenly weigh about fifty pounds each. I usually manage to make it out, but there are days I give up the fight and just hit snooze again.
Once I do struggle free, I stumble off for the living room, eyes wedged nearly shut at the light and the cold, forming a permanent vertical crease between my brows. There's usually a fair amount of grumbling -- audible or not -- as I throw in the appropriate DVD, change into workout clothes, and lace up my tennis shoes -- that last I have to do perched carefully on the edge of the couch, because if I sit too far back I will either not have the motivation to get up again or my lap will be immediately filled by a pleased and purring cat.
Once I'm laced up and the DVD is running, I'll stand and start shuffling either my feet or my arms, while trying not to kick whichever cat is twining lovingly and helpfully about my legs. Every other day the routine also includes floor exercises near the end, which necessitates both cats rushing over to wriggle about my head in an ecstatic welcome to floor level--makes doing anything a bit difficult. This is why I no longer do yoga.
I usually wake up pretty thoroughly about halfway through, sometimes before. By the end, I'm up, I'm good, I've done something nice for myself. So I take a bit of a break. I take off my shoes and head back to the couch for a ten to twenty minute curl up with the lady cat to watch the morning's news and weather before I pry myself back up and head for the shower, quickly followed with at least minimally presentable clothing, and finally out to the car to sit and wait five or ten minutes for it to warm up enough to shift.
There's rather a lot of cat in my mornings.
Thus commences the wrestling out from under multiple blankets pinned down around me by purring cats who suddenly weigh about fifty pounds each. I usually manage to make it out, but there are days I give up the fight and just hit snooze again.
Once I do struggle free, I stumble off for the living room, eyes wedged nearly shut at the light and the cold, forming a permanent vertical crease between my brows. There's usually a fair amount of grumbling -- audible or not -- as I throw in the appropriate DVD, change into workout clothes, and lace up my tennis shoes -- that last I have to do perched carefully on the edge of the couch, because if I sit too far back I will either not have the motivation to get up again or my lap will be immediately filled by a pleased and purring cat.
Once I'm laced up and the DVD is running, I'll stand and start shuffling either my feet or my arms, while trying not to kick whichever cat is twining lovingly and helpfully about my legs. Every other day the routine also includes floor exercises near the end, which necessitates both cats rushing over to wriggle about my head in an ecstatic welcome to floor level--makes doing anything a bit difficult. This is why I no longer do yoga.
I usually wake up pretty thoroughly about halfway through, sometimes before. By the end, I'm up, I'm good, I've done something nice for myself. So I take a bit of a break. I take off my shoes and head back to the couch for a ten to twenty minute curl up with the lady cat to watch the morning's news and weather before I pry myself back up and head for the shower, quickly followed with at least minimally presentable clothing, and finally out to the car to sit and wait five or ten minutes for it to warm up enough to shift.
There's rather a lot of cat in my mornings.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Peregrination #3
I’m beginning to notice something that shouldn’t surprise me, but does rather. Now, I know that a lot of my stories are very introverted—they’re the story of one person, one experience, internal and thought-driven. That in itself doesn’t surprise me in the least. I am, after all, an introvert. I don’t quite know how to think in any other way, but I also know that the richness and depth of what’s inside my head doesn’t translate well and on the outside I just look like a ditz—which I’m mostly okay with, really. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. It just means that one of the reasons I have trouble with dialogue in stories is because I have trouble with dialogue in real life. So my characters think things instead of saying them out loud to someone else in the story because that’s what I do.
As I say, I knew that. I wouldn't be surprised if EVERYONE knows that. Here's the thing I'm surprised by: somehow I hadn’t noticed how often what I write has to do with the hidden, the secret. Things that appear to be on the outside, but are not truly on the inside. And I’m guessing that’s why they so often seem to come out creepy or vaguely horror-like, even though I don't intend that at all. Because we like to be able to count on what we observe. When we can't, we fear it.
This was mostly brought to mind when I noticed a quick little sentence I’d dashed off in reaction to a story prompt. The prompt said, “Finish this sentence: ‘Evening was the time for…’” My sentence ran, “Evening was the time for movement, buoyancy. Daytime was the cowering time.”
I suppose this is also an indicator that I like to turn things upside down. I like to see what happens when the opposite of the expected steps in. I like to discover the effects of showing that the things most people find safety in are the things that have no safety at all for one character or another. Does this make them mad or the truly sane? What if a whole world is turned inside out from our expectations? What if night is safe and day is dangerous? Doesn’t that somehow take all our normal, deep-seated fears of the night and make them exponentially worse because they happen in the light that should be safe?
I love the idea of this exploration into what trips our psyche, but I don’t know that I’ve ever REALLY connected it with my writing before. I hadn’t noticed how pervasive that is in my stories. I’m not entirely sure what it says about me. I would say something like, “Writing about it helps me conquer my own fears,” but I don’t think it would be true. I think what I hope is that I can share this fear with someone who might not otherwise by tormented by it. The whole “misery loves company” schtick, I guess. Except I'm not miserable. I'm also not as sadistic as it makes me sound.
Maybe I just want people to understand why I fear. Because everything can twist when you’re not looking. But that also means that even the dead can become beautiful, the mundane can become extraordinary, and the harshest experience can be the most moving. It’s not all fear. It’s also the essence of hope and wonder.
As I say, I knew that. I wouldn't be surprised if EVERYONE knows that. Here's the thing I'm surprised by: somehow I hadn’t noticed how often what I write has to do with the hidden, the secret. Things that appear to be on the outside, but are not truly on the inside. And I’m guessing that’s why they so often seem to come out creepy or vaguely horror-like, even though I don't intend that at all. Because we like to be able to count on what we observe. When we can't, we fear it.
This was mostly brought to mind when I noticed a quick little sentence I’d dashed off in reaction to a story prompt. The prompt said, “Finish this sentence: ‘Evening was the time for…’” My sentence ran, “Evening was the time for movement, buoyancy. Daytime was the cowering time.”
I suppose this is also an indicator that I like to turn things upside down. I like to see what happens when the opposite of the expected steps in. I like to discover the effects of showing that the things most people find safety in are the things that have no safety at all for one character or another. Does this make them mad or the truly sane? What if a whole world is turned inside out from our expectations? What if night is safe and day is dangerous? Doesn’t that somehow take all our normal, deep-seated fears of the night and make them exponentially worse because they happen in the light that should be safe?
I love the idea of this exploration into what trips our psyche, but I don’t know that I’ve ever REALLY connected it with my writing before. I hadn’t noticed how pervasive that is in my stories. I’m not entirely sure what it says about me. I would say something like, “Writing about it helps me conquer my own fears,” but I don’t think it would be true. I think what I hope is that I can share this fear with someone who might not otherwise by tormented by it. The whole “misery loves company” schtick, I guess. Except I'm not miserable. I'm also not as sadistic as it makes me sound.
Maybe I just want people to understand why I fear. Because everything can twist when you’re not looking. But that also means that even the dead can become beautiful, the mundane can become extraordinary, and the harshest experience can be the most moving. It’s not all fear. It’s also the essence of hope and wonder.
New year, new entry
Apparently when I decided to take the month of December off writing Lulu's story, I simultaneously decided to stop writing ANYTHING. But this morning I started again. I've been itching to do so all week, especially since I now have my very own laptop, courtesy of the Apple clan. It's the one Apple and I trucked around Ireland a year and a half ago, actually. It needs a wee bit of help, but Word works beautifully and that's all that I really care about in the end. (Also, Appleman uploaded all our Ireland pictures onto it, and I spent a very nostalgic hour looking at those last night).
Anyway, I kept wanting to write all week, which is the first time I've had the itch in a few weeks. Finally, I sat down and started writing "Mist," a story inspired by one of the Ireland pictures, actually. This one, I believe, though it could really have been nearly any from that day:
It didn't get very far last night, but I still wanted to do more with it this morning. So I did. And there's more to come. I haven't the faintest idea where it's going, but I know who Myra is. I'm not sure precisely where she comes from yet--then again, neither does she. I guess we'll find out together. The way the story is going sort of tickled something in the back of my brain though, and then it solidified as I was going through other files and saw something. Which will be the next post I make. Two in one day! Aren't you lucky?
For now, I'm back, I'm still rambling, and you're all welcome to join in.
Anyway, I kept wanting to write all week, which is the first time I've had the itch in a few weeks. Finally, I sat down and started writing "Mist," a story inspired by one of the Ireland pictures, actually. This one, I believe, though it could really have been nearly any from that day:
It didn't get very far last night, but I still wanted to do more with it this morning. So I did. And there's more to come. I haven't the faintest idea where it's going, but I know who Myra is. I'm not sure precisely where she comes from yet--then again, neither does she. I guess we'll find out together. The way the story is going sort of tickled something in the back of my brain though, and then it solidified as I was going through other files and saw something. Which will be the next post I make. Two in one day! Aren't you lucky?
For now, I'm back, I'm still rambling, and you're all welcome to join in.
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