I have all of these journals from so many points through my life that have four or five pages filled and then nothing. I always felt that if I waited too long, I should just start fresh. Funny, because the journals were just for me, so one blank piece of paper should be as good as the next, right?

Well, time for this blog to just continue.

So I was just thinking about the Life List that I created back at the very beginning of this blog and how much it has changed and how much it has stayed the same. And how as I become older the macro becomes micro, the big picture becomes a series of tiny details, the list becomes a sum of its parts, and each item contains a sublist.

Over the past couple of years I have broken a foot, broken my brain (figuratively, natch), been published, inadvertently started a business, become a football fan, not only roasted a chicken but become adept at said roasting, watched my first house torn down and my dream house built, moved twice, and on and on.

I don’t know where I’m going with this. Ten minutes ago, I was thinking about how I keep wanting to find a mat in my storage locker and try the Comcast yoga station, and somehow my brain translated that into “Perhaps you should blog.” Ah, my brain. A vast enchanting place much like the Fire Swamp in the Princess Bride–draped in ancient branches and vines with sudden unexplained explosions and giant creatures (R.O.U.S.) scattered throughout. But once in a while it produces something I can be proud of. And I suppose it is time to stop shying away and try to foster those moments.

Last week, I was designing an invitation for my grandfather’s 90th birthday party. My grandfather’s life is beyond anything to be described in this blog–a father of 6, grandfather and great-grandfather of more than I feel like counting right now, WWII hero, civic leader, and all around awesome dude–and it was a challenge to find a way to represent him on a 4 by 5 piece of cardstock, so I drew on an old forgotten, somewhat rusty talent and penciled a portrait. And I remembered that I can draw. Then of course, the very same Fire Swamp that spit out this illustration sucked me into the quicksand of guilt–if you can do this, why don’t you do it more often? Why isn’t it your “thing,” this drawing business? And you know why? Drawing is haaaard (said super whiny with lower lip jutted out). You know what else is haaaard? Writing. And most creative endeavors. And I’m damn lazy. So there.

I got lost a little between point A and point B, so I’m going to fish a bit for a conclusion here, but let’s resolve to say I would like to flex my muscles. I will find the damn mat and the On-Demand yoga station and flex my quads and triceps and calves, and I will open a fresh blog window more often and brave the wilds of my mind, explosions, beasts, quicksand and all.

Here are some notable similarities:

We’d rather be in pajamas. My writer part needs constant coddling. She needs to be kept happy and comfortable, otherwise she is left easily to distraction. Ex., “Look at these shiny buttons!” “This tag is itchy. Itchy. It itches. Tag. Itchy.” It’s easier in pajamas. There are no surprises, temperature and comfort level are easily controlled, one area of excuse is eliminated. And slippers go well with any PJ combo – no need to find the perfect shoe.

Likewise, comfort and temperature control are clearly paramount to a successful workout, but I gotta tell ya, once you’ve put those jogging pants, fluffy socks, and comfy sneakers on, once you’ve beaten the crap out of yourself and hit the showers, tights and heels aren’t looking too appealing. Fresh, clean sweats–the closest thing you can get to pajamas and still be accepted in public – well, you’ve never appreciated them more, is what I’m saying.

We’re small-time crazy. This I realized today when, after finishing a walking interval, I had to psych myself up to start jogging again. I slapped a big ol’ grin on my face and started chanting things in my head like “This is awesome!” I love this!” “Running is great!” “I’m great!” “The world, it’s GREAT!” “I FEEL GREAT!” And I started to believe it.

My brain does something similar when faced with the blank page: “I can DO THIS!” (Soon after, I get distracted by a shiny button or an itchy tag and must go change into PJs before proceeding.)

Suffice it to say, we’re excellent liars. Check out Bob on the Biggest Loser. He’s all, “You can DO THIS!” And the contestants are all, get the F out of my way, little man! Stop being so damn happy!” But soon they catch the lying bug and become proficient liars, and a hundred pounds later, they might realize lying ain’t so bad after all.

When you hit 2000 words in a day pretending anyone gives a crap what you’re writing and that it is good and that you rock, well, six of one half dozen of the whatever.

We’re big-time crazy. That’s the only explanation. There’s gotta be some similar area illuminated in the CAT scan of someone insane enough to run a marathon and someone who endeavors to write a novel. Training is lonely, novel writing is lonely, and until you reach that end result, it’s hard to convince yourself you’re right in the head.

No one will ever understand us. The rush you get after hitting your goal, running a little longer than usual, polishing that perfect scene after weeks of trying to wrangle those characters into submission; the feeling when you hit a wall and keep pushing, you come out the other side and suddenly remember how to breathe, and everything gets easier, your sneakers float above the pavement, the words pour through your fingers as if they are electric and you are a mere conduit. You are energy personified. Everything suddenly feels right. You reach the finish ribbon, you type the words THE END. And there are no words to describe that feeling. If you haven’t experienced it, you’ll never know.

1.56 miles #8wksto5k

THE END

I respected this protective instinct as far as I could, but there were practical matters to consider. For example, public health.

I faced my first dilemma during the first Great Drawer Reassignment of our cohabitation. Back in college, Dave had enough socks and underwear to last an entire semester. He would pile his dirty clothing up in a hamper inside a closet that one would be wise to don a hazmat suit when entering. His clothing–and odor–were not my responsibility, did not fall under my jurisdiction. But there I was in our shoebox fifth floor walk-up on Beacon Hill, having just carried the clean laundry up four flights of stairs, faced with a pile of socks some of which I knew had spent entire months under piles of nasty dirty clothing, oxygen deprived and mud caked from a newfound addiction to mountain biking.

Some of these socks emerged from the dryer not looking much better than they had when they went in. But Dave had Rules about his Stuff, so I knew that if I wanted to successfully eradicate the Black Socks of Death from my living quarters, I would have to proceed with care. So I started making piles.

I had four classifications: Fine, Pretty good, I suggest we throw these away, and Really, really could we please incinerate?

I found Dave in his office and asked calmly if I could run something by him. Please could he come to the bedroom–I will not throw away anything without his consent, but there is an Issue, and maybe he could consider…well, come see for yourself.

I’ve come to recognize a certain twitch in the jaw Dave gets when he’s angry, frustrated, concentrating–basically, any time he’s putting out a “now’s not the time, don’t talk to me” vibe. I know when I see this little muscle start to throb to proceed with caution. That little muscle could have been a heartbeat the way it pulsed that moment.

But he did follow me down the hall, into the tiny bedroom that barely fit a bed let alone two dressers and a bunch of nasty socks.

To earn his trust, I started with the worst, grungiest pile, thinking he had to see what I saw there. In the spirit of caution, I reverently picked up a sock that was once white now soot-black with holes in the toe and the heel and I muttered some understatement such as, “I think these might have seen their day.” Then waited for the fury of the angry caveman. “You no touch sock! My sock! MINE!”

But he just looked at that nasty sock, clutched so delicately between my fingers as if it were the shroud of Christ, shook his head and laughed.

I still don’t throw away anything without explicit permission, but I now have full reign on socks.

It’s not you, it’s me.

I’ve tried coming back to you so many times now, but I swore when I started this thang that I would never apologize for not updating, that this whole bloggy thing was for me and me alone, and I don’t owe anyone any excuses if I slack. But each time I tried to write something new, it felt like a lie of omission. There was an elephant in the room, and until I put two hands on that sucker’s rear and forced him outside, there was no space for true communication.

But I’m ready to come back. So here’s what happened: I got stagefright. Lame, I know. But a lot happened at once. I started getting magazine articles published and people were paying attention, and those interested in my novel manuscript began threatening to Google me! And then there was the whole getting-sick-for-the-entire-summer thing. Vitamin D deficiency is no joke. And I wonder how much longer it has been affecting me than just the past six months.

Then Dave had to go crash on his bike once again. Almost exactly a month after a crash in which he broke both his wrists, this time it was four ribs, a lung, a shoulder, his knees. Nobody wants to get The Phone Call. I got two Phone Calls in as many months. Luckily, he is a quick healer. Unluckily, that means he’s just about ready to get back on a bike and barrel down a mountain at top speed yet again. I have married a man whose career carries with it the risk of the Ultimate Phone Call. But maybe I’m just being dramatic. One hopes.

So blog, here I am to clear the air. There is so much I want to share with you: the things I learned from NaNoWriMo even though I bowed out quite early, my new love/hate relationship with jogging (or “yogging,” if you choose to pronounce it with a “soft j”*), the holidays (which are my favorite!), and the things that come to me in the shower.

Blog, I could go on, but I’d rather let Journey do it for me.

I’m just going to imagine you giving me a nice pat on the shoulder with your 80211 wireless hands and saying, “Welcome back, Buddy. Nice to see you.”

Yours faithfully**, if delinquently,

Linley

* I couldn’t find that scene from Anchorman on YouTube, but I did find this, which is glorious.

** If you insist.

- Start in the middle. Not necessarily the middle, but not the first line. The first line is going to change later when you know what the book is actually about, so for now, just start telling the story. You can spend hours anally choosing the first ten words of the manuscript later.

- Concentrate on writing pieces for now. You don’t know the story yet, so don’t get bogged down in the how or the why. Just write the scenes in your head. You can always reorganize later. Again, just tell the story. There is time later for fleshing things out or removing the extraneous.

- Messy is OK. Be messy! This is the time to stumble. To let your tongue (or your fingers, as the case may be) trip over words. Sometimes it takes a couple crappy paragraphs to get a groove, and some things that seem true now might not be true later, but for now, get it out and be sloppy about it. You’re at the kids table. Feel free to blow bubbles in your milk and slurp your b’sghettis.

- Think in contrasts. Make your characters contradictory and complex – i.e., human.

- Some days you just can’t win. Life happens, crappy writing happens, the Pats lose sometimes – it is what it is. Don’t get stuck, because tomorrow is another day, and there’s plenty more crap where that came from.

* NaNoWriMo is a challenge to write a novel (50,000 words) in a month.

“What is she doing,” I ask.

“Telling lawyer jokes,” Sister says, matter-of-factly.

“What?”

Niece: “Roar. ROAR!!!”

“She pulled a book off the shelf called the Best Lawyer Jokes Ever, and it has a picture of a scary man on the cover, so she’s making scary sounds.”

Niece: “Mommy, it SCARES me!” Her attention clearly turns back to the book, “ROAR!!!”

This is when I start laughing so hard I cry.

I kinda want to be this guy for Halloween.

]]> http://ifyoubelieveclap.wordpress.com/2009/10/08/scary-lawyers/feed/ 2 ifyoubelievethenclap bestlawyerjokes http://ifyoubelieveclap.wordpress.com/2009/09/15/undeclared/ http://ifyoubelieveclap.wordpress.com/2009/09/15/undeclared/#comments Tue, 15 Sep 2009 15:30:19 +0000 ifyoubelievethenclap http://ifyoubelieveclap.wordpress.com/?p=738 ]]> I’ve always wanted to be good at one thing. I can draw, but I was never the best in the class. I used to sing and act, but I wasn’t winning any awards. I never had the embrasure for flute, according to my music teacher, and I started saxophone too late (and with very little enthusiasm – I was a twelve-year-old girl, I wanted to play flute dammit). I admire people who find and embrace that thing they love and focus and practice and make it a part of them.

When I met my best friend in college, she knew she wanted to be a writer. She had known this her whole life. It was part of her, as if it were encoded in her DNA, right there with brown hair and a supreme distrust of the tomato. Everyone in college seemed to be like this, having popped out of wombs some eighteen years earlier already holding microphones or lighting equipment or tattered volumes of Kerouac.

Not me.

I started off college undeclared. And when I learned that those who were undeclared got to register for classes a day ahead of everyone else, therefore getting first pick, I was determined to stay undeclared for as long as possible. By the end of sophomore year when I was forced to make my choice, I chose writing. I could read a lot, I could graduate with a creative thesis instead of some boring research project, and if I decided to pursue a different interest later, well, good writing skills always come in handy.

I remember that excitement when the semester’s courses were starting to feel stale and the catalog for the following semester would come out – photography and cultural criticism and the history of the Far East – and I could take my pick.

I have continued in my adult life to seek that one thing that is mine, that sets me apart somehow from the pack. I’ll always have writing, in which I have lately found success, but once a year I also pull out the paint brushes or the sewing machine. Or one of the three guitars. Or the tennis racket. And I do something messy and imperfect; I exercise a muscle that’s been resting far too long. I awaken something inside, shake things up a bit, find a new angle.

And I remember how good it felt to be undeclared.

My eyes would feel relief, skimming over the A-heads and sidebars, maybe getting a break from the previous project through the use of a different template or a smaller trim size. The pile of papers were still tidy and solid – not dogeared all over, not yet sullied by red pen marks or the accidental coffee spill. And I couldn’t wait to get started with it.

I would reluctantly turn back to the computer screen where my current project awaited, stitched up and duct taped together in all the places it had bled red ink at my hand. My eyes fatigued and wrists sore from repetitive stress, I’d scale the Everest in front of me, package it up and ship it off to the printer, until in due time, I was free to face my new mountain.

Now I’m experiencing this with my own writing. My novel is complete and slowly circulating through the inboxes of a few agents, and it’s time for me to begin amassing the next clean white, fresh-ink-smelling stack of papers.

I’m filtering through several ideas, as well as several anxieties. What makes me think I can do it again? After three attempts at writing a novel, the fourth comes out complete, and as weird as it sounds, it wasn’t that hard! Maybe I’m experiencing that thing some women get after they deliver a baby. They go through this hellacious experience that is probably the most trauma their bodies have ever been through, and a week later, they’re saying it wasn’t that bad. Because thinking like that is the only way they’ll ever convince themselves to do it again. I call it “mothers’ amnesia.” That’s what I’m feeling.

Should I not remind myself of that night back in November, in the thick of NaNoWriMo, when I pounded out 2000 words in one day after a week of 1700 word days, and Dave came in the room to find me rolled up in a ball with a tear or two escaping down my cheeks, whining, “Writing is haaard!”? Or all the self-doubt? Or not knowing what to call what I was doing, because “I’m writing a book” just sounds too pretentious and braggy?

Yeah, I’m thinking mothers’ amnesia is the way to go. Because another evolutionary tool we’ve inherited is the right to foolery. There are some things we want to do, we can do, and we do even though we can’t explain why. Some collect pretty seashells, some train for marathons. I string words together on a page, one word after another, until those words can be organized and rearranged and stacked into a neat pile of clean white paper, warm and smelling of fresh ink.

1. A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving. Tell a person you don’t like this book, and she’ll look at you like you just drowned a puppy. Mostly I think because it is so many people’s FAVORITE book, which leaves me half convinced it’s the only book they’ve ever read.

2. Seinfeld. Hate. I have actually tried watching this show only because of the references that always come up in conversation: “You remember that episode of Seinfeld…?” Let me stop you right there – I don’t get Seinfeld references. “But you had to have seen the episode where….” Nope. “But…?” No. Really, really not. Now I’ve drowned a balding New Yorker puppy with crazy hair and bad dance moves. Luckily, the Seinfeld thing has died down substantially in recent years. Now it’s American Idol that I’m a bad, bad person for skipping out on.

3. The inspiration for this blog: Papyrus font. I feel most guilty of this hate, because I understand the most blatant overuse of Papyrus is by those who don’t spend a heck of a lot of time fixating on the intricacies of graphic design, so I guess in a way, yay for branching out there, but ugh. It attempts to scream ZEN! and ECO! and EARTH-LOVER! But it doesn’t print well, it looks super crappy online, and it’s ALL OVER THE PLACE.

4. Coldplay. Yeah, I said it.

5. To curb the angst, I’ll turn the tables for Item 5: Here’s one that turns the “No you di’in’t!” back on me. The other day at the beach, my 10 year old friend asked me who my favorite musical artist is, and in the moment, the name that popped into my head was Lady Gaga. Of course, I didn’t say this out loud. I pondered. She said, “Mine’s Lady Gaga.” And I said, “You know what? Me too.”

Have a great Friday, people. Enjoy your chips.

* Proper response: “You WHAT? That’s TERRIBLE! How can you LIVE?” Really, folks, I get by.

I’m going for a new theme in the raised bed this year. In the past, I’ve always had one area that does remarkably well and other areas that fail horribly, leaving bald patches in the soil. I’ve given each plant or seed the space begged for on its little stick or packet, and I’ve catered to its needs meticulously.

Yeah, that’s all out the window this year.

This year, I’ve thrown some seeds in, mixed in some seedlings here and there – perhaps on top of seeds, perhaps not – and only the strong will survive. Contrast this with the situation on my deck in which flowers, herbs, and veggies emerge neatly from various containers – and welcome to my brain. There are the neat, tidy, compartmentalized bits, and then there’s the untamed jungle.

So here’s what I’ve planted so far (I’m still going to plant potatoes and some impatiens, but THAT’S IT! I SWEAR!): arugula (rocket!), basil, other basil, swiss chard, spearmint, thyme, rosemary, parsley, sage, nasturtiums, petunias of various colors, gerbera daisies, scallions, salad mix, some cute little flowers I couldn’t resist that I may very well have already killed, cucumbers, raspberries, strawberries, pattipan squash, brandywine tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, sugar snap peas, snow peas, some kind of pole bean (can’t remember which), parsnips, acorn squash, and butternut squash.

Out of all that, something must feed us and something must still be pretty in August, right?

Oh, and swiss chard and pattipan squash will be ready to eat within days! And we already have strawberries!

And there are tiny lemons on our lemon tree!

And the wild blueberry bushes are out of control!

That is all.

The tidy, compartmentalized bits

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