I dropped Jack off at nine this morning. I hung his backpack on his hook and made sure he was having fun before leaving. He didn't even say goodbye.
Jack's fox backpack
I suppose I should be grateful I have a child who can go from filming a reality show one day to his first day of school the next with nary a protest, but surely one fond farewell glance isn't too much to ask for.
"High chair?"
After I dropped Jack off, I headed immediately to Target to hit up the Missoni for Target collection, which came out today. It was only 9:15 and the parking lot was full of women, young and old, bracing themselves for the mission ahead: find whatever hadn't been picked over by the teeming hordes who waited in line for hours and apparently ran through the doors screaming, spending upwards of $3000 (I overheard the employees chatting). I managed to find a few of the things Sarah asked me to look for on the phone. I was like a freaking auction assistant checking in with my bidder: "I've got a pair of black chevron tights. $16. Yay or nay? Okay, there are two sweater boxes left. Get both? Got it."
The worst of it all was that I found myself buying into the madness. "Do I really need a Missoni for Target bathmat?" I had to ask myself. The answer, quite clearly, was no, so back the bathmat went. Of course, I could have done what many people are already doing: selling the stuff on eBay for up to five times what it's worth. You'd think we were talking about real Missoni here, not Target-made crap. That said, I found a really nice sweater for John, as well as a child's X-Large cardigan for Sarah (several women headed to the children's department when they saw my booty). I also got the evil eye from a few women at check-out. Disgraceful, they were probably thinking. I can't blame them. I thought the same thing about the women ahead of me. This was truly consumerism at its worst.
I finally tore myself away and hurried home, where I managed to get in a workout, a shower (and I did my hair, miracle of miracles! I didn't even have to worry about waking Jack up!), and now this blog post. I'm off in a few to pick up the little man and see how things went.
I apologize for the rather long delay in posting. We have been a very busy family this past week, first heading out to Santa Barbara on Friday for Shauna's wedding, flying back on Tuesday, and then driving up to Deep Creek, Maryland, on Wednesday, for a free vacation (that is being taped and will run on PBS at some point, which I may or may not disclose depending on how embarrassing it is). It's a long story that I will delve into next week, but for now, I thought I'd post a brief Santa Barbara recap.
First of all, how on earth did I not realize how freaking fabulous Santa Barbara is? I went up there probably once or twice a month throughout high school, and Sarah lived there briefly before moving to D.C. But I think it takes three years of Virginia weather to truly appreciate Southern California. It was in the 60s-70s every day we were there. I don't think Shauna could have asked for a more perfect wedding day. The wedding itself was also absolutely gorgeous, with bubbles floating on the gentle breeze and guests holding pink parasols to shade themselves from the mid-day sun. Shauna and Chad got married at the Santa Barbara court house, in the sunken gardens, and our bright pink and purple dresses looked amazing against the vibrant green lawn. Shauna, of course, was a stunning bride.
The happy couple
Alas, Jack failed miserably in his ring bearer duties. When Shauna got engaged some time last year, I naively volunteered Jack to be the ring bearer, completley unaware that a 20-month-old is barely capable of walking in a straight line, let alone carrying a ring pillow down an aisle full of strangers. The main problem, however, was the fact that Jack woke up at 4 a.m. on the morning of the wedding and didn't nap during the day, so by the time the wedding started near two o' clock, he was a total wreck. John ended up carrying Jack - and the ring pillow I made - down the aisle. Chad's father had the rings the whole time. Basically, Jack was nothing more than a lawn ornament - a whiny lawn ornament in an expensive outfit that had to be toted off during the vows. Lesson learned.
My first time as a bridesmaid ever! Thanks Shauna!
The whole gang (sans Sarah)
On Sunday we had a chance to see my grandparents and my brother and his family. My grandma was particularly thrilled to see Jack, and he made her day by saying "grab-a" several times. Dorje, who is a year older than Jack, very kindly shared his trains. Sarah and I quizzed Dara on spelling words and skipped down the sidewalk with Samaya. Alice Keck park is so beautiful and the kids had a blast running amok. Five adults could barely keep up with four kids, a lovely reality check in case I was ever thinking of having three more (I wasn't).
Dorje finally gives up on Jack, who refuses to pose as directed.
All in all it was a splendid weekend that went by far too quickly. It's so special to see Jack play with his cousins and visit his great-grandparents, and I had a blast dancing on sore feet for hours on end with my best high school girlfriends. Thanks again to Shauna and Chad for hosting such an amazing weekend. We are so happy for you guys!
A hiker, a woman, is blithely treading through the forest when she happens upon a grizzly bear.
The bear lifts its head and meets the fearful hiker's gaze. The woman hesitates: flee, or stay and confront her enemy? Suddenly she remembers the Trader Joe's peach popsicle in her backpack. She flings the popsicle at the grizzly, who approaches it wearily. Dammit, thinks the hiker. I forgot to open it! The bear doesn't have opposable thumbs. I'll have to do it myself. The woman slowly approaches the bear. "I'm not here to hurt you," she says quietly. "If you'll just let me help you..."
The bear eyes the woman. He huffs through his great nostrils but allows her to open the popsicle with her pocket knife. "Here," says the woman. "It's yours."
Suddenly, the bear lets out a terrifying roar. He lunges for the popsicle, stomps on it with his massive paws, then flings it away. When the woman tries to intercede, the bear turns on her, baring it's terrible teeth. Every move the woman makes is the wrong one. She is growing hysterical now - who knows what this beast is capable of?
Just then, her husband (who had been distracted by a snack break nearly an hour ago and had no doubt consumed all of the couple's provisions) arrives on the scene. "What's this?" he asks.
"The bear! I don't know what it wants!" the woman shrieks. "Everything I do is wrong! Does he want the popsicle? Does he not want the popsicle? What do I do?"
The man, thinking he knows how to handle a savage beast better than his timid wife, steps in. He picks up the now-melted popsicle and hands it to the bear.
"RRROOOOOAAAARRRR!" The bear bellows louder than before. The couple is frozen in terror, clutching each other desperately, wondering if this will perhaps be the end of their short but happy life together. "I love you," says the woman.
"I have an idea!" the man exclaims suddenly, setting the bear into another fit of rage. "The trailmix! I didn't eat it all!" There's a first, the woman thinks, but she's willing to try anything at this point. The man throws a few dried pineapple chunks and peanuts at the bear. And then, as if by some strange woodland magic, the bear settles down calmly and nibbles delicately at the trailmix.
The man and the woman, still clinging to each other, hardly dare breathe. "What does it want?" the woman whispers. The bear pauses, sniffs the air, then resumes his snacking.
"I'm not sure," the man whispers back. "But it seems sated."
"Do we flee?"
"We do!"
The man and the woman run as quickly as their trembling legs can carry them back into the forest, never to hike again for the rest of their lives.
The End
Okay, so that's not exactly what happened to me yesterday, but it gives you an idea of how John and I felt when Jack had his first major toddler meltdown.
I'm not sure what about that peach popsicle made him go from sweet, innocent child to shrieking, flailing monster, but I'll be damned if I ever offer him another one. Jack has exhibited short fits of rage before, but nothing anywhere close to this. The tantrum went on for a good eight minutes, and even John's arrival in the middle of it couldn't calm the savage beast. There was actually a second popsicle involved (of which Jack ate about half before going berserk on me once again). The worst part was that I truly wanted to help him, but every single attempt I made only worsened the situation. If I tried to remove Jack from the highchair, he locked his legs together so I couldn't get him out. If I tried to dry his tears, he turned away and sobbed into the side of the highchair. Removing the popsicle from the tray only made the hysterics worse. Bringing it back started the whole thing anew. I COULD NOT WIN! The only thing to do at that point, my friends, was laugh.
Okay, so maybe the bear looked a little more like this...
Not long ago Sarah asked me how I deal with my problems (not that my life is particularly difficult, but we all get frustrated or stressed out from time to time). Sarah, for example, is a venter - she will talk her problems out until she's blue in the face, and you're deaf in both ears.
John holds it in and then goes for a nice twenty-miler. You wonder why he runs so damn much? It's because he's married to me.
And then there's me. I used to get depressed. I used to internalize all of my frustrations, blaming myself and assuming there was something deeply wrong with me.
While that may still be true, I realized when I was talking to Sarah that this blog has been a savior for me in a lot of ways. In the middle of a complete and total toddler apocalypse, I am able to think to myself, "This really freaking sucks. But it will be great material for the blog!" I've learned how to find the humor in what would otherwise be a totally miserable situation. And by the time I'm done writing about all those little things that make me crazy, I feel so much better. So thanks for letting me vent in my own way.
I'm going to need that sense of humor on Friday, when we travel to California (AGAIN!), without a seat for Jack. And hey, at least I know if things get really rugged, I'll get a great blog post out of it.
In case you haven't noticed, it's wedding season. Perhaps the whole of summer can be called "wedding season," but for some reason it seems like late August/early September is the height of the madness.
It's hard to believe John and I celebrate seven years of marriage tomorrow. In some ways I feel like I can't possibly be old enough to have been married for seven years, and in other ways, those seven years feel more like thirty (I think I've aged one year for every month of Jack's life). It's amazing how two people can go through so much together, how we can grow and change as individuals and as a couple, and still be just as much in love as we were when we met ten years ago.
August 28, 2004
To all of our friends with recent or upcoming anniversaries: Happy Anniversary! A successful marriage is definitely something worth celebrating (whether it's with brunch at the Four Seasons or sitting at the coffee table with a flashlight and granola bars - depending on the weather).
This morning I was at the salon, and it seemed like I was surrounded by wedding chatter. The red-headed girl next to me (who was brightening her color and planning her up-do for the big day) was something of a bride anomaly. Most brides I've met are either desperate to lose a few last pounds before the wedding or are too nervous to eat. But not this gal. She had brought in a box of a dozen donuts to "share" with the salon employees, but she happily put away three donuts and a massive iced latte while I watched her from under the dryer. Clearly no qualms about fitting into her dress there - perhaps she's banking on her Spanx? Whatever the case, she seemed very happy, so more power to her.
Another woman had just been told her niece's wedding was canceled because of the hurricane. I can't imagine having my wedding canceled the day before. Now there's a woman who deserves to eat a box of donuts.
And of course, I was getting my hair done because one of my best friends, Shauna, is getting married next weekend! I couldn't help but smile as I listened to the redhead at the salon describe every detail to her stylist, who was going to the wedding to do the bridal party's hair. Shauna was one of my bridesmaids, and since I got married in BFE, we all did our own hair. You can imagine what a small bathroom filled with five bridesmaids and a bride is like two hours prior to the ceremony. Or maybe you can't. In fact, I'm not sure you want to. It's amazing we didn't all pass out from hairspray fumes. The real kicker was that my mom had the massive bathroom upstairs all to herself. But there was something special about us all helping each other in that crammed space. I wouldn't change it for the world.
Pretty maids all in a row
Next weekend I get to watch Shauna walk down the aisle and embark on this wonderful adventure called marriage herself. I'm so honored and excited to be a part of her big day (slightly less excited to see how Jack performs as the ring bearer - I'm envisioning a toddler running screaming down the aisle with the wedding rings in tow; but don't worry Shauna, I'm sure we'll work it out!).
Most of all, I'm so grateful for every second I've had with John, the only man in the world who would put up with my hysterics over a lost pacifier and still tell me I'm beautiful at the end of the day. I love you so very much.
I've been thinking about doing a post on Jack's eating habits for a while now. Originally, I was planning on focusing on his gusto for all things edible, and of course his delicious chubbiness. But darnit if the child isn't starting to slim down. Don't get me wrong, the toddler belly is still in full effect, and his thighs still sport their characteristic crease. But beneath his layers of adipose tissue I'm beginning to see - dare I say it? - muscle. Before, Jack was positively Rubenesque; he had the physique of a potsticker, all smooth and doughy. I fear it won't be long before Jack loses his toddler fat all together and starts to resemble something slightly less Jabba the Hut and slightly more human. Sigh.
The day those thighs stop touching will be a sad day indeed...
Despite the fact that Jack may be slimming down, his appetite is just as healthy as ever. Unlike his parents, who have been known to devour their dinner in five minutes, Jack knows how to savor a meal. He somehow manages to cram fistfuls of food into his mouth while simultaneously dragging out a meal for thirty minutes. Each bite is accompanied by a hearty "Mmmm!" Often he'll pause to contemplate his food before tasting it, marveling at the juiciness of a slice of peach or the curious shape of a pasta spiral, as if he wants to memorize it for future reference. Either that, or he's just imagining how delicious it will taste before shoving it in his craw.
The Stages of Food Addiction:
Stage 1: Anger
Stage 2: Denial
Stage 3: Uneasy Acceptance
Stage 4: "Hi. I'm Jack, and I'm a Foodaholic."
Jack's appreciation for fine cuisine has only increased of late. A true gourmand, he rarely meets a food he doesn't like, and he's willing to try just about anything. Sometimes this is charming. Sometimes, like when I'm trying to eat my eggplant parmesan in peace, for example, it's just freaking annoying. I realize I'm lucky not to have a picky eater on my hands, but there are times when I wish I only had to choose between macaroni, fish sticks, or chicken fingers for dinner, instead of the whole of the culinary universe.
Jack double fisting his breakfast.
And then there's the fact that my own diet has taken second fiddle to my child's. Yesterday, as I was preparing Jack's breakfast of scrambled egg with olive oil and truffle salt with a side of fresh blackberries, and later, as I poured myself a bowl of peanut butter puffs eaten standing up, I had to wonder what the hell has happened to my life. I know I'm not the only parent who is so focused on her child's nutrition that she is completely neglecting her own. Yesterday Jack ate fresh green apple slices and cheddar cheese for snack and penne with homemade pesto and kalamata olives for lunch. It wasn't until three p.m., after I'd finished writing and worked out, that I snarfed down an instant mac n' cheese packet in record time because Jack was waking up from his nap. This is no way to live, people! If it weren't for my daily vitamin, I shudder to think what my iron and calcium levels would be.
Of course it's not all bad. That penne was leftover from dinner the night before, and John and I eat plenty of fresh veggies with dinner. But when I'm on my own during the day, and I've got a mini Mario Batali clutching to my legs and begging for "moin" ("more" in Jackanese), the truth is I tend to put my own nutrition second and focus on my butterball. After all, who knows how much longer he'll be around.
Just over an hour ago, I wrote the two words that all authors look forward to putting on paper at the conclusion of a long journey:
About ten minutes after that, there was a fairly substantial earthquake. I'm trying not to read too much into it.
Earthquakes are scary for everyone. If you're from California, like me, you grew up under the shadow of "the Big One," a massive earthquake that is supposedly long overdue. It's been impending since I was in sixth grade. If you've never experienced an earthquake before, it can be equally terrifying. You have no idea what to expect. And long earthquakes likes this one (approximately thirty seconds) are the worst: they give you plenty of time to contemplate what the hell you should do. Run outside? Find the nearest doorway? Wake up the baby and risk disrupting his nap?!
I'm ashamed to say I stood in the doorway downstairs and prayed Jack wouldn't wake up. It was not one of my prouder moments.
Fortunately, nothing was broken. A few pictures fell over and my cuckoo clock (which is normally dormant) came to life at some point during the quake. I was just grateful I wasn't on the treadmill when it happened.
I'd been planning this post for the past few days, excited to share the news that in roughly six weeks I completed a 293-page, 81,000-word rough draft. I wasn't expecting it to coincide with the largest area earthquake in recorded history. As the house continued to sway and I stood poised to spring upstairs to get Jack, I had to wonder if "The End" hadn't possibly taken on a far more sinister meaning.
Fortunately, I'm not superstitious.
Writing this book has reminded me why I love writing. If nothing comes of it, at least I can say I enjoyed writing it and I didn't waste too much time. I plan on taking a brief hiatus before editing it and sending it to my "readers." After that, the real work begins: editing, editing, editing; writing a query letter and searching for agents; sending out queries and preparing myself to wait. And wait. And wait.
I don't know if this book will be "the one." I hope so. I believe in it and I think the fact that I enjoyed writing it so much can only be a good sign.
If the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, then the shortest distance between John, me, and an argument is a run, straight or otherwise. I've known this since we first started dating, and yet for the life of me I can't seem to learn my lesson. Here's the latest.
John was lucky enough to get a second day off this week (I heart construction). In John's defense, it was my idea to go for a family run to Old Town, grab brunch, pick up the glasses I'd just had re-lensed with plastic (the woman at the glasses store thought I was nuts for having clear plastic put in my glasses post-Lasik, but my frames were expensive and too cute to waste), and walk home.
"How many miles would it be if we took the long way to Old Town?" I asked John on Wednesday night.
"Three miles, maybe a little bit more," he assured me.
"Perfect!"
Here's the thing. John lies about the length of our runs EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. I can't recall a single occurrence where John has accurately told me the length of a run in the ten years we've been together, despite the fact that he has a GPS and knows the length of every conceivable run in the area. Every time, it leads to an argument when three miles into our three mile run I realize we're nowhere close to home. And yet I believe him EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. John may be a liar, but I'm an idiot.
As we set out for our run on Thursday at 9:30 a.m., I already felt like crap. I'd woken up some time in the middle of the night with a migraine-quality headache, but by morning it was more of a slow burn than a full-blown rager, and I ignored it. Within thirty yards of our house John was way ahead of me, pushing Jack in the stroller (which happened to be holding my water bottle). For a half a mile I fumed silently, watching John continue to get farther away while I felt my tongue slowly shrivel in my mouth like a raisin. Finally I couldn't take it any longer. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" I yelled.
"We're going at 9:45 pace," John hollered back. "It's too slow!"
Now I grant you, that's pretty f-ing slow. But I like to warm up to my 8:45s, thank you very much. I screamed a few more obscenities and John wisely slowed his pace. But within another mile, we were back to running 8:45 pace. Normally, I can handle an 8:45 mile. I'm not THAT slow, for Pete's sake. But it was hot out there, folks. I've been running on a subterranean treadmill for the past year, blithely churning out my four miles a day at a comfortable ten-minute-mile pace in the basement, watching Pretty Little Liars on Hulu and slurping from a water bottle, basically doing anything I can to help myself forget that I'm actually running. It works for me, okay? I'm not fat, I can climb a flight of stairs without getting winded (provided I'm not carrying Jack), and my clothes from college still fit. I have accepted my state of slothliness. Why can't John get on board?
As Old Town finally came into view, my stomach was churning and my head was pounding. "I'm walking!" I finally shrieked, and planted myself in the middle of the sidewalk, my aching head hanging somewhere between my knees.
"But we're so close!" John said rather sadly. We'd run 4.45 miles. King Street was .05 miles away. I could see how much it was killing John to walk so close to his mental finish line.
I relished every second of it.
When I'd regained the ability to function, I assured John that we'd actually passed our finish line 1.45 miles ago, so really, he had nothing to worry about. We ate a leisurely lunch, picked up my glasses, and headed home. By now it was almost noon. The sun was beating down on us, and we still had two miles to go. When I got home, I headed straight upstairs for a shower, then collapsed on the couch. I literally had to tell myself out loud to get off the couch and go write.
For the rest of the day, I felt like a blob of green Jell-O. It was all I could do to eke out my ten pages and crawl back upstairs to help John put Jack to bed and make a salad. When we finally went to bed at ten, I felt like I'd been beaten over the head with my diaper bag.
I'd like to say "lesson learned."
If Running is John's mistress, she's my dorky study buddy. She's ugly, nerdy, has acne and a bad case of halitosis, but dammit if she isn't smart. I hate Running, but she's useful from time to time. She's always available and she doesn't cost anything to hang out with. Running keeps me in shape, allows me to eat the steady stream of baked goods that flows through this house, and makes me feel a little better about myself. I need Running at the end of the day. And I hate her for it.
John and I first ran together when we'd been dating for two or three months. I have this little problem where my ears get really cold when I run. It can happen when it's seventy degrees out, so I've been known to sport a TurtleFur skiing headband while out for a jog in Half Moon Bay. In July. For a while I wore a black beanie we dubbed "the nut," but it got lost somewhere in the wrinkles of time. At any rate, on our very first run together, my ears started hurting. John, who was still in love with the idea of me back then and hadn't yet realized what a pain in the ass I could be, sweetly cupped my ears with his hands for the remainder of the run.
That doesn't happen anymore.
Now, it's a miracle John doesn't take a bull-whip to me when we're out running together. In Kingsville, when John first started getting into running, he would literally run in circles around me. I don't think I need to tell you how obnoxious that is. He would run backwards next to me, even walk next to me just to illustrate how slow I was going. Then he'd do the very worst thing of all: offer to carry me for the rest of the run. He's lucky he wasn't the one who needed carrying at the end of those runs.
By the time we moved to San Diego, it was pretty clear that running together could only hurt our relationship. We got my parents' old treadmill and I was perfectly content to run in air conditioned comfort while John roasted on the hillside trails of Scripps Ranch. It wasn't until after Jack was born that we dared try running together, and we found a formula that actually seems to work for us:
John runs fifty miles.
The next day, we run three miles together while John pushes Jack in the stroller.
John runs behind me so he can concentrate on my ass instead of the fact that he can run faster ninety miles into a 100-mile run.
I think it's an equation we'll be sticking to for the time being.
Or at least for the next few weeks, when I somehow forget the misery Running brings into my life and decide it would be buckets of fun to go for a nice five miler with John.
On Tuesday morning John surprised me by staying home from work due to construction in his office. Of course, Jack decided to wake up at 6:30, but I was so excited for a day with my boys. John's plan was to take Jack to the museums while I stayed home and wrote, and while I really appreciated the thought, I decided I'd rather spend the rare day off with my boys than write all day. So, around 8:30, we set off for the metro and D.C.
IV and V at The Castle
Our first stop was the Smithsonian Institution Building, more commonly known as "The Castle," which opens earlier than the other Smithsonians. There's not much to see there, although I came across a piece of petrified wood (18-65 million years old or something, which John thought was a ridiculous range) that was absolutely beautiful. Fortunately, the Natural History Museum is right across the Mall, so we headed over and stood in line for a few minutes before the doors opened at ten. It's funny. As a kid, that museum seemed enormous, but it's really not that big. That elephant in the foyer is still impressive, though. I was convinced it wasn't real because that thing is freaking HUGE, but apparently it's cast from a real elephant. Jack enjoyed a tarantula demonstration and the hall of mammals, which is always a little depressing for me. Those same animals have been there forever, getting dustier and dingier with age. The little pink fairy armadillo breaks my heart every time. But a gorilla, stuffed or otherwise, is always bound to get Jack's attention.
After that we had lunch and a cupcake from a food truck, took the metro home, and then I still got in my ten pages of writing. Later in the evening I picked LNRB up and we headed to northwest DC for a book signing at Politics and Prose. I read about Jennifer Close's debut novel, Girls in White Dresses, on Chick Lit is Not Dead, who gave her a rave review. When I Googled her and saw that she had a signing coming up I invited a few girlfriends to come with me. I bought Close's book, although I haven't read it yet, and I'm looking forward to it. Girls in White Dresses is a collection of short stories about a group of women in their twenties and their experiences with love, friendship, and weddings. Close has received a lot of praise for creating relatable (“We've all been there”) characters, but as I discussed with LNRB, I'm not sure if I'll be able to relate to the book. Close was very charming and funny at her reading, so I think I'll enjoy it, but my twenties simply didn't feature that many weddings.
The cover of Girls in White Dresses. Pretty fabulous, huh?
I was the first of my friends to get married (Close read a part of her book about this very subject, about how your friends, who have no experience with an open bar, will try to drink as much as possible in as little time as possible, how bridesmaids will go down on the dance floor, etc. That part, I can relate to), and most of our military friends were already married when we met them. The few girlfriends I have from high school and college have gotten married one by one over the years; I've made it to some of those weddings when money and geography permitted, and missed others. I've never been a bridesmaid until now. Who knows, maybe I'll read the book after Shauna's wedding and find I can relate. We'll see.
Close reading from her debut novel, Girls in White Dresses.
Politics and Prose, which I'd never been to before, is a great little independent book store that apparently hosts lots of author signings. I managed author signings in a past life, and I'm happy to say this one was quite lovely. Cupcakes and Persecco were a fabulous touch, and Close, wearing an adorable white dress, was great at taking questions (I even got up the nerve to ask one – not good for my blood pressure, I tell you!), and she took a few minutes to chat with everyone who purchased a copy of her book. I'm not one to spend twenty-five dollars on a novel these days (I've got my Kindle, the library, and a stack of paperback books from my mom to get through) but I like to think it's good author karma to support not only the author, but one of the few remaining independent book stores in the area.
All in all, a great day of family, writing, books, and friends. Thanks, honey!
Hello all! I apologize for the brief hiatus. I was here, trying desperately to post, but thanks to Verizon and some apparent strike, we haven't had Internet since Saturday. We ended up having to cancel our Verizon service and sign up with someone else (I'm sorry, but two weeks before your first available appointment, Verizon? Unacceptable!). Finally, we have Internet again. And it worked out, because this Clear Modem is WAY faster than Verizon. And I've been blogging sans Internet, so I have a few posts already typed up and ready to go. First, my post on Stephen King's book about writing, aptly named On Writing.
As part of my effort to move on from my last two books and become a better writer in general, I’ve been doing some of the reading I probably should have done a long time ago. Stephen King’s On Writing has been on my list for a while now, so I picked it up at the library a few weeks ago, along with Bird by Bird.
I love Stephen King.I read The Stand, The Eyes of the Dragon, and The Talisman when I was in junior high and early high school, and I’ve read Cujo, Hearts in Atlantis, The Shining, and a few others randomly over the years.My parents have every Stephen King book and they keep most of their collection in Montana, so when we’re up there I sometimes pick one at random and read what I can while I’m there. On Writing should have been a no-brainer (I’ve known about it for a while, probably since a few years after it came out in 2000).I’m sorry that I waited so long to read it.
The Financial Times usually features an author interview in the weekend Arts section, and one of the questions asks, “What book do you wish you’d written?”The Stand is one of my all-time favorite books, and I’ve often wished I could write something like that (a big, dramatic post-apocalyptic novel a la The Passage or The Hunger Games, which I just read in two days and will post on later), but I’ve always had this notion that Stephen King’s mind must be a really scary place to hang out, and I wouldn’t want to have to dwell there in order to write something like The Stand.Stephen King is kind of an odd duck (he cameos in a lot of his films, and he’s sort of crazy looking - no offense, Mr. King), and yet reading On Writing, I was struck by how absolutely normal he seems.I was sure he must have had some terrible, tragic childhood, but aside from growing up relatively poor with his brother and single mom, his childhood sounds pretty damn normal.He started writing when he was quite young, publishing his first story in college.That story was called “Graveyard Shift.”
While Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird was very much a how-to of writing, On Writing is part memoir, part autobiography, part inspiration, and finally, a little bit of how-to.When King started writing, the industry was vastly different.Even when he wrote On Writing, getting an agent wasn’t the same ridiculous process it is today.You could send out a dozen query letters back then, without even finishing your manuscript according to King (I’m not sure if that was true twelve years ago or not), and expect to get an agent.As I mentioned in my review of The Help, it’s not at all unusual for an author to send out fifty to 100 queries before landing an agent today (and that's a bestseller, for God's sake).So while that part of On Writing wasn’t really relevant, I enjoyed reading about King’s writing process.He’s also really funny, so it was a quick and entertaining read.
A few bits really stuck out at me based on where I’m at in my “career” right now.For example, King tried to sell a story without success, only to sell it ten years down the road.“One thing I’ve noticed,” he writes, “is that when you’ve had a little success, magazines are a lot less apt to use that phrase, ‘Not for us.’”I’m hoping that someday my two drawer books (well, four, but I know the first two don’t deserve to see the light of day) will get their chance.
Another thing that struck me was King’s advice to write your first draft “with the door closed.”In other words, don’t show your first draft to anyone until it’s complete.This is the first time I’ve done that, and I find it to be working quite well.I was also happy to hear that King doesn’t like writing classes, because neither do I.“Daily critiques force you to write with the door constantly open,” he says.“The pressure to explain is always on and a lot of your creative energy, it seems to me, is therefore going in the wrong direction.”
King’s wife Tabitha is his best friend and Ideal Reader (IR).My IR is my sister, Sarah, and not showing my novel to her this time has been tough.According to King, an IR should provide positive but honest feedback, and Sarah does a good job of that.But taking time out to show pages to your IR can also kill your enthusiasm for a project.“Writing fiction, especially a long work of fiction, can be a difficult, lonely job…There’s plenty of opportunity for self-doubt.If I write rapidly, putting down my story exactly as it comes into my mind, only looking back to check the names of my characters and the relevant parts of their back stories, I find that I can keep up with my original enthusiasm and at the same time outrun the self-doubt that’s always waiting to settle in.”Showing my works-in-progress to Sarah is a constant temptation (Am I going in the right direction? Is it working so far?) but it can also cause me to question myself, and for now, I just want to get the thing down on paper.
There are a lot of agents and editors who advise new writers to join writing groups for critiques, rather than sending your novel to friends and family members.But I agree with King on this subject. On the one hand, the people close to you are probably not going to be your harshest critics.And on the other, it puts them in an unfair position if they hate what you wrote.But, King says, “…I don’t think an unbiased opinion is exactly what I’m looking for.And I believe that most people smart enough to read a novel are also tactful enough to find a gentler mode of expression than ‘This sucks.’”Stephen King also employs a sort of points system for opinions: if one person likes something and someone else doesn’t, it’s a wash (in the author’s favor).But if more than one person makes the same comment, you have a problem that needs addressing.Good advice, methinks.
John and Sarah are my support system through this crazy process.As King writes of Tabitha: “Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference.They don’t have to make speeches.Just believing is enough.”I’m very fortunate to have both of them rooting for me in the wings.I don’t think I could keep on slogging through this without their encouragement and support.John isn’t a big fiction reader, so his support is more theoretical, but he also “supports” me in a very important sense by giving me the freedom to pursue my writing.Sarah reads and loves the same books I do, which makes her an Ideal Reader in the sense that we have the same taste, but she also just “gets me” because she’s my twin and best friend.
Mostly, On Writing has helped me to trust my own “process” (I may not be a professional, but I think I do have one).I know what works for me, and it may not be neat and tidy, but if it gets me through 200 pages in a month, I must be doing something right.I also loved King’s commentary about novels that create worlds readers are reluctant to leave.He cites Tolkien as an example.“A thousand pages of hobbits hasn’t been enough for three generations of post-World War II fantasy fans…Hence Terry Brooks, Piers Anthony, Robert Jordan, the questing rabbits of Watership Down, and half a hundred others.”(Those are some of my favorite writers and novels, so I know King is writing about me here, even if he doesn’t).It is my dream to be able to create the kinds of worlds my favorite authors do.I know I’m nowhere near as good as they are, but it’s a goal.And now that I’ve finally given in to my love of fantasy, I feel like the possibility is there at least.Maybe I’ve finally found my niche.We shall see.
Finally, I leave all aspiring authors out there with this:
“Put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support-system for art.It’s the other way around.”
P.S. I think I have tickets to see Stephen King speak next month. Fingers crossed!
Last night The Help premiered on the big screen, and guess who was there thirty minutes early to get a good seat (and who bought her tickets - wisely, as it turned out - early in the morning)? That's right, me! The theater was packed but we had perfect seats about three quarters of the way up, LNRB had chips and guacamole in her purse, and all was right with the world.
Viola Davis, Bryce Dallas Howard, and Emma Stone
We read The Help for book club a while ago (at least a year, I believe) and I think it's safe to say we all enjoyed it. I liked the book - a lot - but I can't say I loved it. I think that has more to do with the fact that the books I love are usually YA or middle grade fantasy or fables (Watership Down, The Golden Compass, The Graveyard Book), which is something I didn't really realize until a few weeks ago when I started working on my new book. But I digress.
I was worried about this film. I think Emma Stone is cute and I like her as an actress, but I thought it was an odd casting decision. Eugenia (aka Skeeter) is supposed to be tall, gangly, and frizzy. Emma Stone doesn't strike me as any of those things. Fortunately, I was wrong. Stone was actually great in the role, and while I was a little thrown off by the way the previews seemed to pitch The Help as a comedy, the film managed to balance the humor with the heaviness of the real theme of the novel: what it was like to be a black maid working for a white woman during the civil rights movement.
See, not frizzy. Just annoyingly cute.
Fair warning, ladies: this film is a major tearjerker. I think I cried on a half dozen separate occasions during the two and a half hours (oh yeah, it's long, too), and LNRB was sobbing next to me. As a mom, I am a complete sap when it comes to anything with kids, and the scenes between Aibileen (the first woman to agree to help Skeeter write her book about being a maid) and Mae Mobley (the daughter of the woman Aibileen works for) got me every time without fail.
"I is kind, I is smart, I is important." Just pass me the whole damn box of Kleenex, will ya?
All told, this was a great film. But the reason I'm choosing it as my "weekly inspiration" has more to do with the novel than the movie. The Help was Kathryn Stockett's debut novel, and it almost didn't get published. A friend sent me this interview today, and it simultaneously gives me hope and depresses the crap out of me. Kathryn Stockett had sixty rejections before landing an agent on the sixty-first try. "What if," she says, "I had given up at fifteen? Or forty? Or even sixty?" Stockett admits to sneaking off to hotels to write after her daughter was born (a tactic I haven't tried but have to say I admire), to lying to friends about how many queries she sent out because no one could understand how she could continue trying after so many rejections. I know how she feels - I haven't lied, per se, but it's not information I offer freely! I also admire an author who admits to wanting to be published. So many authors say, "It's not about being published! You have to write because you love it, not because you want to be published." To which I say, "Poppycock! The two don't have to be mutually exclusive!" I love to write, and I want to get published. There's no shame in that.
Stockett joins Sara Gruen as one of my writing heroes, not necessarily because I love their books (although I do enjoy them), but because I admire their perseverance, tenacity, grit, and most of all, the fact that they can be open and honest about their failures as well as their success. Those are the kinds of writers I admire, and the kind I hope to be one day, too.
