Tag: writing

3 Simple Rules

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When I used to do stand up, I would tell myself 3 things right before I went on stage:

1. Be yourself

2. Have fun

3. It’s important

And I am trying to tell myself these same 3 rules at the start of every day.

I did not sleep well last night. One of the darlings came into bed with me at around 2. She’s nearly as big as an adult so she woke me. We have no air conditioning. It was  hot. I tossed and turned. Then I  moved to my daughter’s now-empty bed. I’d heard an antidote to insomnia is changing rooms.

As I walked in the hall, I heard the television was still on. My husband stays up way too late into the night, sometimes until 3 or 4. Then of course he falls asleep in the early evening hours when you’re talking to him (blame the Parkinson’s). Hearing the television just made me feel all sad and jumbled — my life, my restless night, my work. And I couldn’t wait until morning so I could dump all my thoughts, worries, dreams, into my journal.

1. Be yourself. Because there is a unique point of view based on a unique life’s journey. And for whatever reason, this is my journey. This is mine.

2. Have fun. Because I seriously believe that we are put on this earth to give and experience joy. The goal in life is to be happy, joyous, and free.

3. It’s important. Because I can easily dismiss my point of view, or expect that I am less than. But what I have to say is important.

I did fall asleep in my daughter’s bed and woke to write all this in my journal.

Poem in a Pocket

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This morning I stood between the twin beds in the twin’s room and read them Dorothy Parker’s poetry. Other mornings I’ve woken them by singing — Rise and Shine or Good Morning from Singin’ in the Rain or Beautiful Day from U2.

But poetry’s as good as singing for waking the kids.

And Dorothy Parker cracks me up. Waking the kids is an onerous activity and Chris is rarely up for the early-morning wake-up festivities. So I might as well please myself. And Parker pleases me.

I read them Parker’s The False Friends. It ends:

Who flings me silly talk of May shall meet a bitter soul; For June was nearly spent away Before my heart was whole.

I love her smart aleck, wise gal humor.

I was reminded of the power of poetry last night. The girls and I had gone for a swim and shower at the JCC. Where we primped in front of the mirror I noticed someone had left a small button. On the button were the words, “Is that a poem in your pocket?”

That reminded me to carry poetry in my pocket. The idea of a poem in my pocket made me incredibly happy. Or maybe I was happy because I’d been swimming or hanging out with my daughters at the health club after a long workday.

And so I woke up happy. I put a Parker poem in my pocket and I woke my daughters with poetry.

NaNoWriMo Takes Off Without Me!

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Okay, my beloved NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) started on November 1st. What?!! Already! I wasn’t ready. I was tired that first night. And last night was Election Night and I had book club. Does it sound like I’m making excuses? Well excuse me. What? Do I sound defensive?

Here’s the truth: I really don’t want to start another novel this November until I finish the one I wrote one last year for NaNoWriMo. (And I did win NaNoWriMo last year!) But it might not win a Booker Prize (and I might have to be English any way to win that prize).

When I looked at the novel again, I thought, it’s not bad. It’s kinda good. When one of my twins woke up early yesterday morning, she found me with my novel, tentatively called “The Missing Twin,” spilled out in front of me on the kitchen table. Charlie asked if she could read it.

So I read Charlie a few pages from the middle of the book.

“It’s good,” she said. “Although you should add more details.”  My kid is brilliant. She’s so right. I have to add more details!

Here’s a little bit of the novel from around page 51: (Don’t judge yet, it’s only a second draft. And I need to add more details.)

We were approaching the stop light at the corner of West End and 72nd. A white van slowed and pulled up beside to our cab. The driver wore dark sunglasses. He lifted a piece of paper.

The sign read, “I’ve got her.”

“Jordy!” I meant to yell. But it came out like a whisper. I slunk down.

“What?”  He was still looking at the picket line. “I think I see Angela, our cleaning lady, there.”

I slunk even lower and pointed at the white van.

Jordan looked. He laughed. “That’s weird.”

“Weird? That’s scary. What if he means Elise?” I asked.

I glanced back at the van. The man’s sign read, “I’m wearing panty hose.” The traffic started and the van rode ahead of us.

“Oh my God, a minute ago, he had another sign. It said, ‘I’ve got her.’ I’m worried about Elise,” I could hardly speak.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jordan said.

“I did,” I said. Jordan pulled a pad from his pocket and wrote the license number AGS 254. The van turned on 74th Street. We turned on 77th Street. I sat up in the cab. I told myself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

NaNoWriMo Again

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I love writing.

Revising? Editing? Not so much.

I love the act of creating. When I was on my sabbatical, writing a blog post a day, I was in heaven. Always new. Always thinking. Always up for another cup of coffee. Hit the Post button. I’m done. I wrote it. I’m brilliant in the very short form. The long form. Ugh.

Last November, I wrote a novel in a month. NaNoWriMo. Na=National, No=Novel, Wri=Writing, Mo=You get the idea.

I wish that I had as much gusto for editing the book these last 10 months as I had for writing the book in that one month.

So it is with any big achievement.

Everyone’s up for a wedding, but who is up for the day-to-day of marriage? Helping the newlyweds redecorate or navigate their finances? Nah! Everyone loves to celebrate the baby’s birth, but the grueling day in and day out of diaper changing? Not for the faint of heart. No big balloon bouquets for the daily slog. How about graduation? Heck, I’d love to send the graduate a card with a few bucks tucked inside! But help her in the days, weeks, months ahead as she’s looking for a job? Not really feeling it.

I honestly never felt so purposeful as I felt writing my novel last November. Never felt so accomplished as when I finished it. I made myself cry (but if you know me, well, crying’s my forte.)

Loved the challenge of reaching 75K (or was it 50K? How soon I forget) of NaNoWriMo. I loved the support, encouragement of my cyberfriends and my real family.

Charlotte quieted the other two, “Shhhhh, Quit fighting. Mom’s writing.”

Hayden bragged about me at an all school assembly.

Catherine brought me a cup of tea, then backed away like a geisha girl.

But the month was over. Weeks turned into months. It’s almost November — time to start a new novel. How can I start another baby when I haven’t completely finished the last?

I opened the humongous file of the 2009 NaNoWriMo winner, stared at the screen. My fingers lay dormant.

After a while, “What are you doing, Mom?” My head was on the keyboard.

“Thinking about my novel,” I said.

“I thought you wrote that book already, Mom,” Char said.

“I did. But now I have to rewrite it,” I said. Honestly, I have to — not only rewrite and edit it, but I have to start to read it. I can’t even remember my main character’s name. I wrote those 175 pages in November as if in a trance.

Hayden walks by carrying a plate of Bagel Bites. “Your book? Mom, when is your book coming out? I should make an announcement at school again,” Hayden nodded.

“Oh, it’s not done.”

“Really?”

I don’t know. Maybe there’s someone somewhere who actually spews out words and doesn’t have to rewrite them. I wish that was me. But that ain’t me — Gotta rewrite this part! Got to, rather — That isn’t me.

I need to brew and stew and revisit. Ah, maybe that’s how I can get back to the novel. See it as a little visit to a world I once knew and loved and forgot. Like remembering the high of a wedding, a birth or a graduation. Rest on achievement represented by that one big day, but don’t let the one big day stop me from really living the one big life. ‘Cause life is an accumulation of days, some big, some small, mostly average. That’s what writing and editing is – the daily grind, no big who-ha! And I’d rather party, but I’ve got to slog.

I am challenging myself to read my 2009 NaNoWriMo novel and edit and revise for 10 minutes every day until November when I begin a new novel. I will try to periodically check in here and post progress. That seems to have been a successful way to get myself to start running; the semi-public act of blogging about running has made me a more consistent runner. http://runningaground.wordpress.com/

Maybe the semi-public act of writing about novel writing will make me actually work on my novel. If you think this is true, see an earlier blog post where I have considered doing this in April. http://gettingmyessayspublished.wordpress.com/2010/02/27/nanoedmo/ It’s just easier (more fun!) to write than edit.

Writing Childhood Memories

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Loved teaching “Food and Faith” at St. Paul and St. Andrew’s last Sunday.

I love that childhood memories are treasure troves, little magical boxes full of light. Memories point our way. Remembering where I come from reminds me of where I am going and who I am.

One exercise in my workshop was to write about a childhood memory of food that brought you closer to your family. I wrote about my Norwegian grandmother’s Christmas lunches. The open-faced sandwiches. The mutton, head cheese, slim-sliced hard-boiled eggs. The meatballs. The herring. It was the one day a year we all sat down to eat on Grandma’s enclosed porch together.

In the workshop, Barbara wrote about her father teaching her to count by planting seeds in the garden. Memories are like shoots of green. The memories are the parts of the plant that are still showing. The memories lead to an ancestry that lies buried deep in the soil, connecting us to relatives who are long gone.

Writing down the memories of family meals or family gardens takes you back and takes you deep — into the heat of a summer garden in Pennsylvania or the  bright light of Christmas in Chicago.

Writing down your memories reminds you of where you come from, who you are. Writing takes you home.

I did not write today

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image

I did not start my day writing. I usually wake at 6:30 to write my morning pages. Every day, three long-hand pages. Just about every single day for the last 10 years, inspired by Julia Cameron’s creativity course, The Artist’s Way. But I wasn’t feeling it today.

I did not write about the sacred or the profane. I did not write about the underside of leaves. The way they turn white when the wind blows on an early summer day as I ride my bike through Riverside Park.

I did not write about my kids. Or my woes — the way I feel lonely or overworked or unaccomplished. No, I did not write about any of that today.

But I wrote about what I did not write about. So I wrote something. I wrote this. This.

And this is all.

Too Many Friends?

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I like to read book reviews. That way, I feel I’ve kind of read the book. So after reading a Q&A with Brian McLaren, “A New Kind of Christianity” in the UMReporter, I thought “This guy and me — we are on the same page. We should be friends.”

I didn’t want to be real friends, just jokey cyberfriends. So I Facebooked him. He would not me be my first friend on Facebook whom I have never met in person. Brian and I have several mutual friends, including Jim Wallis.

Yup, Bri was on Facebook. I found his profile but instead of a picture of himself, there was a picture of his book. A cool book cover with a vine-covered Celtic cross. It was the book that had the review I liked. Not a review actually. Even easier to read than an actual whole book review — a Q&A.

“Great, we’ll be cyberfriends,” I thought. We are both into the New Age Christianity Movement mentality. “Good ‘ole Bri,” I think as I clicked on the handy-dandy, “Add as Friend” button. And you know what? It said that Bri has “too many friends.” Yup, he topped out at 4,813 friends.

Now who sets the limit of friendship? Did Bri tell Facebook? “When I hit 4,813, I’m done. No more. Basta!” Or did Facebook say, “This guys’ friends are clogging up our works, like photos on a hard drive, slowing our system down? He’s done!”

I heard this happened to a friend of mine with Don Cheadle. She actually had a tenuous friendship with him and wanted to Friend him. And yup, too many friends for good old Don, too.

Now, I can kind of understand Don Cheadle having too many friends. He’s a movie star and a director and well, famous. But have any of you ever heard of Brian McLaren? What’s so great about him? Why does he get to have so many friends? I’m just like Bri and I still have room for friends.

Also, what’s all this about a new brand of Christianity if there aren’t room for more friends? I don’t know. I’m digressing. That’s the point of a blog I guess.

What I’m really trying to say is “Why does Bri have more friends than me? Why can’t I develop a cult following like Bri?” I’m going to assume it has something to do with his book cover and the fact that I don’t currently have a book out right now. Let alone a cool, hip, rethink church book.

No, in case you’re wondering, I’m not jealous. I’m just curious. Why Bri? And why not me?

NaNoEdMo

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I had so much fun in November for National Novel Writing Month. I really should/want to do National Novel Editing Month in March. Starting tomorrow.

But Fifty hours of Editing! Ugh! I can’t do anything for 50 hours. I’ll have to get up early or skip exercise at lunch time or work for hours and hours.

And what about my commitment to myself to blog everyday of Lent?

Yet the characters I birthed in November are wandering around in a Netherworld, asking me to come get them out of their half-lives. They are so needy and I’m a sucker for characters that need me. Seriously considering…..

Started Nanowrimo

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Oh it is so hard. Here is me whining. It’s too hard. What am I doing?  I wanted to finish the 2,000 words every day before noon. And sat with my notebook at the kitchen table, writing before the kids had to get up. They were late for school and complaining of sore throats. I might’ve written 500 words…

And now I’m at work and have to do work-type writing. Ah well, the solution is always – MORE COFFEE. 2,060 words done, 47,940 to go…

One More Thing

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Wow! Great issue of UMR – July 24, 2009.

Who followed me? How did you know?  Because that was obviously me you wrote about in “When Busyness Sabotages Ministry, Q&A Interview” with Mary Jacobs.

“Overdosing on overcommitment?” Yes. I call it being oversubscribed.

My mother jokes I have “One More Thing” syndrome. She coined the phrase when I’d taken her and my three kids to the Bronx Zoo one summer afternoon.

As we were leaving – hot, humid, tired, crabby – I spotted the gorilla house. “One more thing, everyone, let’s stop and see the gorillas.”

One More Thing may be amusing when you are at the zoo, but at work it’s another thing. When you have to finish glancing through your high school boyfriend’s vacation pictures before you get to the article that was due yesterday, you’re in trouble.

Facebook is perfect for one more thing.

My friend and the kid’s babysitter Dierdre and I promised each other we wouldn’t go on Facebook or on our cell phones for 24 hours which is the only reason I’m getting this letter to the editor done.

I think many Facebook users have acquired this unique form of One More Thing, or ADD.

I was having tea with a good friend I hadn’t seen in months. She was up at our country house and we were sitting at the kitchen table. I kept wanting to check Facebook. I was feeling restless, just talking. And we were talking about good, deep, juicy stufff  – our boys’ puberty, a dear friend’s death, family finances.

I had to literally tell myself, “Mary Beth, sit still. This is what life is about, sitting at the kitchen table, talking to a dear friend.  Not swapping witticisms with an internet friend.”

Because the internet friend is like a photo in your wallet. You can take it out and show it off, glance at it. You can even delete their remarks (not that I would ever do that!)

But the real friend at the kitchen table? Well, she might go off on a tangent. I can’t click her off. Any way, I should – I want to – hear what she has to say. “X (a 6th grade boy) introduced Y (another 6th grader) to internet porn.”

Oh no. I really do NOT want to hear this. But I should pay attention. Even if I would rather read about my cousin’s baby’s first trip to the pediatrician or my former student’s flight to Uganda. Yes, they are interesting.

I would like to write about this topic more. But the right here and right now beckon. I have to make breakfast. Then, if I am lucky, I may spend some time just sitting at the kitchen table, catching up.