I Should Be Writing

I should be writing but instead I'm writing about the fact that I should be writing. Am I suffering from early spring fever? I do believe there's a strong indication in this direction. I'm possessed with the desire to rush out into yard and begin digging and poking around in the soil. This morning it was 25 degrees when I went out for my run but my mind refuses to release the idea of sowing seeds and the delicious anxiety of waiting for those first sprouts. I want to rush to the rabbits and gophers and greet them heatrtily

I'm so anxious to begin getting out there and transforming our grassy lawn into the lush cottage garden of my dreams, that I found myself considering changing the season in my novel. The story takes place in the early fall; it's getting cold and a rough winter is on the way. How can I possibly write of winter when spring has sprung. I can directly blame nature for this particularly knotty procrastination spell I've fallen under. It was 65 degrees a couple of days ago, the birds are chirping and spring fever has taken a firm hold.

I should be writing but spring cleaning has me moving furniture, scrubbing, polishing, and tossing out things we don't need. Instead of putting butt to chair, I'm on hands and knees scrubbing scuff marks off the wood floor. I want to paint, transform the inside of the house along with the outside. How can I possibly weave the intricate plotting of a mystery novel when there are millions of color possibilities out there waiting to be explored.

Has spring fever taken hold of you?

How Far Would You Go For a Book?

Sunday's New York Times Book Review had an essay entitled "It's Not You, It's Your Books" which gave me a nice chuckle. Would I, in my single days, have given the heave-ho to someone because they didn't share my taste in books?

Growing up books were my passion. I was a voracious reader in a world where reading was a chore forced on you at school. Friends would come to my house and see the huge bookshelf stuffed with everything I could get my hands on and would always ask the same question, Did you read all of those? As soon as I discovered 19th century Russian literature when I was 12, I accepted that most people I met would have no clue about what I was reading. It didn't matter to me, reading was personal.

In my 20s, I entered the world of the literate Manhattanites. Books were as far from personal as you could get. They were advertisements. At one point, anyone who was anyone was walking around carrying copies of David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. It didn't matter if you read it or finished it, you just had to know enough to join in the conversation. Memorizing quotes from book reviews in The New York Times and The NewYorker was a necessary component to any "serious" conversation (monologue to be more precise) plus the ability to toss in a well placed "derivative". What you read became part of any resume of accomplishments along with where you attended college, where you worked, in what neighborhood you resided, and your favorite restaurants.

I was a freakish anomaly in this group. No one ever seemed to be reading what I was reading. I was always behind the curve of the fad. Now that I think of it, I was deeply suspicious of people who read only what was currently being reviewed. Didn't these people ever wander around an old bookstore and just grab a book off the shelf just because of the strange title or because it's weathered pages were dog eared or because the dust was so thick on the book that it was like exploring an ancient tomb?

It wasn't what someone was reading that might have put me off but the attitude of the reader. Reading for pleasure was appreciated more than reading to impress. I had a boyfriend years ago who would rip off the covers from any book that he was reading because he hated to have people know what he was reading. This was New York city in the late 80's and early 90's and trouble could start just from a simple book title. He tore off the covers for protection and for privacy. I understood this. Reading is a personal journey not an advertisement. Scanning my extensive collection of books what you'll come away with is the fact that I'm curious and my tastes are eclectic, anything more requires you to get to know me. But then isn't that the whole point of dating?

Tackle It Tuesday Presents- The Blanket

I'm that rarest of knitters- a one project knitter. I must complete a project before I can begin another (which is kind of funny since I'm not like this in any other area of my life. Right now the project, I fear will never end, is this wonderful blanket: from the .

I started the blanket in August of last year while on vacation. I had this idea of snuggling under it during the long winter months. Winter has passed and I'm still knitting. Spring is here but it's still a little chilly and I'm looking for some gratification after almost 8 months of knitting.I'm determined to finish this blanket within the week. The blanket is knit in ten panels like this:

Right now I'm on the eighth panel and barring a harsh case of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome or the destructive tendencies of my toddler, I should have pictures of the finished product by next week.

Wish me luck!

Would you Jump Off Too?

Remember that annoying question your parents would throw at you when you wanted to do or have something that some other kid had? Would you jump off the (insert large structure here) if everyone else did? It was annoying and had an effectiveness of 98%. It allowed our parents a philosophical alternative than the plain old "no". From where I stand, this effective parenting tool has gone the way of the dodo bird.

About three years ago, my daughter broke her wrist. While sitting in the waiting room at the specialists office I overheard a conversation between a teenage boy (probably around 13 or 14) and his mother. He spent 15 minutes badgering his mother to upgrade his cell phone plan. It would only cost $40 more per month. What was the big deal? His mother tried to explain that if they paid that extra money then his plan would be more than his parents paid for their coverage. The young lad was not to be swayed by this. He needed the extra fifty ring-tones, the text messaging, the... the... the list ran on. His mother shifted in her seat uncomfortably. Finally he brought out the big gun, "EVERYONE ELSE HAS IT". He counted his friends on his fingers as though this were incontrovertible evidence. Before we rose to meet with the doctor, I heard the poor woman mutter, "Well if everyone else has it, let me see what I can do."

Expensive and unnecessary gadgetry have spread like a tenacious stomach virus. My son, who just turned 9, is constantly telling me about kids his age or younger who regularly come to school carrying hundreds of dollars worth of electronics. How can you possibly be expected to manage the fifteen minute ride to school without your cell phone, iPod or Nintendo DS? To these kids it's like candy, it's fun for the moment but as soon as something offering more whiz and bang comes along, it's tossed aside.

I can't fault the kids in this, after all they're just kids. They will gladly attempt to get what they can. I can blame my fellow parents who choose to raise their kids gazing over their shoulders. I'm not condemning because I know how difficult it is to navigate in a culture that blast advertising at you 24 hours a day. We're constantly being brainwashed to believe the message that purchasing=love. Just because everyone else seems to be doing it, it doesn't mean that it's a good thing, despite what advertisers would like you to believe. So if everyone else were jumping off that cliff, would you?

TV Free

I was listening to a news story on the radio yesterday about the nervousness of television network executives on their abilty to woo back viewers after the writers' strike. What scared these well-paid executives was that people just might have found other things to do during this crisis. Other things to do! The idea of this struck horror into their hearts. I was laughing.

I grew up in a house that had more televisions than people. When I walked into a room, the first thing I did was turn on a television. My childhood memories are filled with the soundtracks of sitcom theme songs. Even after all these years the music from Happy Days or The Love Boat will intrude into my thoughts. Forty years from now I may be a little foggy on the events of my life but I'll remember the theme song to Laverne and Shirley.

I possessed all your classic symptoms of addiction. I believed I was in control. I could stop anytime. I was so far gone, I didn't even know I had a problem. If you asked me, I'd tell you with all sincerity, I really didn't watch much and could turn it off whenever the mood hit (it's just that the mood seldom hit me).

That was then and this is now. Fast forward and here I am living free of network, cable and satellite. We have a television (that's singular), it's reserved for DVDs and Playstation use. I've been free for more than four years. It feels great knowing that I exist outside the reach of these network executives who are employed to make certain that my time is their time.

Contrary to a popular held belief, you can still live a fulfilling life without tuning in to Dancing with the Stars or American Idol. I'm more informed about the state of the world and the union than I ever was while viewing the evening news. I'm no hermit. I'm familiar with the latest shows and I'm content to wait until they make it to DVD and find their way to my local library or Netflix. I can watch on my own terms and free myself from getting into the what's-on-next syndrome and wasting hours on tedious commercials. And as an aside here- people spend way too much time talking about commercials.

Right now I'm just a blip on the radar of these executives. They still have a hefty supply of viewers but I'd like to see myself as one of those early pioneers who touted such silliness as organic food, alternative energy, recycling or global warming. Maybe others will discover that having other things to do isn't such a bad thing. I guess I've started my own little revolution. Who knows maybe I'll pick up some other converts along the way. So confess do you think you could ever cut the cord? If you're living free like me drop me a line and let me know your experience (you know, the strange looks and the confusion as people try to figure out just what to say next).

The Elusive Finish Line

I know it's there. Sometimes, I can even make it out clearly just ahead. Then there are days like today, when it disappears from view. I feel like a marathon runner prepared to race 26.2 miles but informed somewhere around mile 20 that the race may stretch on indefinitely. The runner plods on with all hope resting on the word "may" believing this is just some terrible mistake and there's still only 6.2 miles to go. This is what writing a novel feels like on some days.

A couple of days ago, I was coasting along. The story was moving forward. The finish line beckoned like the beam from a lighthouse on a stormy night at sea. I was going to make it; the danger of failure could be averted. Then a day like today happens and I've strayed far off course. An oppressive fog has rolled in enveloping all, I can't tell the difference between up and down. I'm lost. I'm trying to remain calm in the face of defeat. I have just encountered the force that attempts to doom me. It is toddler-who-refuses-t0-nap.

I don't ask for much. I've accepted the fact that until all my children are attending school full-time, I'll never have those eight hour writing days. I've accepted interruptions, limited time and waking when it's still dark just to have a moment alone. I could bear all this as long as I had that hour or two of blissful silence while the young man slept but then he decided to change the rules. Not only is he not taking naps but he's awaking during MY time. He's going all day without sleep and then not falling asleep until after 9pm when my mind is about as useful as a loaf of soggy bread.

I'm frustrated. I'm tempted to toss the whole darn thing into a drawer. Why not join the ranks of thousands, maybe even millions, who've admitted defeat tossing unfinished manuscripts beneath the rubble of creative aspirations. When people ask me how the writing is going or wonder if I'm still working on that same book (God, I hate this question. Is there some kind of statute of limitations on writing a novel?) instead of feeling guilty that I haven't been devoting every waking hour to writing, I can announce grandly that I've given it all up and now I'm devoting myself to Latvian folk dance or memorizing the middle names of every Speaker of the House while people nod their approval (and confirm their suspicions that I didn't really have a novel in me anyway). Just as I reach that point, I gaze up and that darn finish line glitters in the distance.

Like an addict, instead of walking away from the frustration, the obsessive desire to be writing (in the bathroom, in the car, on lines in stores, etc), I'm looking forward to my next hit. I know the little guy won't be able to hold out much longer, eventually nature will take over and he'll sleep. The moment he does, I'll grab pen and paper and seek out that writer's high. That moment when the words and the characters come together and I can practically reach out and touch my creations. It is in this moment, I know that although the crowds have gone home and no one is left cheering me on, I'll cross that finish line (despite the best efforts of Mr. No-Nap).

StickK Update

I surpassed my goal for Week 1! I lost 4lbs in one week. This was achieved by not snacking along with my kids. It's a great start! I'm looking forward to the warm days of spring and the back-breaking labor of yard work to drop even more pounds. 4 down 30 more to go.