Month: November 2004


  • I just read my last post and it sounds like I’m arrogant.  I’m absolutely not.  And it sounds like I’m self-absorbed, which I will admit to.  Hey, I don’t see anybody else here.


    I went to the movies with my friend, T.  She and I have done this the last three Sundays, in an attempt to get out more.  We used to meet for coffee Sunday mornings, while her kids were at church and mine was asleep.  But ever since I moved that hasn’t happened. 


    I am deliciously inspired.  I feel like I just came back from New York.  Living here has made downtown Portland seem like such a urban and happenin’ place.  I found a new restaurant I want to go to.  Actually it was a hangout before I had kids.  M, if you’re reading this, the Vat and Tonsure has reopened.  We gotta go next time you’re here.  It looks like they kept the booths and the bar.


    I saw a great movie, which is the real source of my inspiration:  The Bicycle Diaries.  Beautiful movie.  Enjoy your Sunday evenings!


     

  • I remember buying my first suit.  I didn’t want to but I needed it to “sit out.”  This meant  we had to go to court and practice being a court reporter.  I started dressing a little differently during those days, like a court reporter would.  I am sooo not a suit person.  I had a professional-looking hairdo, and I wore mom clothes suitable for the PTA.


    I took up bellydance when I was 46.  When it became apparent that it wasn’t a passing fancy, I began to acquire clothes appropriate for late-night clubs where other students would perform to live music.  I began listening to the growing collection of Arabic music in the car, in my room.   Pretty soon I started buying everyday clothes that just flowed more:  lots of colorful skirts, interesting embroidered, silk jackets.  And then I found a seamstress to start making my costumes.  My ex-husband found my new image…well, he didn’t approve.  I traveled to every dance workshop I could find and attended all the big shows.  I was taking three classes a week and renting a studio so I had a big space in which to practice.


    When I bought my first house, after the divorce, I spent all my time in the yard.  When I wasn’t planting, I was thinking about planting.  I redid every square inch of that property and began to think of myself more as a farmer.  I wore overhauls, either long or short, and my nails were always dirty.  I was never happier than when I got to play in the dirt.  I joined the Tilth club and took organic gardening classes.  I needed more land so I bought an acre.


    Now, as you all know, I am trying my hand at writing.  And because of this Nano thing I am spending much of my time either typing or thinking about what to type.  I keep wanting to write more but I’m not sure what their next move is.  So then I take a shower and it comes to me.  It’s all I think about.  Well, as you can imagine, the laundry is waaay behind.  My hair needs to be dyed. And that brings up my image.  I need a haircut desperately but I don’t leave the house any more and I really want something that requires absolutely no effort.  So I’m thinking about short.  What does a writer look like?  ‘Cause I’m looking like shit.


     

  • As much as I hated those time-consuming quotes and learning how to space the conversations out – Pina taught me paragraphing 101 yesterday – I am looooving my character’s conversations with each other.  And I’m not bragging about what great conversations they have, I’m just saying that compared to closing my eyes and trying to remember exactly what an incident, that happened almost a year ago, was like, this is way easier.  And it’s way easier than trying to figure out how to connect one part of the story to another.  This is just an extension of what I do more and more:  have conversations with myself.  I LOVE WRITING.  I don’t even care if I’m any good at it.  I’m having a blast. 


     And now that my mother is home and –Oh, by the way, Writer within, thank you for the kind remark — I have all kinds of new material I can use, I’m pumped about a whole different story.


  • I feel like I went to a party, where I didn’t know anyone.  And because I didn’t know anyone, maybe I felt a little freer.  Maybe I told stories I might not have shared with some of my more conservative friends.  That’s the beauty of not knowing people, and that’s the whole point of blogging, for me.  Just let it alllll out.  Say what you goddamn think. 


    The next morning, of course, there might be a moment or two of regret.  And this morning I am finding that sometimes it’s better to keep your mouth shut.  But that’s the beauty of getting older.  I was going to say that you just don’t give a shit like you used to, and that’s partially true.  The sun is out, and I’m not going to worry about what I should or shouldn’t think, say, feel, be.  If I offend you I am sorry.  If I hurt your feelings, I am even sorrier.  I never meant to.  If I said something stupid, well, I am not surprised.


    I have been spending a lot of time at the hospital.  My mother is in there with a blockage in her intestine.  That woman is a real piece of work, and,as I watch her interact with the staff, I realize how fucked up I must be.  All this rambling –And it’s a real trip to see the ice woman on drugs –about smoking a pink cigarette, which matched her dress, at some party she went to when she was 30, when all they want is a yes or no, reminds me of myself.  That I just lay myself out to you all must be painful to watch.  At least my mother keeps it to herself.   But that’s why I like Xanga.  Nobody keeps it to themselves and I can always find someone to read who is maybe weirder than I am. 


     


     

  • Here are a couple paragraphs from my Nanowrimo project:



    Once they got over the bridge the trail became sand.  The trees were ancient looking and of a variety the women had never seen.  A brightly colored butterfly seemed to be following them, fluttering out of a large, flowering bush.   As they stood there watching it, they heard a rustling beneath the bush.  Some sort of reptile scurried past their feet.  Janis screamed and jumped back.  “Mom, you’re such a pussy.”  Janine was laughing at the two of them, thinking back to a time when Jade was very young.  They had taken her for a walk in the Arboretum one Saturday, when Jim had been called into the office.  Janine got to go in his place.  Janis had made a special lunch of fried chicken and potato salad.  Janine brought her brownies.  After the walk they all sat down in the sunshine, cross-legged on the quilt.  The hillside above the oak trees was the perfect place for a picnic. 


     


    These woods weren’t tropical but they weren’t anything like the forest back home.  The bushes were lacey and the trees graceful.  It was a delicate forest.  The three of them wandered through the filtered sunlight, working their way toward the sound of the ocean.  Finally reaching  the end of the trail,  they were met with a lookout the park had built out over the ocean.  It was a beautiful wooden gazebo with built-in benches.  Leaning over the edge of the railing, peering down across the sand, they could see for miles both ways.  There was all of one person on the beach, picking up something she saw in the sand. It was a beautiful sunny day but feeling a little chilly from the wind, and not wanting to miss their guide, they headed back, hoping the grumpy man with the golf cart would be there waiting.  As they started back Janine joked, “Remember, now, no boarding the cart until he’s turned around.”  The giggling threesome  trooped back, happy with their adventure.

  • I just did something I’d wanted to do all summer.  I drove down to the river, carefully making my way through the seagulls, past the geese who never even flinched, just stood their ground, all the way to the end.  This is a very narrow strip covered in large rock, treacherous looking but drivable.  It is exposed during the day, except for high tide.   Usually there are people fishing with their families camped out for the day, but today it was just me and one other guy.  I got my requisite number of words done and went to Burgerville for a  mocha perk.  Still in my pajamas, with a sweatshirt thrown over, I took off with nothing but a five dollar bill.  Instead of turning back down my street I thought I’d go for a little adventure.  This sitting in front of the computer all day is getting boring.  I had needed a little pick-me-up after staying up until 12:30 last night, waiting for my youngest to get home from work.  She busses at a restaurant.  Typically she gets home around 10:00, which is pushing it on a school night.  Conveniently, for her, when I called her cell phone, it started ringing over on the kitchen counter.  I would have been really steamed but I had been engrossed in the book so when she came through the door I wasn’t sufficiently outraged.  Shocked was more like it when I finally glanced up at the clock.  She merrily breezed through some mention of dinner with Jane after they closed up.  Then she jumped in bed, in record time.  I figured I’d pump her in the morning.  But when she didn’t want to go to coffee I said okay and rolled back over in bed, forgetting about the inquisition.  I think she did something she shouldn’t have last night.


  • I went to update my word count on Nanowrimo.  I woke up early, wanting to catch up, but I can’t get into “edit profile,” it keeps sending me back to ”sign in.”   I wanted to see that bar fill up.  I love seeing it inch closer to the goal.  Do you realize it’s almost Thanksgiving?  I’m gonna have to do double time before and after to keep on track. 


    Not wanting, and not being able to afford to tear up my counter, in the island, I read, with glee, about an oven you can buy, for $100, that sits on the counter.  It can hold up to a 22 lb turkey.  The electrician told me that the existing built-in oven, beneath the built-in microwave, was not a big enough space in which to put a new one.  The problem is that the cabinet is an inch too small to hold the current-sized ovens.  This all started when I tried to fit my roasting pan in there.  “How the hell am I supposed to do Thanksgiving?”  I asked the man.


    He acted like it would be no problem to cut open the counter, take the Jenn Air out, and pop a new oven in.  But this would require replacing the counter top.  There is Formica on there, and everywhere, which I can live with.  Replacing all of it, and I’ll have to upgrade before I sell so I might as well do it now, would be EXPENSIVE.  And Christmas is coming.  No, I’m going to Meier and Frank today and find one of those ovens. 


     God, I love kitchen gadgets.  H, my ex, used to have fits when I’d bring something home.  And if it went on the counter there would be weeks of battle, before and after.  My youngest used to let me in when he was gone, to show me the new furniture he’d bought. I’d sneak into the kitchen while she was upstairs getting her clothes.  The counters were always bare, not one thing on them.  It was so sad standing alone in my old kitchen, a visitor.  That was the one part of the house I was really proud of.  I’d done it in red and white.  I found this guy who did upholstery for boats.  He constructed a built-in banquette and covered it in red Naugahyde.  I’d gone to Jamie’s, that hamburger place on 23rd, and taken a picture of theirs.  He duplicated it and I’ll never forget seeing it lying in two pieces on the neighbor’s lawn. Their side yard was right next to our kitchen door.  It looked hideous, all giant and red.  But once he got it in –He had to get down on his back and kick it in place — it looked great against the wallpaper.  I’d found salt and pepper-shaker wallpaper, with red accents.  I had the cabinets painted white and the floor done in white with red diamonds.  This was back when you could still use linoleum.  Was that a bitch to keep clean!    Hearing her footsteps on the stairs and taking one last look at the dirty floor, I left my kitchen.


     


     

  • I just did the math and I’m behind by 1,386 words.  But I spent the day with my youngest so that’s more important.  I tried to sit down tonight and crank out as much as I could but I just can’t do it any more. 


     It’s funny about the difference between blogging and Nanoing.  When I go back and read one of my posts, I have a sense of  how much I like or don’t like the words or the tempo or whatever.  And who cares, it’s just a post.  But when I go back and read parts of my book, I can’t really get a feel for how good it is or isn’t.  I’m not sure why that would be.  Maybe because I’ve been walking around all these months thinking about what the characters would be doing and saying and now I can’t separate myself from it to get a good enough view.  I bet that’s it.

  • I’m having a little bit of a setback.  I asked my youngest daughter to read what I had so far.  Actually I first did this, I guess it was on the 2nd, and other than the opening paragraph, she liked it.  And I agreed with her about the beginning.  I got off to a bad start, but once I got going it got a lot better.  So tonight she came by and I had her read again.  She doesn’t like the direction two of the main characters are going in.  They are chummier than she likes.  And she didn’t like how one of the characters was racist. 


    In case Neuroticfitchmom is reading, the character is African American. And I was going to comment on your blog but in case I forget I’ll do it here:  it must be scary to think about what your kids are hearing from other children if the parents talk like that.


     I agreed with her that parts are too much setting the reader up.  Kinda like too much logistic and not enough naturally unfolding events.  I was brainstorming about how these two families came together and it sort of sounds like I was building a case, I think.  And she doesn’t like when I write in dialect.  She changed chile to child.  What fun is that? 


    She was on this trip with me and she met two of the characters so I value her opinion.  I also value it because I think she is a better writer than I am.  Once I helped her with an English paper and the teacher gave her a B.  She never let me help her again.


    So now I have to decide how strongly I feel about what I’ve dreamt up in the way of plot, and if I am being realistic about these characters.  How do you accurately portray a character you’ve made up?  The reason I am feeling so unsure is that on the one hand, and my mother-in-law always thought it was excessive, I have a good imagination.  On the other hand, maybe, because I live alone and have this “rich inner life,” I don’t have a good grasp of reality.  But come to think of it, look at John Irving and some of his characters.  Geez, that’s what makes him so great is he doesn’t suffer from those constraints.  Who’s to say but the reader whether a character is unbelievable or just takes on, if you will,  a fanciful identity?  And I suspect the ability to know this, know when you’ve gone too far, is what makes or breaks a writer. 


    I don’t see any of you second guessing your stuff like this.  Do you have someone read it every step of the way?  Do you only have a professional, I mean like an editor or another writer read it.?  Do you wait until you’ve doctored it up?  I want to know yesterday if I have a fake-sounding character.


    You know, now that I think of it  I don’t know why I thought I could write a black character.  But the way the families are coming together race didn’t seem like an issue any more.  I shouldn’t hit submit but I’ve read some of your “rants” so here’s mine.  And I know “rant” is not the right word but I’m too tired of writing to think of what this would be called:  Whining?


     

  • My oldest daughter and I went to dance class tonight.  It’s been at least a year since I’ve been, and longer than that for my daughter.  She tried bellydancing a couple years ago and went two times.   This young woman reminds me of my teacher, when I started.  In fact that’s who she trained with so I know she knows her stuff.  She’s just very new to teaching.  She’s a beautiful dancer though, with a great personality.  Plus she is teaching a little of the history and the rhythms of the dance.  Another plus is that her boyfriend is the leader of the band who plays for all the dancers around town.  I have wanted to start up again for a long time so I hope this works out.

ydurp

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