Mish Mash

I'm stuck. I want to write because I need to get back on a roll here, but nothing appeals.

Ah, I didn't check today's word....

Well, it's not today's but I like this one:

bricolage (bree-ko-LAZH) noun Something created using a mix of whatever happens to be available.

Because I think that's what my family will get for dinner tonight. :) Dh made dip for the he-men to have while they watched football this afternoon. It's filled me up completely (I ate it at my desk, doing bookwork and studying copywriting) and I don't want anything else for dinner but I doubt I can make them believe they don't need anything else.

I want to go out to eat. It's been an eternity since I sat down to a nice meal, prepared, served and cleaned up by someone other than yours truly. We've cut way back on the fast food, too which is really a good thing. It was becoming more of a regular thing than I ever wanted it to be. We have been contenting ourselves at home here with simple meals, like chicken we bought for $.25 a pound and potatoes we can almost buy by the bushel for a couple bucks. My dh loves to stock the freezer when meat's on sale, and every now and then he'll start smoking meat and he never does know when to quit then. If the coals are still roaring, he's hauling stuff out of the freezer for a speed defrost and tossing them on. Last time he justified a day of watching football by smoking meat at the same time, we wound up with four racks of ribs and 20 pounds of chicken quarters all wrapped up and ready to pop in the oven for a quick meal. But if they show that stupid coconut shrimp commercial one more time, I'm going to have to eat it right off the TV screen.

Now that I think of it, I believe my dh is king of bricolage. True story from his childhood--at a loss for something to do he wanders down to the pond with his pocketknife. First he finds a cut line with a hook on it that washed up on shore. Cleans that up some an d finds a gum wrapper; makes a shiny lure out of that and he catches his first perch with that. Then he uses the perch for bait and comes home with supper.

I've seen him do it over and over again, one of his favorite mottos being "I can do anything with nothing." It took me a year or two, but I believe he can. I wish I had a tally of all the money the man has saved us by fixing something instead of tossing it. I can't tell you how many electrical outlets/adaptors he's put in battery operated toys, etc., so that we're not buying batteries constantly. He's always on the lookout for how to do it cheap. He can put together the most amazing bricolage of clothing from the thrift store, and it looks like a million bucks. He can spot the good stuff--the Oscar de la Renta (can you tell I'm not designer savvy? Can't spell that poor man's last name today to save my life) ties, and Yves St. Laurent this or that. I walk into a thrift store and walk out hopelessly befuddled and having wasted a lot of time. Not him. Bricolage must improve with practice.

If only bricolage were a job. Sure wish he could find one of those. Bless his heart.

Okay, now do you bake, broil, fry, saute, boil, roast, or grill bricolage? :) Better go see what I can find in the fridge that hasn't turned into a science experiment.

Making Money

I am a hard nut for advertisers to crack. I'm probably more influenced than I allow myself to think I am by the endless marketing attempts that fill my days, but if there is one advertising theme that grates on me to no end it's the "It'll make you rich" line tied to the "then you'll be happy" theme.

MONEY DOESN'T MAKE YOU HAPPY.

Now I'm not ignorant or stupid, and I know that having enough money so that you don't have to choose between buying food and buying medication cuts down on stress a great deal. Less stress makes for a better life. The thing I take exception with is the idea that you have to have money to be HAPPY, or that having money automatically makes you happy. Not according to J. Paul Getty who asserted that there's more of a link between money and unhappiness than there is happiness. I think he's qualified to speak on the subject.

It's rampant in our state where the average income is low. But the cost of living here is low as well. Yet the newspapers keep drumming away at this idea that if the median income of Oklahomans increases, that Oklahoma will be better off for it. But people here still have time to sit on porches and wave to people who they meet on the street. There's time for courtesy and caring. I've lived in wealthier areas where time is money, and if they aren't getting paid, there's not time to talk to you, to help you, to even be civil. Oklahoma is already an above-average place to live, in my books. It doesn't need fixing.

I challenge anyone to find a wealthy father who is always available when his family needs him, a wealthy woman who never has a bad mood, or a wealthy teenager who always makes things easy on his parents. You can't find those things among poor people either. Money doesn't make humans perfect. It doesn't even bring them closer to the ideal. Money doesn't make people good negotiators, good companions, or good forgivers. These are qualities of the heart that need to be cultivated and that make life more satisfying. For the individual and for those whose lives s/he touches.

We recently studied about how greatness really comes from serving others. The more I think about it, the more truth there is to it. Some of the most revered people on the planet were also some of the poorest, but their lives were rich--in less tangible ways--and full. Some of those revered people were wealthy too, but it wasn't their wealth that makes their names resound through history. It's the stories of what they did or how they lived that make them memorable.

So to you advertisers out there--just sell me your product. Don't try to convince me that it will make me rich, because it won't work. Convince me that it will help me help others, and I might let you talk a little longer.

If I'm not already too tired from the umpteen advertisers that came before you.

Sometimes all we really need is peace and quiet so that we can think about things. Ya know? :)

Okay, I'm off my soap box.

Over the weekend my aim is to round up some of my story starters that have appeared in this blog over the past several months and take a vote on which one I need to continue first. Who would vote? Is it worth my time to round them up? Let me know.....

And thanks for reading.

The People We Meet....

The coffee was good. Robust, black, piping hot, and the pastry as fine as you would expect in Paris. I used my fingertip to pick up the flakes that dropped on to the green marble tabletop that was just large enough for coffee, a roll and perhaps a book or newspaper if one had had the good sense to bring either. I stared out the window once again. The view glistened, rainsoaked from a pre-dawn downpour, smelling of flowers and yeast. The voices around me were as meaningless as the muted honking horns and clanking bells of vendors outside the building.

I sat on a bench seat close to a corner, shielded on my left and behind by several tall ferns that were abundant throughout the hotel lobby and cafe area. Even mostly hidden as I was, it was no use. This was not home. I was not relaxing. I had been a fool to book an extra day in Paris after the business convention. I could not even close my eyes for being afraid that someone might be compelled to ask if I was okay and I would not understand a word the person said.

"Sissy!" That was my brother's voice in the back of my head, which I have fought with on a regular basis and had for almost 30 years now. I couldn't disagree with it today. "You are a scaredy-girl," I said to myself and I wished for a cigarette even though I'd given up the habit over five years ago.

The next thought was an apology to the 21st century feminine ideal. I am not a macho man, and I believe woman are my intellectual equals, probably exceed me more often than not in the courage arena, and I had no business thinking such thoughts.

To underscore the fact, Mabel appeared.

"Is this seat taken?" Before I could say anything at all, she squeezed between me and the corner, her head pushing against the nearest fern frond.

"They should have left by now!" Her gray-white brows furrowed while her mouth twisted up on the left. She glanced over her shoulder then ducked her head like a guilty schoolgirl. "Lean out in front of me and then talk to me like I'm your grandma."

She could have been my grandmother, dressed in gray double-knit slacks with a sewn-in crease--the kind that never wrinkle. Her shirt was denim with embroidered cats tumbling in and out of the breast pockets. She had the shirt knotted at the waist over a red T-shirt and got away with it, too. She was slender and not in the least frail. Her hair had been dark; I could tell from the few strands that had as yet refused to gray. Her hair was bobbed just beneath her ears and she had lots of it.

"I'm supposed to be in bed with a sciatica attack," she whispered. "My group is headed to yet another tourist trap and I just can't take it. I'd have to take up cigarettes again just to get through it."

"So what do you want to do today, Gram?" I improvised when she ducked her head again and elbowed me, hissing, "Talk!"

"Oh, Garrett you decide, Dear. Did you rent the car?" she squeaked in some alien voice.

"I did what you told me. Got the car and plenty of maps."

"Maps! Brilliant! Let's see them."

I looked at her out of the corner of my eye and spread my empty hands out in front of me.

"Oh," she whispered. "We're pretending. I forgot." More loudly she added, "Well that wasn't so smart, leaving them in the room." She stole another glance over her shoulder then relaxed visibly.

"I waited a whole 45 minutes after they were supposed to be gone, and they still almost caught me. I can't stand old people. They're too darn slow!" She paused and grinned at me, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'm Mabel Stewart, by the way." She reached out and shook my hand with a better grip than some of the girls I had dated. No doubt that hand was kept in shape simply having to bear the weight of the rocks in the three rings she wore.

"I'm Todd Smith. Happy to meet you."

"Todd? You're not a Todd. You're a Garrett. No matter. I owe you breakfast at least for rescuing me. Will you join me? I'm starved."

Being starved myself--for English speaking company--I agreed.

Rambling

Start where you are.

There's a man weedeating at the empty house across the street. The chips of whatever it is he's cutting (doesn't sound like grass!) keep hitting the windows of my house. They sound like hail. There were a few barrages here and then he moved on west. I imagine if I were in the living room, I might hear another seranade. Hopefully nothing will break.

The day is overcast, which if it were like the days of early September would mean it was cool, but the humidity is up today and the air is close--warm and moist--even though it's moving. A cold front is moving through, though so things should shift and change. The clouds are soft and indistinct, trying to blanket the entire sky but missing in a place or two where the sun will break through like a strobe light for a few moments and then slowly diminish. The wind shakes the leaves on the trees visible at my window, though all I can hear is the whirring of the weedeater and the clacking of the keys, the gentle hum of the computer.

I want to turn the air conditioning on, but we have been doing our best to keep it off. It's easier on the wallet. That means we should pop open the windows and turn on the whole-house fan, but that means noise and pollen and sneezing. It's almost worth surviving the stuffiness for another hour or so and then really enjoying the cool dry air as it gradually takes over the house.

It's very quiet because my dh is out looking for work, and my oldest ds is in class. I had trouble sleeping last night. I got up and cleaned up the area around my recliner in the living room. You have to see that area sometimes to believe it. I look at it and have a hard time pinpointing exactly when it exploded again. I'm behind on magazines. I have papers galore, calendars, library books, school material, things I'm studying, and then to make matters work, my ds loves to study in that chair. He is so like me. I was never much for a desk. I studied best sitting crosslegged on my bed with everything spread out around me. He likes to kick back in the recliner with everything spread out around him and his headphones on. Maybe he'd use his bed if it wasn't a bunkbed which pretty much requires a fetal position if you want to sit on it. At any rate, he takes the most interesting notes; he mindmaps rather than jotting linear notes. And not only does he mind map, he does it with drawings and in color. This means that alongside the plethora of books and paper is a wide assortment of colored pens, his iPod, his CD player (why both I couldn't tell you). The end result--no room for anything else. It irritates me at times but I have to smile about the teen mentality. I'm sure I had it. I know I did. I'm not sure when it was that I discovered that there were other people in my life who were impacted by what I did. Well, that's not entirely true, because I was always one to take care of people. At any rate, he sits in my chair and studies and hums and laughs at the crazy things going on in his mind. I take another chair and know that later when he goes to bed, I'll have to dig beneath all his things just to find a coaster. He'll do it for his kid someday.

At any rate, once I moved to the living room around midnight, I decided to go through the stacks around my chair in search of a WD article that I want to use for next week's workshop notes. Never found that, but did find all sorts of other neat things--the best being a hand-written page for my YA novel in progress that I was so afraid I had lost that it was paralyzing me. (I do the most insane things to myself!) It was after 3 AM when I finally made myself try to sleep. It didn't work. My mind was still racing, so I got up to read and after about 45 minutes of that, my mind was ready to drift off, which it did, and it certainly was not ready to be conscious when my ds got up to finish his school work at 7:15. But I needed to be up, so I stumbled to the kitchen and unloaded the dishwasher, made coffee, and wondered what I would have to fight my way through when the afternoon sleepies hit later today.

A car just started up somewhere in the neighborhood and I paused for an instant to be sure it wasn't the distant hum of my dh's motorcycle. The one he promised to sell after it almost killed him. Well, that's not true; he almost killed himself on it, and he'll tell you that straight up--no blaming the machine. It was operator error. He's much more cautious though, so I'm not worried. I never believed he'd sell the thing anyway. It would be like selling one of his children. At any rate, he'd never understand why I was here when I'll be here all afternoon for workshop and there are dishes and laundry and floors to tend to. Tell you the truth he'd be right. I really do have to get a better routine in place. Not turn this crazy computer on, or make better use of a timer or something. I have to find a better balance because I know I would feel better about everything.

Oh, I'm rambling and rather enjoying it. I think I'm ready to get busy on two things I'd like to get in the mail on Friday. Imagine that. Submitting something!!! LOL! Workshop is this afternoon and that generally inspires me. I need to look for a prompt. Ah, I ramble......

Light in the Tunnel of Change

Change was an overheated radiator, chips of tire tread charging my windshield like kamikaze bugs, and a tire jack sinking in soft soil under the weight of almost everything we owned.

What I didn't leave on the side of the road with my husband and his truck, I towed along behind my car on a roller coaster ride over the secondary mountain roads of Pennsylvania, searching for a place to air up the spare. As if my nerves weren't stretched enough already, monstrous over-filled dump trucks loomed in my rearview mirror. In regular intervals they barreled down on me at such speeds that I was convinced they would ride right over me and never know the difference. Instead they would speed around me in great showers of gravel, and the gushing wake that followed swayed my trailer with such force that it was a fight to stay on the road. I had never been so frightened or so angry. Not even four weeks before when I learned how drastically my life was about to change, and how powerless I was to stop it.

This move was as expected, and as welcome, as a mugging. I knew my carpenter husband of 18 months was looking for steadier work. I was even braced for a move to a nearby state, but figured such a step would require months of planning, as it had when my father moved our family from Pennsylvania to Oklahoma. However, I was no longer living with my father, and I had a lot to learn about the way my new husband made decisions. He weighed factors more quickly than I could think of them, and once he was settled on the best course he saw no point in waiting to carry it out. That, coupled with his "I can make anything work" attitude had us scouting out Connecticut one week, back in Oklahoma the next, packed the third weed and on the road to a new home the fourth.

Did we hire a van to move like the average family does? No. Since he felt it was a waste of money to rent anything, he bought a 30-year-old two-ton truck from a friend so he could sell it when we were finished using it. Between that truck and six-foot plywood sides on his work trailer, we had room to haul everything we needed to set up house thousands of miles away from the people who had always been part of my life.

After more than a week of coping with every minor vehicular problem imaginable and a few major ones on top of those, we came to the end of the physical journey. We arrived in unseasonable 90-degree heat. Doors and windows were thrown open everywhere to welcome any breeze, should one decide to blow. For all those people passing the sweltering evening on porches or neighborhood sidewalks, we provided pre-breeze entertainment, driving in Beverly-Hillbilly fashion to our new blue house perched on top of the highest hill in the neighborhood. No missing the new folks in town!

After sleeping that night on the floor--or at least trying to between the heat and the coupling of freight cars at the train station across the street at two in the morning--we swallowed breakfast at a nearby diner in the morning. From the pay phone there we made arrangements for power and a telephone, trash service, all that essential stuff that sucks down money like a greedy child slurps a malt, all those things that meant we weren't going to turn around and go back home after all. We went back to unload furniture and argue about where to put it. At noon we stopped to watch the weather forecast through the fuzz on our black and white RCA. Cooler weather and rain were due by evening.

The next day, and for the next couple weeks, the sky cried with me. I muddled through boxes, learned our new phone number and how to spell the impossible name of our street--Pahquioque. We asked around about things like supermarkets and discount department stores. My husband scoured the newspapers for work. He finally decided to go downtown to look at building permit records in search of employment leads.

That was my first day alone in the house. I wandered about, focusing on my familiar things, and tried not to think about tomorrow, or the day after that, or the loneliness that gripped me so hard it hurt. My friends were gone, my family was gone, the sun was gone. For better or worse. This was definitely worse. For richer or poorer. I knew which direction we were heading. In sickness... Did that include homesickness?

I stared out the kitchen window, the view blurred by the soft diminishing rain. On a distant hill blotches of red caught my eye. Because power lines, tree limbs and chimneys crisscrossed the view, it was impossible to tell what gave off such striking color. I climbed to the attic for a better look.

From there, above everything, I had my first view of the autumn show that makes New England famous. Thanks to the deep blue of retreating storm clouds, the red trees stood out like pop-up figures in a storybook. They were flanked by colors more subdued, but playing a symphony that took my breath. The hills rimmed my world as far as I could see. I stood for some time, mesmerized by the colorworks, the likes of which I had never seen on the prairie land of Oklahoma.

My husband's voice seemed frantic when I heard him call my name. He probably half-expected that I'd left him. I yelled, "Coming!" then clamored down two flights of stairs to reassure him I wasn't trying to hang myself from the rafters. The smile on his face meant good news. So did mine.

"Get your coat. You have to see this. I'll tell you about the job on the way."

He drove me out to see the trees. He asked around until we found all the best views. We took our time, hand in hand, and savored the glory. After it got dark, we finished the day at a tiny Hungarian place. I had never had authentic Hungarian stew before. It was delicious.

I came home to find a letter from my father. His writing was so vivid and detailed that within minutes it felt like my family had come to my new home for a visit.

So change became autumn leaves, Hungarian stew and fat newsy letters from home. I guess sometimes turning points just happen. Maybe it's because we are finally ready to move on. Or maybe it's because we are jolted into noticing what is going on around us instead of within us.

Now when changes are difficult, I look for beauty to light the way. After all, on that one day when Connecticut became a better place, all that had really changed was the trees.

Read Your Stuff

I have been having a miserable time getting enthusiastic about my writing. Knowing that good books will inspire me, I've been devouring them, particularly middle grade novels. Right now I'm hooked on Patricia Reilly Giff (Hopefully I have her name right now. I think I switched it around in a previous post.) I also decided to stretch out of my genre of choice and try some William Bernhardt (LOVE to listen to him talk, and figured I'd probably enjoy his writing too. Still have to crack the cover though) and JA Jance (Same scenario as Bernhardt.) I have a lot of reading yet to do. I'm enjoying it fully. But what is it doing for my own writing. Not much. I'm content to read....

Until.

Last night I picked up my own stuff and started reading.

Now I know this is probably going to sound a little egotistical, but at the same time maybe it will help someone out there. I loved what I was reading. I fell into the stories all over again, and was just a bit perturbed with myself when they came to these dangling places where I ran out of juice and didn't push myself to continue. On one of the stories I've lost the storyline altogether, and I'm praying that the synopsis and mind dump that I do in the beginning on ideas and such is somewhere in the many files on my removable drive. If not, I'll have to sit down and do the work over again, because the beginning deserves an ending.

I read three of my stories last night. Well, the completed book I didn't read all the way through. I opened it to the middle and read some chapters that I have not edited to death. The one I'm working on for MomWriters Novel Challenge, I printed out the synopsis and first two chapters that I entered in the OWFI conference this year and that cleared up some issues that had begun to muddle in my head. And I read the opening to Cousins, and I'm ready to get busy on that one. Now I'm faced with the question of whether I discipline myself to edit and continue on the stuff that's closer to being finished, or do I take off like I want to with the creative side of Cousins. Or do I find a balance between all of it?

I can't help but hear Leonard Bishop's voice in my head about how this kind of a waste of time is avoided if you stick with one project, work on it daily, and make yourself finish it. (from his book Dare to Be a Great Writer. I love him and hate him all at the same time. He sounds a bit like my critic, who is often right--just at the wrong time.) I've always been a little proud about my multi-tasking, but maybe I'm just being stubborn. Maybe I need to just hyperfocus on one project and stay connected with it so that I can finish it and get it out on its journey to find a home. Then I wouldn't be re-weaving the story threads that have frayed in my mind. Hmmm.

Widow's Peak is the closest to being finished. Then Out of the Ordinary. Cousins might be a good one for NaNoWriMo in November, since I really only have a start and I don't even have the major plot points down like I like to have them before I get going on the draft. Hmmm.

At any rate, the point is--Ah ha! A point, she says!!!--I'm fired up. I'm ready to write. Finally.

So if all else has failed--read your work. Fall in love with your story and your characters all over again. And GET BUSY!