Work-In-Progress Wednesday

The day wherein I think of my manuscript as a sculpture and I know exactly how much clay to remove and where it needs to be added. And I know precisely how to smooth the rough spots and I get to watch it take shape. Beautiful, breath-taking shape. Yeah, that kind of day. A girl can hope, can't she?

Come On Forty, Let's Do This

Come On Forty, Let's Do This
Birthday Thing


I've been waiting for you for how many years now?
For the record, it wasn't easy getting here.
Remember Horse Neck Beach when I was seven and tried to swim out to my brother, who was six-foot-four, I'm sure. Those waves and that water were way over my head. Somehow he heard me call his name and I got to see my eighth birthday. A few close calls like that are reasons why I appreciate you.


And I like that you've arrived to grant admission to the shores of the land known as the second half of my life. If you were a jersey, I'd wear your numbers like a badge of honor. I suppose when it comes down to it, I owe the lofty world of academia for the prestige I can now carry with me. Wasn't it there that you, the lovely 4.0, were deemed perfect?


And last, but not least, I'm glad you bring a reason to celebrate life. 
Which is code for eat cake, take time to notice the tallest trees and the smallest butterflies, and dance the electric slide as only a proud new forty-year-old can--but probably not all at the same time.


Come On Forty, Let's Do This










I didn't know I was going to make a habit out of posting on my birthday, but it looks like that's what I've done!

http://whyigetup.blogspot.com/2010/06/why-i-really-get-up.html

http://whyigetup.blogspot.com/2011/06/simple-gifts.html

Last Day of School, Anyone?

Some mothers get soo sentimental about the first day of school. There is no shortage of pictures and posts about babies growing up too fast and 'how did we get here' and a few confessionals that include how free a mother feels when her youngest is in school for a full day.

I'm not going to pretend that I don't experience a handful of those emotions. But you know what really gets me? The last day of school. As in a son's last day of high school. Wham! Or my daughter's last day of kindergarten. Double-wham!


I said 'I love you' and before she jumped out of the van, she turned and smiled at me with the slant of her head and the squint of her eyes that said, in a sweet way, "Aw, mom!" I watched her walk fast and focused through the criss-cross of playing children. She knew exactly where she was going. She didn't look back, she didn't look lost. Gone were the 'What-am-I-in-for?' expressions of Day One. See? It's the last day. She's doing exactly what she is supposed to do--learning and gaining confidence and preparing for what comes next. I sit in the van with parents behind me waiting for me to move and I wonder, am I?


And then there is the son. If I can feel the swell of motherly love from witnessing a ten month transformation of my kindergartner, then what is it I'm feeling as I watch my son don his cap and gown? I try to reconcile it with pictures in my mind of the superman PJs he loved to wear as a two-year-old, so much that he wanted them as his Halloween costume. This cap and gown is no costume. It's the authentic rite-of-passage uniform he gets to wear, declaring to the universe, what? That's he's grown up, that's what. And that's what gets me in the back of my throat, in the pit of my stomach, and what sends tears cascading down my cheeks, as he walks, accepts the diploma and the passport to the rest of his life. Swells of love combine with bursts of pride and form waves that pick up pangs of hope. I wonder if anything I've done in the last 18+ years will make any bit of difference for good in his life. 


The graduates march, and like hands on the clock, there is no turning them back. Forward, always forward. 


I feel marvel and wonder, some sadness for mistakes every mother can't help making, mostly gratitude for all the sweet memories swirling.


If it's freedom a mother feels when she sends that young one off to school and returns home to her life, and whatever fills it, what does she feel when that child graduates from school. More freedom?

Not exactly, for me. By the time I take my seat in the bleachers, I realize--I'm the mother. He may leave and live his future any where and any way he wants, but I will always be his mother and I won't be 'freed' from that. That's what gets me. And I'm glad. Happy glad. Wait, I think it's joy. Yes, pinewood derby, first church dance, last piano recital, one-hundredth silly pun, --and one unsolicited 'thanks, mom' hug in his cap and gown, and I feel it. Joy.

Chocolate Chip Memories

I mean cookies. Well, memories of making chocolate chip cookies. You know what I mean? Saturday nights my sister and I would commandeer the kitchen and make Toll House cookies. Okay, she would make the cookies and I would do whatever she ordered,er, instructed. Usually set up and clean up and occasionally I'd get to crack an egg or mix--once she taught me how to make sure none of the flour was left in un-stirred pockets on the bottom of the bowl. I wasn't complaining about the division of duties. She worked her magic and before I knew it there was plate full of six dozen warm, ooey-gooey, perfectly semi-sweet chocolate chip cookies. And no one in the house could eat one until the last one was lifted off the cookie sheet. It was a smart system of labor and rewards. We'd pour tall glasses of milk and devour half the plate.

A few things have changed since then. My sister and I live on separate coasts - so we aren't together on Saturday nights. However, I still LOVE to make chocolate chip cookies. I don't always make them from scratch. This is quite a departure because for years it was hard to use anything but the Nestle Toll House recipe and chocolate chips. It might have had something to do with growing up close to the original Toll House. (Notice the picture is of the sign, not the restaurant? Sorry to disappoint, but the place burned down in 1984. Now there is Wendy's in it's place. *Sigh* ) No question that made-from-scratch cookies are the best.

But as a mom, scratch baking isn't always practical (read-doable!). SO, I admit to using a cookie mix here and there. Right now I like a chocolate-chunk variety and I add white chips. I still use real butter. (Pause the cholesterol lecture. I don't eat two dozen in one sitting anymore!)

And did you know, we have the mistake-slash-improvisation of Ruth Wakefield to thank for the chocolate chip cookie? She worked quite a deal with Nestle after the cookies and recipe became a hit--a lifetime supply of chocolate! Think of that next time you run out of an ingredient and something doesn't go like you planned.

Meanwhile, I'd love to hear about your chocolate chip memories -- or recipes. 

You Know Spring Has Arrived

when birds are chirping,
in your dryer vent.
Okay, not chirping so much as fluttering.
That was the sound I heard coming from my laundry room as I sat at my keyboard, minding my own business, typing away.

You know, I was getting too confident in my ability to stick to my writing schedule despite the many varied distractions and interruptions life can throw at me. I don't know what you would have done, but I pretty much ran screaming out the door the second that bird spread it's wings and started flying through my house. Don't ask me why. I don't have time to analyze how I can reach into the disposal bare-handed but not stay composed in the presence of a small lost sparrow.

So Happy Spring to you. Hopefully all the birds & animals at your house are invited guests and not surprise drop-ins!

Top Ten Reasons To Attend a Writer’s Conference

Yep, this is a repost - I'm admitting that upfront. But hey, sometimes my writing is timeless!

10. The stylish name-tags. Okay, kidding.

 9. The food. Still kidding. (actually - this year's menu was great - loved the cheesecake!)

 8. Meeting internet writing friends (people look different in 3-D than 2-D).

 7. The chance to listen to famous authors, published authors (not always the same thing) and lots of other experienced people in the writing and publishing industry.

 6. Sit at a table with total strangers and talk about genres, word count, writing methods and hooks.

 5. Attend workshops and learn I’ve written a few things right.

 4. Attend workshops and find out I’ve written a few things that will need to be burned.

 3. Have total strangers ask, “What do you write?”

 2. Have an agent or editor ask, “What do you write?”

And the  # 1 reason to attend a writer’s conference is having confirmed to you the universal truth :
Writing is the coolest, most awesome job/hobby/obsession in the world!

I get carried away, but how could I not after attending the fabulous ANWA conference? If you were there, you know what I mean. If you weren't there -(well why not?) mark your calendar for next year!

Borrowed Inspiration

That songwriting sister of mine shared some nice inspiration.

This was on Jason Blume's website at one point, not sure why the link isn't working now, but I shared this with the ANWA ladies and thought I'd put it here, too.

Enjoy.

STEP ONE: Believe You Can Fly by Jason Blume

I’m just back from teaching at the annual Australian Songwriters Conference. Once again, the ASC was awesome, crammed full of pitch opportunities, publishers, and producers. . . .When the conference was over, Lisa Butler, the founder, arranged for me to visit Walkabout Wildlife Park, a sanctuary for animals who’ve been injured or can’t survive in the wild. That’s where I met Baxter, a stunning, yellow-crested cockatoo who resides at the park.

The tour guide told me that Baxter had spent his first seven years confined to a cage that was too small for him to spread his wings. He’d never flown—and didn’t know that he could. Shortly after he’d been brought to the sanctuary Baxter’s keeper tried an experiment in the hopes of encouraging the bird to do what nature intended him to do. Tossed into the air, his wings fluttered and brought him safely to a branch. But the problem was that Baxter still didn’t know he could fly—so he paced on his branch, seeming confused about how he got there, and unable to figure out how to get back down.

The next day when the bird was still up in the tree, hungry and squawking for help, the keeper took pity and climbed a ladder to retrieve the confounded cockatoo.

I haven’t been able to get Baxter off my mind and I keep wondering, “What am I capable of—that I don’t know that I can do?” What might I achieve if I exercised talents that I don’t trust that I possess? And how high might I soar if I only tried?

Baxter would have to be pretty dumb to jump off his safe perch if he believed that splatting on the ground would be the inevitable outcome. Likewise, why would I invest money and put my heart and soul into a demo—if deep down I believed I wasn’t good enough? And why bother going through the trouble of pitching my songs if I secretly suspect no one will like them anyway? And why bother rewriting, or seeking collaborators, or pushing myself to push the envelope musically if I’m certain I’ll never beat out the competition?

It’s not easy to dig down deep and express ourselves as the unique artists and writers we were meant to be. It’s something typically achieved through trial and error, patience and perseverance—and sometimes we will fall—and it will hurt. There are no guarantees—except that if we don’t try—it won’t happen. I’ve got to believe my dreams are attainable—or I won’t even try.

Like the animals at Walkabout Park most of us have been wounded in one way or another and we’ve absorbed a lifetime of messages that say, “What’s so special about you?”; “What are the chances?”; and “You’ll never make it.”

Clipping our hopes and dreams is a form of self-protection—but it comes at a high price. What might you find that you can do if you ruffled some feathers, spread your wings, took the leap of faith from the safety of your branch, and reached for the sky? You’ll never know unless you try. 

Step One is believing you can fly.