Every Sunday evening, Jim rehearses with his men's chorus. He leaves at 5:30 and usually doesn't get home until at least 9:30, sometimes later if the guys go across the street for pizza and beer after practice. So, Sunday nights are all mine. Of course, it's not like he bothers me when he's home. After all, he's mostly in our little family room, glued to his new Sony Bravia High Definition TV. And I'm mostly in my little office, glued to my Dell Inspiron 8600. But on Sunday nights, if I wanted to, I could play all my old Eagles and Phil Collins CD's and dance around the living room. I could watch my favorite chick flicks like The Hours, and The Way We Were, and Love Actually, and Somethings Gotta Give. I could eat hummous and grape leaves, which he can't stand the sight or smell of. I usually don't do any of those things, but its kind of fun to know I could - if I wanted to. Here's what I did tonight: I practiced handbell music with real handbells instead of spoons (don't even ask). I taught the dogs to play hide and seek, which involved them getting a lot of treats. I finished my daily word quota on the novel. I had a glass of wine and read my November issue of More magazine. And in five minutes, I'm going to watch Brothers and Sisters on TV. That was my Sunday night. It was fine. I hope yours was too.
Sunday Scribbling-What I Carry
The older you get, the more baggage you carry, and I mean that literally and figuratively. From bags under my eyes, to saddlebags on my thighs, my physical burden can be pretty tough to tote sometimes. Emotionally - well, yeah, that gets heavy too. I think I'm carrying around quite a few "woulda, shoulda, coulda's" in my emotional handbag - I suspect we all are. They're buried pretty deeply down there, along with the loose change, the ATM receipts, and used up chewing gum discarded into wadded up bits of Kleenex. Everything from "shoulda stopped at the grocery store on the way home, 'cuz we're almost out of milk," to "coulda had enough money for a trip to France if we hadn't bought that second house in Florida." They're all there, and they rattle around a lot, particularly on long drives alone in the car and in the wee hours of the morning when everyone else is asleep. But something else I've noticed about getting older - I'm getting better at throwing stuff away, especially stuff I know I've outgrown and won't be using anymore. It doesn't do me any good to keep carrying those regrets around. It's kind of like those size four pants hanging uselessly in the back of my closet - they're just painful to look at, so toss them into the rummage sale bag. Why carry any more burdens than you have to, right? But hand over some excitement, some new dreams, some great plans, and I'll happily fill my emotional carry-all with those. That's the kind of baggage I'm looking for now. for more carry on's go here
Up Late
It's almost 1:00 (a.m.) and I'm still here, curled in my easy chair, the Dell Inspiron serving as my own personal heater, with assistance from Magic who has managed to insinuate himself in the corner of the chair beside me. What am I doing, still awake in the wee hours of the morning?
Earlier tonight, while sitting in a dark high school auditorium, struggling to stay awake through a (fairly competent) production of Arsenic and Old Lace, I realized (with a mixure of horror and resignation) that I had managed to let myself get about 2000 words behind on my novel.
How did this happen?
This has been a week where the s&*t has hit the fan, as they say. Meaning that those occasions when people have said "could you? would you?" every so nicely, and I have replied "I can, I will," every so foolishly, have all come home to roost.
I am crushed, dear reader.
Overloaded.
So tonight, as I was driving home in the cold and dark, still struggling to stay awake, I thought to myself - okay, you're done. Why are you putting yourself through this novel writing nonsense, adding this extra burden on an already overloaded schedule? Nobody's making you write this novel - it doesn't matter in the slightest to anyone whether you finish it now, or next August, or the 12th of Never.
Wrong.
It matters to me. And that's why I'm still up. I've been writing.
Because all that other stuff - the extra work I've been doing to help my boss, the bell concerts I'm playing to sub for a friend, the visiting, the shopping, the chores - those are all for other people. And we all know how much I abhor letting people down.
The writing -well, sure, it's just for me. But why should I be any more inclined to let myself down than I would all these other people I'm always so willing to open a vein for?
Anyway, I'm caught up on my word count - at least until tomorrow (which is actually already today, isn't it?)
But I will keep writing.
After all, I wouldn't want to disappoint myself.
Novel Excerpt...and a Contest
...from The Wedding Dress Section One - Anna Grace Livingston, 1919 Anna always loved this time of day, this late afternoon hour just after supper with the sun settling in behind the pine trees, the length of the front porch finally cast in cool shadow. She would come outside after helping Mama wipe the dishes, pour pitchers of water over the huge ferns swinging gently from the rafters, and settle into the rocking chair, book in hand, ready to read until the the afternoon heat abated. But all the while Andrew had been in France, fighting in that awful war, Anna's restful afternoons on the porch were spoiled. She felt anxious sitting there, the long dirt road leading from town staring her in the face, the road that might bring an ominous stranger bearing the worst of all possible news.
She would glance nervously at the dusty road, squinting for a moment against the sun's glare. Her imagination ran wild with tales she'd heard of smartly clad soldiers in dress uniform, black armbands adorning their sleeves, soldiers that always came in pairs, knocking politely on your door, hat in hand, to deliver news that would shatter your life forever.
"There's no use in thinking about such awful things," she would firmly lecture herself. "I just have to believe with all my heart and soul that Andrew will come home safely." And, so it was on that day not six months ago, she had remained busy refilling her pitcher, pouring fresh water into each fern's dusty bed, while the sun eased itself lower into the evening sky - so busy that she almost didn't see the lonely figure trudging toward her, dressed in the unmistakable khaki colored puttee's that looked so odd on boys barely out of knickers and more accustomed to overalls. Catching sight of this stranger, Anna literally felt her heart sink, powerless to stop the pitcher as it slipped from her hand, shattering in a million shards of glass on the wooden floorboards. The seconds passed like hours, her gaze fixed on this solitary man coming ever nearer, until the first glimmer of recognition began to dawn. This lonely figure, thin and long legged, one arm swinging familiarly at his side, the other - wait, the other caught up in a sling!-but there, at least, definitely there - and yes, the shock of blond hair catching the last flicker of sunlight. This was no stranger, she realized. Impossible as it seemed, it was Andrew. He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of her slender body come flying off the porch, and he continued to stand stock still while she raced over the yard and down the road to meet him, heedless of any rules of grace or propriety, her own blonde hair coming loose from its pins and streaming in the breeze behind her. "My God in heaven!" Anna cried, throwing her arms around him, almost pulling back in surprise at the frailty of his body, aware that she could feel every rib as she pressed her own torso against him, and then pulling him even tighter into her chest, willing him to take strength and sustenance from her. Andrew’s one good arm enfolded her and he buried his face in the fragrant smell of her clean, sun warmed hair. Anna felt a deep shudder pass through him, and she pulled back, raising her eyes to meet his.
And then her heart sank once again. Staring off into the horizon beyond her were not the bright blue eyes of the boy she had loved and sent sailing off to war, determined to lead the victory charge for freedom. These eyes were empty and dim, filled with nothing at all like hope or pride.
They were the eyes of a stranger after all.Anna shook her head, trying to clear the memory of that moment from her mind. “Andrew will be just fine,” she told herself, as she had so many times since that day six months before, willing herself to believe, and in her fierce belief, make it so.She rose quickly, dropping the mending beside her on the cushioned seat of the swing, and strolled to the end of the porch once again.
Was that dust swirling up around horse’s hooves, she wondered. She craned her neck to see if she could catch a glimpse of her father’s dark hat.Smiling broadly, any disturbing thoughts erased from her mind, she grasped a handful of her long skirt and flew down the porch steps, in much the same way as she had on the day just dismissed from her memory. This time, she knew exactly what to expect from the man heading toward her.
Her father was coming, and with him, the material for her wedding dress.
Write Stuff has a contest for us NaNoWriMo writers - a nice diversion from the long hours spent noveling. We post an excerpt from our novel, and readers can vote for their favorites right here.
NaNoWriMo-Another Week Has Come and Gone
Each week, we NaNo writers receive a lively pep talk in our email boxes from a well known author. To get us revved up for week one, novelist Tom Robbins advised us to ditch any detailed plans we might have for the evolution of our novel, and let it evolve into being as we go, powered by instinct and a sense of adventure. "If you know the whole story in advance," he wrote, "your novel is probably dead before you begin it." Last week, mystery writer Sue Grafton helped us crawl out from under the blanket of self doubt that begins to creep in - along with fatigue and waning enthusiasm - during the second week of writing. "The important point," she advised, "is to keep up your momentum regardless of the fact that you might stumble now and then. Most people you know have never written a novel at all, let alone pounded one out in a jam-packed thirty days." Today, Sara Gruen talked about the many ways life intrudes, despite our best intentions. A sick dog and a broken foot have landed her far behind her projected daily word count. If you're behind, stop worrying about following the trajectory of your story in a straight line. "Jump around and write the fun bits," she writes, "like food fights, and disastrous sex, and escaping in-laws, and apes with unlimited credit!" Here's my mantra for this project, the personal pep talk I give myself when I'm trudging to the computer to work on my own daily word count: Don't think, just write. Don't think about going back and rewriting the part where Treesa and John meeting at the USO dance. Don't think about whether I should reveal if Andrew Sutton's death was suicide or an accident. Don't think about why Treesa's daughter is so against the idea of marriage. And above all, don't think about the laundry I should be doing, or the medical records I should be reviewing, or the bills I should be paying. Just write.