You Can't Stop the Beat

Like the dizzying revolutions of a child's spinning top, my brain is awhirl with ideas - things I want to write about, subjects that beg to be parlayed into words, researched, dissected literally and emotionally, and splayed out upon the page. Layered on top of these myriad of ideas come the notion about larger projects - books of essays, novels, a memoir - exploding in my brain with the exciting sparkle of fireworks. So what's the problem? Shouldn't I be down-on-my-knees grateful for all these ideas?

I should, because I've been on the flip side of this situation, when nary a thoughtful word could be wrenched from the dark recesses of my brain.  But I feel slightly ill equipped to handle this torrent of inspiration. Where do I start? When do I leave off working on one thing and start on another? Where do I even keep track of all these ideas that keep popping into my head?

I know there are writers out there who can simultaneously manage multiple writing projects. I'm just not sure I have the wherewithal to be one of them.

How about you? Do you multi-task your writing projects?  Any advice on how to manage?

Clockwork

It's now August 1st, and this week I've figured out my summer routine. A little late you think?

Truthfully, I think I've had the routine set all along, but just wasn't ready to declare that this was, indeed, the way my days were going to run.

I have this fantasy about living life on a strict schedule.  I know that's weird, especially in the 21st century when most people espouse the "go with the flow" mantra.  But if I'm OCD at all (and I might have to admit to a touch of that disorder), it's about a schedule.  Like my two dogs, I much prefer to have everything go off like clockwork. They have an inner timepiece which rivals the atomic clock.  From walks to meals to bedtime, they are dead set on completing certain daily activities at specified times, and woe to the person who fails to comply with the schedule.

My mornings have become pretty predictable.  I get up, have coffee and read for an hour, then I exercise for another 30-45 minutes.  After that it's breakfast for me, followed by walkies/breakfast for the dogs.  By 10:00, I like to be at my desk for the next two hours to write.  (I'm trying really hard to actually write during that time...not Facebook, Twitter, email, or any of those other ever-present distractions.)

Then it's lunch time - which is my favorite meal of the day, and if you wonder why, you can read about it in an essay I wrote earlier this summer. Weather permitting, I'll eat on the back porch and read, although sometimes (like today) I got distracted by a butterfly flitting around the trumpet vine and had to cut the reading time short.

In the afternoons I either work on office work, spend time with my mom, or do things around the house. I've been working on a closet/drawer cleaning project this summer, and now I'm about ready to take that a step further and tackle the basement (pray for me, people).

By 4:30-ish, I'm ready to stop and rest for a bit. This is where I'll start getting things ready for dinner, maybe settle into my favorite chair and  check in with the ol' Social Network.

So it appears that I have my schedule pretty well in hand.  I think I needed to write it all down to prove to myself that it really exists, and that I'm following it about 80% of the time - which isn't a bad percentage for someone who's only a teeny bit OC.  So if you've read this far, I appreciate your interest in the minutiae of my life, and your willingness to be a participant in my little personal therapy session.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I see by the clock that it's nearly 5:00, which according to the schedule is time for a glass of wine, an activity that is not to be missed.

How about you? Are you a compulsive schedule keeper, or do you prefer to go with the flow?

Like Riding A Bike

If you're one of my Facebook "friends," you've seen a variety of pictures I've been posting of baby clothes and books and toys.  Like any grandmother-to-be, I'm indulging myself, wandering through baby departments, oohing and ahhing over all the cute outfits and soft blankets.  My mom and I ventured into a store called Buy Buy Baby - a very apt name, because there is SO much merchandise between those four walls that you could buy until your credit card literally smokes! This was our first shopping trip since finding out the baby's gender, so we concentrated our efforts on all things blue. I have to admit, I felt completely out of my element amongst all the paraphernalia, and I'm certainly glad this baby's parents are among the most educated consumers I know.  I'm sure they are researching every piece of equipment they'll need, and will have narrowed it down to a solid list of essentials when it's time to start making the big purchases.  Wandering through aisle after aisle of strollers and car seats and swings, my head was starting to spin.

Being in that store today reminded me once again just how long it's been since I had anything to do with a baby.  I'm starting to feel a little like the character of Prissy in Gone With the Wind - you remember she assured Miz Scarlett that she knew all about bringing babies into the world, but when it got to be crunch time, she fled down the stairs, crying "Miz Scarlett, I don't know NOTHIN' 'bout birthin' no babies!"

Thankfully, once again my grandson's parents have that covered, and are already well acquainted with the midwives at the Allen Birthing Center where the baby will be born.

When I mentioned to Jim that I was a little worried about remembering how to care for a baby, he simply laughed. "What are you talking about?" he said. "You'll know what to do! You don't forget things like that - it's like riding a bike."

Well, not exactly. That sounds like something a man would say, doesn't it? Can you really equate all the intricacies of child care with the mechanical memory motion of riding a bicycle?

I suppose there is an innate maternal sense that kicks in. When my son was born, I really didn't know "nothin' 'bout raising no babies."  Ever the student, I had read book after book about the subject (remember, we didn't have the internet in those days), and was often seen wandering around the house clutching the baby in one arm and Dr. Spock's Guide to Baby and Child Care in the other.  Between book learning, instinctive maternal capabilities, and lots of help from my mom and grandmother, he turned out all right.

Just to be safe, though, I've been doing some research - sort of a "refresher course" in Infant 101. The other day at the library, I picked up a couple of books (circa 21st century), and although the young woman at the circulation desk looked at me a little strangely when I checked out Heading Home With Your Newborn-From Birth to Reality and The Modern Girls Guide to Motherhood, I just gave her an enigmatic smile and went on my way.

My husband may be right - the rudiments of baby tending might be like riding a bike, but I wouldn't start out on a 100 mile ride without a few warm up laps around the neighborhood first.

Sixth Sense

Our electricity went out again last night, for the third time in a week.  Thankfully, the temperature has been a bit more moderate than it was last week, when we were in the midst of the worst heat wave in recent history. Lately when the power goes out, it’s never completely out, which is another blessing. We can run ceiling fans, although their speed waxes and wanes with the fluctutating voltage. Same with the lights, so there is an eerie dimming effect that occurs occasionally. It’s a little like living in circus haunted house. Nevertheless, between the power problems and some very boisterous thunderstorms which rolled through about 4 a.m., no one slept very well. When I got up this morning, it was gloomy and dank, but comfortably cool. I had just enough current to power the coffeemaker, although it took quite a while for the water to pour through and the coffee wasn't quite as hot as i like it.

The power company forecast a return of service between 9:30 and 11:30 p.m., so anticipating a long day of trying to stay cool, I laid pretty low all morning, keeping mostly to my reading chair which afforded me a comfortable breeze from the fan.  I realized how oddly quiet the house was. No humming refrigerator, no intermittent click-whirr of the air conditioner powering on. No buzzing reminders of washing machines finishing a load, or dryers shutting off. It actually wasn't all bad this morning, have a few hours of complete peace to start the day. The dogs, who usually get up with me, had found their own cool corners, and seemed to be sticking to them. In fact, as the morning wore on, it occurred to me that they were unnaturally quiet. I purposely got up and rattled around in the kitchen, which usually brings Molly right to my feet on the off chance that there might be a morsel of something coming her way.

Nothing.

I went into the bathroom, and opened the medicine cabinet whose creaky door seems to be the signal that I'm getting ready for the day and there will soon be a biscuit available.

Nothing.

I tiptoed into the bedroom and checked on them, much as you would a baby you hoped not to disturb. They were both sleeping peacefully in complete zen-like tranquility, their breathing nearly imperceptible, their limbs totally relaxed and limp.  It's almost as if they had a sixth sense about the need to conserve energy and remain cool, and had gone into a state of canine hibernation, not even wanting to rouse themselves to eat - and if you've ever had a dog, you know that's an act which goes against every canine instinct!

Animals are such sentient beings, and my two have proven time and again their ability to sense things about the atmosphere - and particularly about their masters. They know to an absolute fact when I'm just thinking about giving them a bath. Even if I never mention the word, Magic can tell I've prepared the bathtub in the basement and will run and jump into Jim's lap for protection. When I'm in my office working and heave a certain sigh that means things aren't going the way I'd hoped, Molly will be at my side within seconds, her little paws planted on my knees, her fluffy tail wagging rapidly as if to offer her services for assistance. That's why it doesn't surprise me when I hear of dogs being trained to predict seizures or blood sugar abnormalities in their owners, or any of the other claims people make about their pets extraordinary capabilities.

In an unexpected surprise, our service was restored about noon. As soon as they felt that cool blast from the central air conditioning, they came to life and started about their regular morning business, knowing things were back to normal again.

I wish I could train them to predict power failures. That could definitely come in handy around here.

Write on Wednesday - The Click

She’d been working so hard all year, why shouldn’t it have arrived around then: that “click” when it feels as if a previously locked door has opened and words and sentences suddenly seem to exist in a new dimension located somewhere between your brain and the screen or page, leading you through an infinite house whose rooms have strange geometric shapes you’ve never seen before, yet you always somehow know where you are.  ~ from Say Her Name, by Francisco Goldman

Athletes call it "the zone," musicians call it "the sweet spot," and Francisco Goldman calls it "the click." Whatever term you use, you probably know what it means - that moment when everything works perfectly, you become suspended in some alternative universe where only you and whatever you're doing exist, and time seems to stand still.

Whether you write, play music, paint, dance, golf, swim, run - there's a "clicking point" when your body, mind, and spirit are in perfect harmony and you just can't do it wrong.

Getting there - now that's the trickier part. For me, the hardest part is just getting started.  I was reminded of this during the past few weeks of my online writing workshop.  We had new assignments each week, and, in typical Becca fashion, I'd procrastinate until the very last minute.  Coming up with ideas wasn't really a problem, but even when I had a good idea I'd put off sitting down at my computer and starting to write.

What's that all about, anyway? I discovered my reluctance to get started was partly related to fear.  What if I took my very good idea, starting writing, and then got completely stuck? Or if I couldn't express what I wanted to say? What if I wasted that wonderful idea with my incompetence?

That happened sometimes, and when it did it was hellishly frustrating.  I wanted to reach inside my brain and drag those perfect sentences kicking and screaming from wherever they were hiding and lay them out on the page. But other times, once I convinced myself to start writing, I was fine, and the words flowed fairly easily and fluently. On a few occasions, I actually "clicked" with my subject matter, and, not surprisingly, those were the pieces that turned out to be the most interesting and emotionally rewarding.

Maybe I need to come up with some sort of fear-reducing ritual...jumping up and down 10 times, or throwing salt over my shoulder, or burning incense.  Maybe a good stiff drink, á la Ernest Hemingway.  Whatever it takes, there's no way to click with writing unless you're actually writing.

You just gotta do it.