Commuting

Yesterday’s commute home was like sitting on a park bench.  Make that a parked bench.  I wanted to close my eyes and listen to the music.  Norah Jones, Ryan Adams.  Yesterday sounded lovely.

The SUV in front of Mini had a cardboard sign taped to its window: U2 Here We Come!

Would anyone notice if I pulled over on the side of 395 and read the book in my bag? 

But at least I had a bench, a comfortable seat outside to smell the breeze and look up at the vast, lake blue fall sky.  My mind strolled back to the things you can’t always think about at work:

The book in my bag, for one.  In the book (Stephen King’s memoir on writing, aptly named… On Writing), King wrote:

Stopping a piece of work just because it’s hard, either emotionally or imaginatively, is a bad idea.  Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feels like all you’re managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position.

The first time I read that passage, I dog-eared the page.  Then I ruminated over it for two days, including in the car yesterday afternoon as I sat, unimpressed by the cars around me.

My mind strolled from King’s memoir to the notecard stuck in my blackberry case.  I have lots of notecards.  This particular card was hastily written between yesterday’s meetings: what does a real scream sound like/feel like/look like; the nexus of grief, vengeance — and confusion/misunderstanding?; and emotional blindness — groping raw walls –should this be a theme?  

I contemplated the first on the list.  The scream.  What did I know about the scream? 

This scream was suffocating. 

It drew all the air in the room down like a funnel — tightening, squeezing — until there was nothing left.  And even after it had stopped, when silence had begun to tiptoe back into the space, the imprint of the scream had become permanently etched, to be recalled endlessly, chaining itself to everyone who was there.

The words rolled around in my head.  It wasn’t right.  Because the scream wasn’t just ‘piercing the air’ or ‘filling the void’ like so many other famous literary screams; this scream was the void — it replaced the air.  In this moment, the only thing that was was the scream.

It really is a shame I couldn’t just pull over.  Sometimes I am sure I could be productive on the side of 395.

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Flacco!

One of my “just because”s.  Thanks husband!  I LOVE it.  And yeah, Flacco rocked today.  Go Ravens! 3-0!

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and more!

Today

we had asparagus and chicken

and white wine

and played with the puppies

and bought new sheets (thanks Lucy)

and new throw pillows to celebrate fall

AND

I got another “just because” present.

 

I think I should have bought a lottery ticket this week.

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Orange Stars

This evening,

orange mini monster zoomed home, 

dinner was accompanied by a delicious glass of red wine,

the puppies are sitting hip to hip chomping on their bones,

and

I got a “just because” present from my husband.  

Today was perfect.

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Health and Wellness

No, not our health and wellness — and not Linus’ either, though you might have thought otherwise.  Today’s post is brought to you on behalf of Orange Mini Monster, who is currently at the doctor getting poked, prodded, and fixed.  We were originally headed to Annapolis, but decided instead to visit the new mini dealership in Alexandria.

Based on our experiences so far, Mini has found a new lifelong friend.  Just look how happy this place is!

I should note that these pics come from facebook (yes, this dealership has its own page full of coupons and wonderfulness).  The facebook page also notes that this is the funnest mini dealership around.  Just a glance at the above shot of the colorful mini hospital has me agreeing.

See you soon Mini Monster!

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Happy Adoption Day Linus!

Last week we celebrated a very special day — three years since we adopted Linus and brought our lanky allergy doggy home.  We adopted him on September 17, 2006 — about 14 months after bringing Lucy home to live with us.  And you probably remember the story of Lucy choosing Linus at a Lab Rescue adoption day, and how excited she was to have a new friend with whom to play.  Three years later, I think it is fair to say that he would rather cuddle with his human friends than wrestle with the chubby yellow dog, but he does humor her occasionally (always after a glance at one of us that says, this dog is sooo annoying).

But we have made giant strides with Linus.  He doesn’t shake when he hears the word “no” ‘– actually, he barely notices, which is perhaps not good on our part.  He can sit on the couch in the same room as the vacuum and not flee, which is tremendous progress over his earlier noise tolerance.  And, most of all, he doesn’t run away anymore.  We can open the door from the house to the garage, and he will stand up top and greet us.  We can let him out into the front yard without a leash and he will walk to the car and wait to go for a ride.  That is pretty remarkable when you think back to his free and wild beginnings.

Here are some pics from Linus’ first day home with us:

Greg overseeing playtime on day one

Linus loving his new red toy

Linus, smiling for the camera on his sister’s bed (only to discover ours that night and forever relinquish the notion of “dog beds”

Lucy not so sure about this new dog and his red toy infiltrating her world

And one of Linus today (okay, a few weeks ago) after a romp in the dirt.  He kinda looks the same, doesn’t he?

Happy three year adoption Linus!

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the beautiful place we live

This weekend we celebrated southern Maryland.  We started the weekend off with ArtsFest at Annmarie Gardens in Solomons.  It is my favorite event of the year — dozens and dozens of Maryland artisans showing off handmade jewelry, art, wooden sculptures, ironworks, pottery, quilts, and more.  Local musicians play folk and bluegrass on a stage surrounded by tables where all of the patrons enjoy delicious local fare — like crabcakes and Backfin ale.  Delicious!  We still haven’t come away from the festival with anything wonderful (unless you count the bag of kettle corn Greg dutifully purchases each year), but we keep coming reallyclose.  One year, maybe.  For now, it’s just the perfect day to browse.

After viewing the beautiful local art, we were inspired to continue one of our projects that we had discussed a year or so ago, but had fallen lower on the priority list.  Our goal was to photograph the barns of Calvert County.  Southern Maryland is home to one of the Eleven Most Endangered Places (National Trust for Historic Preservation) in the country: Maryland’s tobacco barns, which became obsolete with a government buy-out plan to stop the production of tobacco.  The barns that still stand are beautiful, rustic, and historical, and many of them are in Calvert County.  We couldn’t imagine a better way to capture the local heritage of the area than with photos of the barns hanging on our walls. 

Some of Greg’s photography work:

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On Writing: Part III

I spent nearly 8 months on the outline.  The story found its beginnings in an otherwise not-extraordinary article published by a local Maryland periodical.  While few people probably even read this article – and those who did no doubt thought it was a fairly benign, marginally boring article on Maryland’s crabbing industry – the article struck me as the basis for something larger.   A lone sentence stuck in the weeds of crabbing regulations and trawling licenses laid a seed of doubt into what it is that we believe about the Bay and our state’s famous industry. 

And it occurred to me, what if we were all wrong?  What if everything we believed up until now was a fantastical lie exploiting the fabric of Maryland’s economy?

The story came to me in chunks over post-work evenings and copious amounts of hot chocolate.  And though I was throughout tempted to write, to dive into the novel and peel back the layers, I kept to my outline.  When I realized in May that the main character I had grown to admire didn’t, in fact, have the best story to tell, I shoved aside the innate favoritism I harbored for her, and I let her go.  I gave the spotlight to two the new characters who deserved it more – whose stories were deeper and needier.  It was about the novel this time.

And when I felt I could go no further – that the outline was indeed complete – I put it away for the summer.  To step back and forget for a while; to return in the fall with a new eye for refining, but also a new enthusiasm for the progress I had made.

As the temperature drops and all indicators of fall are present, it is with great trepidation that I mentally prepare to open the story and write the first words.   Ever mindful of the unfinished business in the back of my head, clunking around searching for its proper end, I don’t have the heart to leave another idea unfulfilled.  This time, it must be written to its completion.

But there is a lingering doubt, as well, that perhaps I am still not ready.  I justify it to myself: it has been so long since I have truly written creatively. 

And so it is with that in mind, and the band aid analogy surprisingly applicable, that I throw myself into NaNoWriMo.

Beginning on November 1, I will join hundreds of thousands of writers from around the world for National Novel Writing Month, with a final goal of 50,000 words by the end of the month.  With a goal of approximately 2,000 words per day, this is a challenging target for anyone; add in the expected week of work travel to Canada and the Thanksgiving holiday, the battle seems insurmountable.

But sometimes you say to yourself, when else?

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On Writing: Part II

In 2005, my life spun away on a new path.  Fraud and deception (not mine, I swear) led to an unexpected promotion with expectations that far exceeded the job for which I had originally signed up.  And I met my husband.  (He wasn’t technically my husband until 2008, but I knew he would be back in 2005; therefore, I don’t think it is a stretch to say that in February 2005, I met my husband.)

As is the way when one phase of life slips into another, things suddenly seemed overwhelming.  One dog became two dogs; a short commute turned into a long commute; and dinner for two needed planning every night of the year.  Throughout it all, I always contemplated writing.  I thought about my character and how she had changed.  Had she learned anything new over the past few years?

But I didn’t force myself back into her life.  The memory of that epic failure had led to such a deep distrust of my writing that I didn’t dare pick it up again.  Maybe I mentioned the story at some point to Greg: on the third or the fifth date, perhaps.  An offhand comment that I liked to write and that once, for a fleeting period of time, I had tried to string together a novel.  But that was the extent of my creative writing for several years.  As I tried to figure out my own adult self, I found I didn’t have the energy or the confidence to rediscover my novel. 

Last year, it dawned on me that my 30^th was looming; that is, the window in which I could feasibly produce a quality novel and complete it by the age of 30 was starting to rattle.   It wasn’t fear that I was transcending yet another decade that struck me, but rather a vague memory of a promise to myself when I was younger.  30, it had seemed years ago, was about right for publishing my first novel; plus, I had always been keenly aware that the writers I respected most were those who had something worthwhile to share.

What life experiences could I have gained at 25 to inform a novel worthy of reading?

And so it was, last fall (a few precious months past crazed wedding planning and the inevitable deflation period thereafter) that I realized it was time to start writing again.  It even seemed that – despite my regularly-scheduled 5pm bitching – Greg’s inconvenient schedule had courteously penciled in time for me to write on a near-nightly basis.

I would like to be able to tell you that my character – my friend – and I met again one evening in a coffee shop on M Street to atone for our mutual neglect; but we aren’t ready to make amends just yet.  She has not forgiven me for abandoning her after we had gone so far; and I still resent her stubborn unwillingness to reveal the end of her story.

Which is why, when I opened my new laptop last November and began to once again teach my fingers to tell a story, the story wasn’t hers.

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On Writing: Part I

In first grade, purple notebook full of Christina stories in hand, I wrote in my shaky print writing that I wanted to be an author when I grew up.

In fourth grade, I added lawyer to the line.  Lawyer and author.  It was very female-John Grisham of me. 

And for about ten years, the lawyer-author combo stuck (tilting more to the lawyer side than the author side when one really looked closely).  Midway through college, a revelation occurred.  After a miserable year in high school spent interning at the District Attorney (is ANYONE happy there?!) and a miserable year of college playing errand girl to two corporate attorneys (who may or may not have had families — it didn’t matter; they didn’t EVER see them), I realized I no longer had the spark to be an attorney.

This occurred to me no more than a week before the LSAT.  And that Saturday, the LSAT reminder stuck to my bulletin board, I simply – and purposefully – failed to show up.  Everything I had thought I wanted for more than a decade of my life slinked away that Saturday when I shut off my alarm, confirmed my decision, and went on with my day.  Sans test.

When I jumped into the nonprofit world in 2003, I wasn’t sure where it would take me.  For the past six years, the path of my 9-5 has circled around grants, web design, marketing, and more, but the bricks beneath the walk have always been my writing. 

With stories constantly swirling around in the back of my head, I put pen to paper in 2004 and started writing the novel that had been following me for years.  There is a character I know as well as any friend.  I know her fears, and I understand her instincts.  Her story had been lurking with me for some time, revealing itself bit by bit in the corners of my life.

I wrote in a great flurry of haste — weekends at the Starbucks in Alexandria, evenings in my apartment.  I threw thoughts against paper, recognizing the smallest details of the shape of her nose, but waiting anxiously to see them wrapped up in a package of grand commentary on the psychological trait with which my character was most familiar.

Six months into the novel, I made a terrible, regrettable error in judgment.  I blamed my writing for not revealing the story to me in its perfect form.  I forgot that all great novels began as sloppy first drafts dripping with ugly language and flat characters.  And when I stumbled across a phrase and found it so jarring that it pulled me out of the very story I was writing, I didn’t think to myself, how can this be improved?  I thought to myself, Good God, this is crap. 

But most of all, I thought I wasn’t ready to be a writer.  The book was bigger than me, and I wasn’t prepared to create the ending that my character deserved — this character who had lingered with me for years waiting for me to tell her story.

At the end of 2004, on the brink of a new job and amidst the frustrated tears that spilled on the disappointing first draft, I shut the file on my laptop and put it away. 

And maybe I would come back to it one day.

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