Portrait of King Charles I in the robes of the Order of the Garter. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I have been–to use a term I learned from fellow blogger Kate Shrewsday–in a funk hole.
Recent events in the American political arena have had me biting my tongue and wearing mittens to keep from making an abject fool of myself on this blog.
Every time I started a post, I immediately thought of a number of men whose names I will not mention–yes, always men–and my chosen topic veered off the rails into an area I prefer not to traverse.
I felt like Mr. Dick, David Copperfield’s friend, whose attempts to complete his Memorial were repeatedly obstructed by the intrusion of King Charles’ Head.
Lacking Mr. Dick’s good sense, sweet temper, and ability to construct a kite from a laptop monitor, I went underground. Crawled under the porch. Played Bookworm for two or three weeks.
Bookworm is a good game. One evening I racked up 2,000,000 points before my library burned up. This is not a boast. It is a source of shame. But it kept me from posting.
I’ve also watched all the P. D. James mystery adaptations on Netflix, some of them twice. And all the episodes of Kingdom three or four times. I was so unhappy to learn Kingdom ran only three seasons. Here I am left hanging, wondering who Peter Kingdom really is.
But I believe my topic has once again taken off on its own.
The point is that you, Dear Reader, do not come here to read what I think of the current U. S. political scene, nor do you need to know about my obsessive-compulsive personality. Or my sharp tongue.
I prefer that you think of me as a kindly, marshmallowy creature, constitutionally incapable of an unrefined thought. Kind of like Jane Bennett.
And to that end, I found myself a funk hole and crawled in.
When I came out to test the waters, I wrote about cats, the subject least likely to attract King Charles’ Head.
Having passed that test, I now return to the fold.
Round #2 of A Round of Words in 80 Days begins this week. I flunked–if that’s possible–Round #1–but I’m willing to give it another try.
My Round #2 goal is to submit to my critique group every week. Period.
King Charles and the U. S. Congress can go fly a kite.
Robert Plutchik's Wheel of Emotions--Image via Wikipedia--Note: DISGUST is in pink, right between BOREDOM and LOATHING
Dear Blogger Bloggers,
For the past several weeks I have tried repeatedly to comment on your posts, but Blogger has repeatedly refused to accept my comments. Word verification is the hang-up: the letters I type never match the letters I’m told to type, no matter how many times I type them. And proof them.
I’m finished with waiting for the problem to fix itself. I’ll report it to Blogger. In the meantime, I’m sending harmonious vibrations your way.
A Green Tree Frog (Not Yet Boiled) Sitting on a Palm Leaf--Image via Wikipedia
A friend says resolutions should be brief. Her resolution for 2012 is Move.
Ten years ago, when she was into metaphor, she adopted, Boil the frog slowly.
The former refers to being more physically active. The latter might be phrased, Make small, incremental changes.
I admire her artistry, but deplore her lack of clarity. They’re her resolutions, however. If they work for her, that’s all that matters.
A Round of Words in 80 Days #5 begins today. I was supposed to announce my goals January 1, but didn’t get around to it. Whether such tardiness portends good or ill remains to be seen. I’m pretty sure I’ll accomplish more than I did during ROW80 #4, when I met about 1% of what I’d set out to do. I offer no apologies for the lapse. I remember 2011 as one long series of lapses.
A medical professional, and my hero, once told me, “You can’t tell your hypothalamus what to do.” Unfortunately, my hypothalamus has no problem at all ordering me around.
Anyway, while good old HT and I are on speaking terms, I re-enter the challenge and state my goals:
1. Write about Molly at least 5 days a week.
2. See #1.
There it is. Simple. Measurable. Doable.
Concerning goals for the non-writing part of life, I haven’t made it beyond the one that’s topped every New Year’s list since I was fifteen. I’ll come up with something else before the end of the month. The process is complicated this year because I’ve gotten so many good ideas from other bloggers:
Ariana at Pearl’s Twirl introduced me to “The Anti-bucket List.” Those resolutions are no trouble at all to keep.
We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to.—Somerset Maugham
After two days of letting A. A. Milne and Mark Twain do my thinking for me, I buckled down this evening and composed an essay about my experiences teaching high school English.
Actually, I wrote about half of a draft in which I said that all except three of my students hated writing, and that when I became a better teacher about a dozen showed slight enthusiasm for writing, and that after the library (to which I had fled in search of a job that would allow me to buy books with other people’s money) connected to the Internet and let students open e-mail accounts, those who had formerly resisted picking up a pen skipped lunch to park themselves at my computers and e-mail students sitting less than a foot away when they could have just turned their heads and spoken face-to-face.
Of course, I said that in shorter sentences, but a lot more of them.
I was planning to say that kids who’d been telling their composition teachers, “But I don’t have anything to say,” suddenly found plenty to say. I was going remark that the novelty of the technology contributed to the verbal onslaught. I was going to mention that the definite sense of aim, mode, and audience also promoted fluency.
I was going to expand the discussion from students with e-mail to adults with blogs. I was going to say that two weeks ago I joined the NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) network and, following its dictates, have posted on two blog sites every blessed day for thirteen days straight, even when I haven’t had anything worth saying.
I was going to say I’m running out of pictures of my cats, and there are only so many poses they’re willing to strike, and I’d prefer not be pigeonholed as a chronicler of cute.
I was going to say that more than 12,000 other people are blogging at NaBloPoMo–poetry, journals, photographs, devotionals, stories, recipes, a plethora of words, words, words. I was going to marvel at what appears to be a compulsion among people who, like my students (and I was going to admit I had once shared feeling), would once have found it difficult or foreign or unimaginable to put pen to paper.
I was going to wonder about this desire to create, to share, to vent, to communicate, to play, to do whatever we’re doing when we contribute to the sentences flooding cyberspace.
I was going to say that some people tat or make doilies or whittle, and we write.
Then I was going to draw a lesson, wise and well-phrased, from all the foregoing, and end with a nod to novelist Somerset Maugham, whose words precede mine on this page.
That’s what I said and what I was going to say.
Unfortunately, about three hundred words in, I touched an alien key and deleted everything except the HTML for font, and I couldn’t find the Undo icon because I’d composed on a new blog I’d set up on a rival blog site and hadn’t read all the instructions and found out I’d have to undo with a keystroke rather than an icon.
So now, instead of referring to Maugham, I shall end by paraphrasing Blaise Pascal, Mark Twain, T. S. Eliot, and any others to whom the line has been attributed, and say that this post would have been shorter but I didn’t have time.*
*It would have had better sentence structure, too. But it’s a lot less pompous, ponderous, and moralistic in this who-cares version.
*****
Reposted from Whiskertips, July 23, 2009
*****
Image by Julitofranco (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Ever have one of those days when you have a zillion things to do, but you can’t get them done?
Because you start one thing, but then you think you should be doing another thing, so you start that, but you remember you need to do something else?
So you stop starting anything at all?
And the next day, you face the same tangle, except worse, because another zillion things have piled up on top of yesterday’s zillion, and now you’re even more overwhelmed and hopeless?
And then one day, the Mt. Everest of multi-zillions topples over and flattens you?
And you lie under there all squashed and miserable, wallowing in the knowledge that all you have to show for the past year is the unframed honorable mention certificate they sent you from the national Bejeweled contest, senior citizen division?
Neither have I.
Because I am not merely efficient. I am effective.
That’s Franklin-Covey language. I picked it up in the Franklin-Covey seminar where I learned how to use my Franklin planner. (Covey hadn’t joined up when I went to seminar.)
I learned to use not only that Franklin planner, but each succeeding Franklin planner: the black one with the zipper, the teal one with the zipper, the little red one with the clasp. There might have been others.
Two were later stolen. I left them in a tote bag on the front seat of my car, and while I slept, certain parties (“I know exactly who it was,” said the constable, “but we’ll never prove it.”) smashed a window and made off with the bag. They also got a can of asparagus and a couple of tins of sardines.
That was in August, the first day of in-service. I called the insurance company. I called the school and said I would be along as soon as the deputy had dusted for prints.
My prints, as it turned out. No others. But that made no difference. When juvenile offenders, both alleged and convicted, have completed their respective judicial processes, their fingerprint records are destroyed.
The deputy shared that information. Up to that point, I’d been calm and resigned, but on learning the fingerprint fact, I expressed righteous indignation. At length.
In my father’s day, the boys around town celebrated Halloween by turning over outhouses. People expected their outhouses to be turned over. The next day, they stood them up again.
My uncle once swapped Mr. Langley’s and Mr. Mercer’s milk cows. On November 1, Mr. Langley and Mercer went out with their milk buckets, found alien Jerseys, laughed, and walked them back to their rightful barns. No cows were harmed. They might not even have noticed they were waking up in the wrong bedrooms. Bovines aren’t famous for their powers of observation.
But that’s kid stuff. Breaking into a car and trying to hotwire it is not the same as swapping cows. (Franklin planners were just the consolation prize.) Nor is burglarizing a house several blocks north (one new television set) or stealing a cell phone and tools from an electrician’s van around the corner from me.
A childish prank shouldn’t cloud anyone’s future. But it is my considered opinion that the second time a juvenile ends up in court, his fingerprints should be kept on file. Just in case.
Oh, never mind.
After the dusting, I scraped glass out of the driver’s seat, draped it with towels (deputies do not clean up after themselves), and proceeded to commute. I met the superintendent coming out of the general convocation. He expressed amazement at my calm demeanor. I said if he wanted to see fireworks, I’d be glad to explain about fingerprints.
Well. This started as a lament over mental paralysis, and it’s ended up as a nostalgic tour through the good old days of cow swapping, plus a diatribe on the juvenile justice system.
Back to the present. There are books to be written, blogs to be read, comments to be replied to, software to be learned, and a sink to be blessed. Franklin-Covey would tell me to make a list, prioritize, and get busy. They would tell me to use a Franklin planner for listing and prioritizing, of course, but somewhere along the line I discovered a sticky note would suffice.
So, Dear Readers, I’m off to find a sticky-note and scale–effectively–Mt. Everest.
*
Image by Tlarson at en.wikipedia [Public domain], from Wikimedia Commons
I base most of my fashion sense on what doesn’t itch. ~ Gilda Radner
An American Woman circa 1920 Dressed to Do Housework. Wearing a Dutch Cap--Image via Wikipedia
In the previous post, I confessed to breaking a pledge by joining four new groups. While the topic is still fresh in my mind—that is, before Sunday’s ROW80 report comes along and I have to confess to a new failing—I must clarify:
These groups aren’t so much groups—well, one of them is—but are more like entities that will send e-mail for me to a) benefit from, b) ignore, or c) feel guilty about. And when I detect an excess of c), I’ll click Unsubscribe.
As a serial joiner, I’ve already had experience with c). Case in point: FlyLady.
For the uninitiated, FlyLady.net is a website dedicated to helping people unclutter. I discovered it a couple of years ago and, as is my wont, joined up.
I don’t know why it took me so long to find the site. It’s a wonder a family member, such as a cousin or a husband, didn’t sign me up years ago.
But anyway, FlyLady is wonderful. She taught me to dress and lace up shoes as soon as I get out of bed in the morning, and to shine my sink every night, and to clean in 15-minute segments, and to Swish and Swipe, and to do the 27-Fling Boogie, and to start a Control Journal, and on and on and on.
She’s also psychic. She said not to buy a new 3-ring binder for my Control Journal, because I already have a bunch lying around the house. She knows about the twenty-three categories of paper clutter I’ve collected. (Actually, I have only twenty-two, because David tosses yesterday’s newspaper every afternoon. Religiously.) She knows I’m addicted to office supplies.
She even knows about the 3 x 5 cards.
(I refuse to take responsibility for the cards. Robert Olen Butler said if I’m writing a novel, I have to use them. At last count, I’d bought 3,000 cards, lined and unlined, in a variety of colors. And I’m still on Chapter 2. For the seventeenth time. Mr. Butler is not a pantser.)
I got so wrapped up in FlyLady’s helpful hints that I blogged about Blessing My Sink.
That’s when trouble began. The next Saturday, over breakfast with friends at our favorite cafe, I explained the twelve steps of the Blessing process. In excruciating detail. David’s eyes glazed over—he’d heard it before—and the others called me several times the next week to make sure I was okay.
And then there was the e-mail. Following FlyLady’s instructions, I’d signed up for them. There were a lot. Every morning, and all day long. There were so many e-mails, I didn’t have time to Swish and Swipe.
(Years ago, I read that some people “fall into print.” I’m one of them. Show me a string of words, and I cannot look away.)
But more serious than the time element was the guilt those e-mails engendered. The writers seemed so happy. They wrote about the pleasure they got from Rescuing Rooms and putting out Hot Spots and writing things on calendars. And I was driving myself crazy just trying to keep the sink dry.
So I had to click Unsubscribe.
I still Bless My Sink occasionally. That part I do enjoy. It’s mostly waiting for the sink to finish soaking. When it’s done, and the house smells like Clorox, I feel not just pleased, but virtuous. At my suggestion, a friend tried it, and now she feels virtuous, too.
And I still visit the FlyLady site. She offers a line of high-quality products. I bought a beautiful feather duster, and when I remember where I put it, I’m going to use it. Someday I’m going to order the Rubba Package. I’m particularly interested in the Rubba Swisha. (This paragraph wasn’t composed with tongue-in-cheek folks. I’m serious. The cleaning products are excellent. I was just going through a bad patch when the feather duster arrived, and I put it where I could find it.)
Well. It’s after midnight, and I’m violating another of FlyLady’s cardinal rules—and mine—by staying up late to write. So I must draw this to a close.
I’ll just add that one of my new groups is Missus Smarty Pants. Every Tuesday, she’s going to send me a newsletter filled with fashion tips and instructions for purging my closet and accessorizing what’s left.
There’s a chance I’ll find MSP challenging, because attempts to accessorize might necessitate rejoining FlyLady so I can locate the accessories.
But I think I’ll be okay. Because I’ve already purged my closet, and there isn’t much left to accessorize.
This week I did not meet my writing goals, and I joined four groups.
The groups are activity-optional, so I can’t get too bent out of shape about signing up. One of them sends me recipes I have no intention of trying.
Although I didn’t achieve my target would count, I worked on plotting Molly. A couple of knotty problems appear to be unraveling. It’s about time.
I also offered to read and comment on three novels. I initially volunteered to read only two, but the one I left on the table had a very pink cover, and the face of the young man across the table from me was very pale. Because if I didn’t read the pink book, he would have to.
Sometimes you just have to give in and do the decent thing.
The so-called Portrait of a Sculptor, believed to have been Del Sarto's self-portrait--Image via Wikipedia
“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” ~ Robert Browning, Andrea del Sarto
My reach last week exceeded my grasp.
I followed Tuesday’s stellar 1000 Molly words (or 921, depending on who’s counting) with 0 Molly words for the rest of the week. But I was so pleased with the 1000 that the 0 hasn’t worried me.
Anyway, I’m not going to use them. I realized, after the scene had symboled* for a couple of days, that it should be seen but not heard. Instead of setting the altercation (among three jealous thespians) inside the cafe, I’ll put it on the patio, where Molly and her cohorts can watch through the picture window.
Establishing distance between the two groups of characters creates detachment. Molly, who has already been yelled at once this morning, merely observes the battle. She doesn’t get involved, as she would be required to do if the brouhaha took place in her presence. She’s free to comment on the behavior of the egomaniacs on the other side of the glass. And comment she does. A generally restrained person, Molly is having more and more trouble curbing her tongue.
So that’s what I accomplished week: 1000 words I will not use.
Does this bother me? No. I wrote; I learned. I demonstrated to myself that less can be more.
I didn’t do so well at keeping records. I brought them up to date this evening, but they’re not complete. A daily log would have shown more writing time than the one I cobbled together from memory.
Regarding goal #3: I did not join or volunteer for anything this week. I did promise David I would dismantle the bulwark of books and papers surrounding my chair. We were having friends over tonight, and he thought we would appear more welcoming if we didn’t make them climb over my library to get to the tacos. Having spent more than two years working in tort litigation, I agreed. But picking up toys doesn’t constitute joining or volunteering.
Lest it be thought I wrote 1000 words and stopped cold, I’ll add that I put out another newsletter, approximately 6600 words, most of which were not written by me. But I did wrestle them into place. That’s worth a couple of brownie points. At least by my estimation. And since I award my own points, the say-so is mine.
*
*One of my freshman literature professors had a cook who claimed that soup tasted better if it was allowed to symbol for a while. The professor said she thought writing, too, was better when it was given time to symbol. I don’t remember a great deal about Beowulf, but the lesson on symboling has stayed with me for—a long time.
For the current Round of Words in 80 Days, I set a goal of 1000 words a day, exclusive of blog posts or the newsletter I edit.
Tuesday, the first full day of the round, I wrote 921 words. That number doesn’t meet my self-imposed standard.
If, however, we round 921 to the nearest 1000, then I achieved my goal. Exactly. On the nose.
While I’m on the topic, I’ll admit Wednesday’s word count won’t meet yesterday’s. Because I began drafting those words at 10:00 p.m., after the Austin Mystery Writers meeting, and finished at 2:00 o’clock this morning.
Yes, you’ve read it here before, and yes, you’ll read it here again, because I’m at my most creative in the middle of the night. And because when it comes to connecting the dots between staying awake all night and being a bear of little brain the following day, I can’t even find the dots.
Now I’m going to un-gracefully transition to another topic:
I’ve been reading Roger Rosenblatt’s Unless It Moves the Human Heart: The Craft and Art of Writing. I may have more to say about the book in later posts. But I came across something today that, even though it has nothing to do with the rest of this post, I have to share.
Discussing the nature and the importance of poetry, Rosenblatt says, “It may be that poetry is favored by my students, including those who do not write it or intend to, because it seems like history’s protectorate, kept safe for no other reason than its aim of beauty.”
He continues–and this I find startling and beautiful–
In ancient Ireland, poets were called The Music. When one king would attack another, he instructed his soldiers to slaughter everyone in the enemy camp, including the opposing king. But not The Music. Everyone but The Music. Because he was The Music.
*****
To see what other ROW80 participants are writing, click here.
I’m proud to have author Patricia Deuson as my guest to introduce her new mystery novel, Superior Longing. Please join me in welcoming her.
*
Thanks for the invitation, Kathy! It’s a pretty exciting day for me, and I’m glad to be here. The first book of the Neva Moore series, SUPERIOR LONGING, sees the light of day – or since it’s an ebook – the light of a LCD screen, today, 9/15/11. I’m really happy to have this book published and hope readers will enjoy it. Here’s a brief idea of what happens during Neva’s first outing.
SUPERIOR LONGING is set during the frigid spring on the beautiful and harsh southern shore of Lake Superior. When Neva Moore’s uncle drowns and the details of his death twist and turn, her pursuit of the truth weaves through small town politics, smuggling, and superstition, to end where it all began, back in the family and another death on an icy lake.
As a first book must, Superior Longing introduces the ‘cast’ [which like any ongoing production has regulars and irregulars as well as a host of red shirts] First is Sierra Nevada Moore, known as Neva, who is administrator/accountant/instructor/renovator-in-residence at almost renovated Cooks Inn Cooking School which is scheduled to open shortly. Or will it? This is a question the book asks, and thankfully answers. Next is her boss, Linnea Addams, who doesn’t think it’s her job to make Neva’s job easy. So she never does. Then there is the cast of irregulars, and those red shirts who are surely goners. How and why they all fit together is the tale.
But the story is more than the story of Neva and Neva’s uncle, and a bunch of irregulars. It’s the story of how she comes to terms with his death by finding the justice he can never get for himself, justice for the dead. This is something Neva will carry with her into her next book, which I’m writing now, Collective Instinct, and any book I write about her. She will always be impelled by this sense of obligation. Fortunately for her and me, Neva finds dead people everywhere.
But outside of finding dead people all over the place, what does Neva do? Well, she teaches and she cooks and she has the social life she has time for, which is very little. She likes to cook and was born to do it. During the busy day, classes occupy her time, and meals are communal with the staff taking on the preparation in rotation, and there are rarely left-overs. At night the big kitchen is empty. When she doesn’t have other plans Neva will be back at her workstation making a simple dish for supper, maybe some zucchini and chickpea pancakes, accompanied by a crisp California rosé from one of the vineyards not too far away.
If you want to find out what happens when Neva talks chickpeas, pancakes and more, you find it on the Cooks Inn Blog. Of course, since she is a teacher, you might get a little learning on the side. While there will be few recipes in the books, when she feels like it, Neva blogs. She feels like blogging quite a bit too, although I don’t know where she finds the time.
Superior Longing, published by Echelon Press, is now available, and since it’s digital, will be until the end of time at Amazon.com as a Kindle ebook, at Smashwords, Omilit and as a Barnes & Noble Nook.
Thanks, Patricia, for being here on your special day. I look forward to reading SUPERIOR LONGING. Readers, Patricia welcomes your questions and comments.
Author Patricia Deuson will be here tomorrow to talk about her new mystery novel, Superior Longing, which comes out September 15, 2011.
Pat and I have been online friends for several years through the Sisters in Crime Guppies. Tomorrow will be an exciting day for her, and I’m honored she’s sharing that excitement with me and the friends of To Write Is to Write Is to Write.
I hope you’ll visit, read about Superior Longing, and leave Pat a question or comment.
***Less than 2 hours left. Read on immediately.***
I never saw a project I wouldn’t raise my hand and volunteer for.
That’s how I became editor of HoTXSinC’s newsletter, HOTSHOTS!
The official story is that Sylvia Dickey Smith forced the job on me. It’s true she gave me several long, hard looks, and we were sitting in church at the time, and that’s a lot of pressure for a sensitive soul such as I to endure.
But Sylvia didn’t make me do anything. The little imp that resides in the back of my mind leaned forward and hissed, “It might be fun.” And I agreed and raised my hand.
I might as well admit I like the job. It’s grown on me.
Volunteering is also how I got into A Round of Words in 80 Days. I’ve forgotten how I found the blog, but the minute I saw it, that imp emerged again, and I signed on to set goals and to post my progress twice a week. Lately, twice has been a relative term—I sometimes get my days mixed up—but I’m still in the fray. Because it looked like fun.
According to Totsymae, if I join, I might get some notoriety.
Notoriety has never been at the top of my list, but ever since I saw that movie, Cary Grant has been. If there’s even a chance that someone Cary Grant-ish might happen by, I’m in with all four feet.
Further, says Totsymae, “You’ll also get a chance to meet like-minded folk, and that’s always fun, interesting or tiresome, depending on how you feel about yourself and which sides you’re liking or disliking on a given day.”
Note the word fun. I was on it like a duck on a Junebug.
(Not that I didn’t see interesting or tiresome, which I take to mean I might have to settle for Claude Rains, but that’s okay, because I think he’s cute, too.)
Anyway—even though I don’t really approve of the word platform as it applies to writers, platform being something of which there are three in The Scarlett Letter—I’m doing the same old thing, voluntarily latching on to one more project.
Blogging about the Third Writers’ Platform-Building Campaign is step #3 in the latching-on process. Including a link is step #3.1.
In step #3.2, I’m supposed to encourage my followers to join the Campaign. So consider yourself encouraged. But that’s all. I’m not going to force anybody.
This could be fun, interesting, or tiresome, or you might come out on October 1 with who-knows-what kind of reputation.
But you will build your platform on a strictly voluntary basis.
A pleasing development: Story Circle Network has awarded a star to To write is to write is to write.
Story Circle Network is a nonprofit organization “dedicated to helping women share the stories of their lives and to raising public awareness of the importance of women’s personal histories.” It sponsors publications, workshops, writing contests, reading circles, writing circles, and other programs, many of them online. There are SCN chapters worldwide.
Membership is open to all women who have stories to share. No writing experience is necessary–just the desire to record life experience and to read about the experiences of others.
Over one hundred SCN members are bloggers. For a list and links, click here.
M. K. Waller 