Everyone in the Pool

Concept for chapter three finalized on the hike. Nice long hike. I started the journey thinking I was going to write about one thing and ended up with another that became an interim chapter, which will be chapter three and chapter three now will be chapter four. One thing I've learned about this process is that it never stops being a process. When I first jumped into the pool and committed to the novel this time around, I literally went into a pool. A warm soaking pool in Sonoma. I was sent there by Brian to write for four days. I made a ritual of inviting my characters into the pool with me, one at a time, to get to know them better. Over the four days, I talked to them, asked them questions, learned about their lives. They spoke back. One character, for example, is 80 years old, and I had this grandmotherly persona all set for her. Easy. Then, in the pool one day, she told me she had been raped when she was 17. It shocked me, but you know, it worked. The plot tensed up, which is what it needed. The story instantly became richer, deeper, more textured. Today, on my hike, she told me she assisted girls who needed abortions before they were legal. Suddenly, she was another person altogether, and did that ever thicken the plot! I'm much more open to things changing like this now, whereas before the chaos of their organic nature terrified me. The basic plot remains the same, but I'm relieved that the creative process can be continuously creative, not just creative at the beginning and mechanical upon implementation.

Mom, my journal's open on the kitchen table, and I'm going out

I was thinking this morning how journals used to be private places. Does anyone keep a private journal anymore? I think my kids believe their Facebook's are private. Well, maybe on the one hand: they are just private to "us." On the other hand, they are electronic billboards broadcasting reflections of themselves into outer space. A writer I know found a researcher who decribes teen electronic activity as a means of self-validation. They spend too much time observing their own thoughts. Used to be, they just mumbled and moved on. Did I just imply I miss the mumbling? Blogs have changed though. They might be better described as blobs. . . boundless, shapeless, transparent ooze of thoughts and ideas. Social networks, text messaging, I-Ming, blogs, wikis. Sharing. So much sharing.

I have to admit, I like knowing people are reading this blog. At least two, apparently. This morning I thought it would be nice if my mother read it once in a while. I thought, when I was a kid, she might have wanted to read my journal to learn why I was acting so strangely. And now, maybe she'd want to read my blog to find out why I'm acting so strangely. Maybe at this point she doesn't want to know.

Morning Terrors

Do other writers wake up experiencing a flash panic that their novel is stupid? Going nowhere? Fast? I'm not even far enough into it yet to warrant that kind of wake-up call, but there it was, exploding in my chest the minute I opened my eyes. Most mornings these days, I wake up thinking about the current happening in the book. Does that phrase make sense for that character? Is that action appropriate for the time period? Is there enough plot tension coming through? I spend about five minutes musing, welcome a word-boosting cuppa from my beloved, and sit up for 10 minutes directing my thoughts to the next page or two that I want to produce that day. Except today. Here's where one turns to Annie Lamott or Natalie Goldberg. Erma Bombeck even, the 70s and 80s female version of Dr. Phil, who basically told writers to stop their cry-babying and write. Write whatever, just write the damned words. Times like these, I begin to notice all the clutter in the house, little tasks piling up in my to-do basket, appointments I should make for the family. Must resist the urge.

Mirror, Mirror on The Monitor

Last week was one of the most delicious weeks of my life. I wrote every day for at least four hours a day, a few five, and one six. On Sunday, Brian reviewed my Chapter One rewrite and agreed I could move on. But this week, I'm finding more obstacles in my writing brain. I can't sink my teeth into Chapter Two; it's meat that hasn't yet formed on the bones of the Angus. So, yesterday, Monday, I read Wallace Stegner, my literary hero, for inspiration, and reviewed notes in my hiking journal. When I hike, I keep a small notebook, slightly larger than my palm, in a fanny pack. Moving unlocks my mind, so an hour's hike can produce a load of material. The ideas just ooze out of my head, and if I stick the journal under my chin, I can capture them all on its pages before they fall under my trail-ripping treads. I used to unzip the fanny pack and pull out the journal, jot a few words down, then tuck it back in my pouch. Nowadays, I keep it in my hand. I got tired of all that zipping and unzipping. Part of my problem this week is that I hurt my back. I can't move.

I'm still trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with all this blogging. I feel like I just spent 30 minutes looking at myself in the mirror. I'm not comfortable with that. Are you?

Toast and Coffee

Again, see Language and Architecture over there to the right. My chores are done; now to the good stuff.

Godspeed, Mr. Librescu

I was going to post about the logistical quicksand of kids' schedules sucking all my time and energy yesterday, leaving me without a word written. But then I read the front page stories. Memo to self: count your blessings. I intended to remain informed but avoid the excessive news coverage, the TV and Internet voyernalism. I tried to look away when greedy, gold-digging newscasters mined for the raw, fragile emotions of petrified Virgina Tech students. I picked out one each of the thousands of stories on the countless angles they could come up with to cover this story, read the article, and collected my thoughts. I refused to buy into the same old manipulative excess dished out by voyernalism. Asking question after question until the student could no longer hold back his tears (and hold onto his dignity). Presenting more and more shocking cell-phone video so unreal it becomes macabre in its similarity to current Hollywood releases. But, unlike other unspeakable tragedies of the past, the voyernalists couldn't keep up with this pyschopath. It seems every hour, yet another one of his premeditations breaks news.

I worry that the gunman is getting too much attention from the press, encouraging other would-be psychotic attention seekers. I worry that young college students will never sleep soundly in their dorm beds again. I want my daughter to come home from Cal so that I can hold her in my lap and stroke her sweet-smelling hair.

There are stories of heroism and compassion that help redeem humanity from the far-reaching effects of one man's inhumanity. I make sure to read every one of those. One story in particular brings unexpected joy in the midst of unimaginable grief. Out of this obscenely evil act, beauty rose and his name is Liviu Librescu. An authentic humanitarian, Liviu Librescu faced evil before, faced his death at the hands of another grotesque beast during the Holocaust. Yet he managed to hold it off for a time when it would give life back to others. I can't imagine his family's wretching pain, yet I find comfort in New York City councilman (and, according to Newsday, a frequent spokesman for the Orthodox Jewish community in Brooklyn) Dov Hikind's words: "We all know in our community that to save one life is to save the world. Look at the final act of Professor Librescu."

When having to work with unpleasant people in my former PR days, my boss (and now dear friend) Winnie Shows taught me "if you find you can't love someone, learn from them." A gunman introduced us to Mr. Librescu; we could consider that a learning opportunity. In this case, however, I choose to learn from the man in whom I find the love. Godspeed, Mr. Librescu.

A Good Day

See Languages and Architecture link over there in the I Digress list. Have a good day!

Blogging Towards Fitness

This blog posting is beginning to feel a little like getting back into an exercise routine after a long haitus. The first few days are exhilarating and fun, but then the muscles begin to stiffen and ache from the new workout. I read that writing is all about fitness; the well practiced writing mind. I wrote five hours yesterday and slept like I'd been drugged. Back to the workout. No wonder Jane Fonda produced so many books.

Panties vs. Thongs

Sometimes, all you need is a catchy headline. I really want to get into this issue at the risk of typecasting my intentions out of the starting gate. I have my opinions and some really funny stories. But, posting takes a lot of time, and I have to start my new job today, and I'm already late. If you got to the Oprah archive page recommended on the previous post, you might have seen the little window shade panty ad. It shows a small pair of white panties (is it panties or panty?), and each side of the backside of the panty has a little window shade pull attached to it. The flash player sends the shades up and down to demonstrate what happens to ill-fitting panties. What is it about underwear humor? I feel like I'm in middle school, but that ad's humor really sticks with me, unlike some of the best engineered panties at prices that rival designer sunglasses. But rather that than a thong that intends to go places most women try to keep their panties from going. Nuff said on this topic. Off to work. It's my first day; I hope they don't make me make the coffee.

Origami Bras and Oprahs Jeans

By virture of the fact that I'm not supposed to be procrastinating, I bring you one of the most brilliant forms of procrastination: Internet advertising. Next to shopping for e-cards, it's hella distracting. The Barely There bra ad is the new tops on my list. First of all, I love it when the advertising world takes its collective heads out of you-know-where and clues into what's really going on in the world rather than what they and their clients fantacize is going on in the world. Like Cover Girl choosing Drew Barrymore as the next "it" girl. Yes! Hero is the woman who doesn't need the mirror or the media to tell her she's beautiful. She just knows it. No regrets, man. And no stinkin' critics with their stinkin' Hollywood formulas for success. Victoria Secret, on the other hand: it ain't bras they're selling and it ain't women they're selling to.

Well, The Martin Agency nailed it with the Barely There Bra ads. You can see for yourself on the Barely There website (I tried to make a link out of the photo to the left, but it didn't work. Just as well. We'd be an altogether different kind of website, having you point your cursor to the pepper stems and such.) My favorite implementation of the ad is on an archive page of Oprah's website (Finger on the pulse, baby. Finger on the pulse.)

According to Reveries Magazine (which believes in parentheses, apparently) "The campaign sends its message using a “before-and-after” construct, “with two bras side-by-side that illustrate the result of an ill-chosen bra. On the left is a bra that is bumpy or misshapen (labeled ‘There’). On the right, a bra with a monochromatic background (”Barely There.”) The ‘There’ bras are adorned with objects that signify bumps, ridges and other bra-related problems. (The objects the Martin Agency … dreamed up include headlights, Jiffy Pop, pine cones and pointy pink-drink umbrellas).”

Anyway, on the Oprah site, you get to see some of the better iterations of the bra that aren't on the company's website. Like snow falling on pinecone cups. Or my favorite, the origami bra. (You might have to click the refresh button on Oprah's site a few times, but eventually the origami bra pops up, if you will.) The origami bra's cups are made of kootie catchers -those little paper puzzles we made as kids. You know, the ones where you stick your fingers in the points of the puzzle, open and close it to a rhyme that reveals a color, then a number, then eventually some folk wisdom, a fortune, or juvenile namecalling on the inner folds? The ad uses a flash player to manipulate the puzzle, but again, different website genre. Let's continue.

Jeans, Jeans, They're Good for Your Arse

Speaking of Oprah's website (Really, finger on the pulse): if you seriously need more excuses to procrastinate, you'll feel almost productive (if you are a girl) when you check this link out. Oprah found someone who expertly helps you pick out the best jean for your body type. It's on my bookmark list. Confession: I care and I shop. As you probably have guessed, being a screaming lady means show, don't tell. Bookmark This! is a feature on my blog where I show (and in cases like this, confess) my bookmarks, a collection of the many ways I've found to procrastinate all these years. Join me, won't you? You have to promise not to judge, but if you do, at least have the decency to comment on my blog. I'll want to bookmark it.

Meet My Scream

"Do not put off until tomorrow what can be put off til day-after-tomorrow just as well." Mark Twain

Dear Mr. Twain,

Tomorrow is my 47th birthday. The day after tomorrow, we'll be parting ways. When I turned 30, I got this brainstorm idea for a novel. Excuse me, but I'm in the middle of the American Dream here! Budding a corporate career. Pioneering my way in California. Starting an adorable family. So I had another kid instead. One thing led to another and after 17 years, four houses, several construction projects, a consulting business, boot camp and other fitness pursuits, a kajillion school volunteer hours, and a helluva lot of laughs, I made a deal with the devil (Brian), and signed a contract to produce my novel in seven months. I asked for a year, but he knows me better. I've taken your advice too long. See you in seven months.