On Sunday I worked for hours cleaning up my flower beds, but took time out to aim my camera at the lovely fall foliage and the backdrop of blue, blue sky.
These leaves are neither fully here nor there in coloration, but are in transition.
Just like me and my project.
BIRD BRAIN is so much closer to being ready to face the world than it was a few weeks ago, but there is still work to be done.
Right now BIRD BRAIN is a healthy and happy green, but I hope to crank up the intensity and also bring out those glorious yellows and brilliant reds.
Last Friday I sent BIRD BRAIN to the four generous souls who offered to read and critique my manuscript. It’s much, much too soon to expect responses, but that hasn’t stopped my mind from turning into a writhing nest of worries and fears.
AGNES by Tony Cochran
Maybe I’ll just get it over with and go put underpants on my feet.
Wildebeest is a junior this year.
Attention to detail has never been his strong suit.
Last year at registration I paid for him to take some test,
I don’t remember which one.
It wasn’t until the end of the year I thought to ask him about it.
Whatever it was, he hadn’t taken it.
Money and opportunity down the drain.
This year’s registration included an optional fee for the PSAT.
I paid for it, sternly telling Wildebeest he had to pay attention to announcements,
and take the test this year.
I just got an email reminder that the exam is Saturday morning.
I called the counselor to make sure he was registered.
She said, "Yes."
And then she told me about meetings they’d held with the juniors
back in September, and about the study guides they’d been working on.
I sighed heavily and hung up.
I just finished texting with Wildebeest (I know, I shouldn’t do that during school). Turns out:
A) he knew about the test
B) he hoped to skip it
C) he does have a study guide
D) he’s been using it
What started out as just another one of those forehead-to-palm moments,
turned into a not-so-bad parental episode.
Whenever we avoid total and complete disaster, I consider that progress.
The funny thing is, I watched very little television growing up. The TV was mostly locked away but at the whim of my father, would occasionally reappear.
I remember being so, so happy to watch "Gilligan’s Island" after school. I’m betting the Teresa Brewer commercial played then.
It’s about thirty-five years later, and I sing the songs in the exact order they played in the commercial.
Last night I realized I felt pretty crappy. My neck was stiff, my head hurt, and my entire body felt tight.
Wait, I thought, I recognize this feeling. It’s how I used to go through most every day.
In fact, I felt that way for most of my adult life until I started a daily yoga routine, and then I became relaxed and loose. And that’s how I’ve been for the past year and a half: relaxed and loose.
Last school year I’d get up at 6:00, put on my yoga togs, wash my face, and then feed my kids and pack their lunches. Zebu and Wildebeest were out of the house by 7:05, and I’d go straight into my little "yoga studio" for my session.
I did not pass GO, I did not loiter in the kitchen, and I most certainly didn’t get lured to the world wide web. I did what needed to be done. (And then I passed GO, stuffed my face, and surfed the web).
This school year, the boys’ schedules are scrambled and by the time they’re out the door, I’m hungry. Really hungry. I don’t want to do yoga, dammit. I want food and coffee.
And now my body is suffering from a yoga-deficit.
So I’m trying to establish a new routine, one that allows for flexibility (pun NOT intended). I’m telling myself it’s okay to eat in the morning and it’s okay to do yoga at 11:00. Really, it’s okay to do yoga at any time during the day.
And the same goes for my writing which is also suffering a disruption in routine. It’s okay to write at any time during the day, as long as I write. Because in the same way I now know/remember how crappy I feel when I don’t do yoga regularly, I know how out of sorts I feel when I don’t write every day.
So. Routines are great, until they’re not. And then it’s time to create new ones.
Routines that can bend and flex with my daily needs.
Apparently, the interview ended and then Obama came back to make one more point which included this: "The idea that we’ve got a lack of enthusiasm in the Democratic base, that people are sitting on their hands complaining, is just irresponsible."
and this:
"If we want the kind of country that respects civil rights and civil liberties, we’d better fight in this election."
Wow.
This from the guy who is basically the third term of G.W. Bush. Obama is the guy who kept Guantanamo Bay open. The guy who has an off-site prison in Bagram in which prisoners are held, without being charged, in cells with the lights on and music playing 24/7. The guy who has ordered the assassination of a U.S. citizen and has invoked "state secrets" in refusing to give the target’s father a chance in court. The guy who has lobbyfied and corporatized every aspect of his policies.
Obama wants to chastise me about civil liberties? Really?
Yesterday Joe Biden told people such as myself who aren’t happy with the above (and a whole lot more), to "Stop whining." And last week Obama, at a $3000/plate fundraiser, announced that dissatisfied people such as myself are "griping and moaning."
They’d prefer we all focus our attention on the train wreck that is the Tea Party. Sarah and Christine and the whole host of whackadoodles. Because "look over there at the truly scary people!" rather than "look at how we’ve retreated and declared outright war on every single campaign promise!"
Here’s my favorite comment on Glenn Greenwald’s post on the Rolling Stone article: It seems that those who are left behind [reference to departure of key administration staffers] have decided to change the “Yes We Can’, which seems a little embarrassing now, to “If you don’t vote for me you’re an asshole.” It’ll be interesting to see how this new message resonates with the voters. – mattconnolly
Okay. I’m done.
Anyone have anything to add?
(ETA: If I’d read this first, I probably wouldn’t have bothered writing my post).
It’s my turn at From the Mixed-Up Files of Middle-Grade Authors, and I’ve posted My Childhood, My Reading List, an exploration of banned books I have loved.
I’m coming out of my RMC-SCBWI conference-induced fatigue, and wanted to share some morsels before the passion and meaning behind the words grow too dim.
Bruce Coville gave our keynote speech on Saturday morning. My favorite line: "The blank page is hard, not because nothing’s there, but because everything is there. The whole world."
He ended his talk (titled The Art of the Heart: Writing True for the Child) with this: "Let us not take joy, let us give it. Let us give it courageously."
Just a short while later, I had my one-on-one critique with him. He read the first 10 pages of BIRD BRAIN. Good news: he thinks the voice is strong. Not-as-good news: I need to rework the opening pages to set them in a scene rather than exposition. I kind of knew that, but had a secret hope he’d love it as is! (Major thanks again to for helping me out of a slump so I could get those pages ready for submission!)
One of the few sessions I was able to attend (due to responsibilities), was Social Media 101. Drew Shope, of Thrive Social Media, is a 25-year-old social media guru who convinced me to start tweeting. I’m having fun thus far but fear the Undisciplined Time Suck. (I’m @TracyAbell)
I attended Elizabeth Law’s session on First Pages. The overwhelming message of the day was Slow Down the Action. (This is what was said regarding my first page from FRAMED, too.) Of course, during another session, editor Kate Harrison and agent Elena Mechlin both said they like a story that gets going immediately to pull them in.
(L-R Moderator Bobbi, Elizabeth Law, Elena Mechlin, Kate Harrison, Rotem Moscovich)
My favorite Elizabeth Law line of the weekend came in response to a question. Q: If an editor or agent suggests revisions, is it appropriate to ask for clarification? A: No, work in the dark. Spend a lot of time. Hope you get it right. (The answer is, Of course!)
I had a wonderful time and bonded with Bruce Coville. When my critique time was up, I thanked him. He said, "You betcha!" then said with considerable dismay, "I sound like Sarah Palin." That’s all it took. We were off and running (next writer hadn’t yet shown up).
It was a wonderful, exhausting weekend. But next year, I hope to scale back on conference-day duties so I can fully enjoy.
(Local writers Stephanie Blake and Jeanne Kaufman yukking it up)
Last June I wasn’t sure I could keep on writing, and the thought of attending my local SCBWI conference again without any professional/career progress to show after another year of effort was horrible to contemplate.
I needed to accomplish something that would help me hold my head high.
So I set two goals: I would apply for a conference manuscript critique AND finish the revision of BIRD BRAIN before the conference.
A few weeks ago, I found out I’m having a critique with Bruce Coville. (Goal One: check!) And today, just a few moments ago, I finished my revision. (Goal Two: check!)
There are still days when I doubt my sanity in all this, but I have to believe I will prevail.
Just popping in to say I’m getting ready for our local SCBWI conference this coming weekend so will probably be even more scarce around LJ-land this week.
I’m the conference facilities coordinator which means I need to coordinate AV, meals, room assignments, etc.
Coordinators are supposed to be coordinated, right? Then how come I’m suddenly feeling so clumsy?
All the current hateful anti-Muslim rhetoric makes me ill. And it’s everywhere.
While busing tables at the spaghetti dinner on Monday, I overheard some mumbled slander aimed at Muslims from an evangelical woman who likes to put her hand on people’s foreheads and pray over them/bless them. Over the years I’ve asked her to stop doing that since we’re about feeding people, not proselytizing, but she’s so locked into her belief system my words don’t make a dent.
Which is probably why on Monday I walked away from her in frustration (something I’m not proud of), and went into the kitchen to vent to Zippy who then told me the same anti-Muslim crap was being spewed there by a volunteer washing dishes.
It’s everywhere, and it’s getting more and more blatant. We have a man of color in the White House, a man many choose to believe is a closet Muslim, and that’s unleashed The Ugly which people have kept simmering in their guts. G.W. Bush was able to keep a lid on anti-Muslim sentiment following September 11, 2001, but Obama’s skin tone has inflamed The Ugly.
(Here I go again, another oversized photo. This time I didn’t have trouble uploading it to LiveJournal, but I can’t resize it; when I click on the corner, the photo goes blue. Plus, I can’t put text beneath it. What’s going on?! And does anyone have advice?)
This is what I saw out my window a bit ago, American Goldfinches against a backdrop of asters.
Now.
Can someone please explain what happened to Photobucket and LiveJournal image insert since I last posted a photo?
It took forever to get this photo here and I’m not even sure how I finally succeeded. Plus, I can’t resize this photo which is why it’s of the ginormous variety.
I used to feel a bit savvy about this stuff but now I’m back to feeling confused.
There I was in my bra, surrounded by strangers, while a man hit me repeatedly in the head with his hat…
So.
I drove my brother’s pickup to the Rooney Valley Recycling Center to unload the juniper branches and sod I’d removed from my yard. I paid $10 at the gate and the woman told me I needed to separate the materials so she directed me to the very back of the area where there was a huge mound of sod. Right across from it was the enormous pile of branches. She thought it’d be most convenient for me to unload both back there.
I drove past one other truck on my way to the sod mound, weaving around materials piled so high you can’t see anyone or anything else. I parked the truck next to the mound and started grabbing sod and flinging it into the pile. It was a nice morning, not too warm, not too windy. Not bad at all, I thought as I flung a huge piece of sod.
Suddenly an annoying fly was buzzing around my head. Quite aggressively. I told the damned fly to shoo, but then there was another. And another.
Except they weren’t damned flies. They were damned bees. A swarm of them. All around me but especially around my head.
In my hair.
I took off my ball cap and waved it around my head. Frantically. As I screamed.
The bees kept buzzing. My whole head vibrated.
I tried to be calm, to stand still so they’d leave me alone.
They were too pissed. I felt a sting.
So I screamed some more And ran a bit toward the entrance.
The woman from the other truck saw me and yelled, “Run, honey! Run!”
I ran past her and the man with her said for me to run to the shack at the gate. (Not clear on why I’d want to bring bees to the woman in the shack, but at least it was a plan!)
But before I got there, the woman screamed for me to take off my shirt because bees were flying out of it.
The woman from the shack came out while the other woman helped me unbutton my shirt. She shook it out while the man yelled for me to stand still.
Then he hit me in the head with his hat, over and over. Really hard.
I was so grateful.
He knocked all but two bees off my head. I got the second-to-the-last one and the woman brushed off the last.
I was bee-free but full of adrenaline.
And there was my brother’s truck, keys in the ignition, way back there surrounded by an angry swarm of bees.
The man and woman drove me back there in their truck. We watched while bees swarmed near the truck and around the stump that probably held their nest.
The one I’d inadvertently hit with a huge piece of sod.
We strategized. I walked slowly to the truck, got in the passenger side and slammed the door. The man slowly walked to the back of my truck, grabbed the broom and rake leaning there, and threw them in my truck before getting back in his own.
I unloaded the rest of my materials in stump-free areas and was remarkably calm the entire time, if I do say so myself.
On the drive home, though, a fly buzzed in the truck cab and I panicked. And screamed.
I’ve got a ways to go before letting go of the bee panic. But I’d be much worse off without Good Samaritans, Phyllis and Jeff, there to help me.
Next time I go to the drop-off, I think I’ll wear one of these:
Tracy Abell 