Elvis Costello might want to Blame It On Cain
but I know the real culprit is cake.
Specifically, Zebu-created chocolate cake.
Made in the evening.
Filled with sugar and caffeine,
ingredients not conducive to sleep.
Here it is in all it’s glory:
Don’t get too loud with your oohs and ahhs
because you might wake Zebu and Zippy.
And Lebowski and Coco and Zoey.
That’s right; it’s just me and the internets.
Blame it on cake.
1) My new whiteboard is working out very well, despite the injury it sustained on the way home from the store.
For those interested, here are great directions for making and installing a whiteboard.
2) With the help of the aforementioned whiteboard, I’m figuring out all sorts of stuff about my YA project
and am preparing to dive into the second draft. And it doesn’t feel as if this dive will be a belly flop, either.
3) My garden is lush and jungle-like because of all the rain.
4) Zebu and Wildebeest have transitioned nicely into summer vacation and, dare I say it?, are getting along.
5) Today is Zippy’s last day of cardio rehab following the stents he received, and I’m so impressed by his hard work
and dedication to good health.
Wishing all of you a most satisfactory weekend!
This evening my family and I went to Souper Salad.
Zippy told the young woman at the front counter
"Three over 12 and one at 12 years."
Apparently Zippy and I look WAY over 12.
She gave both of us the senior discount.
72 cents each.
This is his second senior discount.
My first.
He’s 48 and I’m 46.
I’m always reading letters to the editors bemoaning
high school graduates’ lack of math skills.
That probably explains what happened tonight.
This isn’t the update I envisioned.
But in the spirit of full disclosure
here’s what happens when you
(and by that I mean Zippy and me)
try loading a 5 1/2 ft x 4 ft piece of tileboard
into the back of a Prius.
Fortunately, it’s an inexpensive material.
I’m at just over 200 pages of this first draft.
Wrote 1000 words every day for 71 days.
And am just now thinking I know the story.
Don’t laugh.
But as I wrote notes the last couple days
trying to find my way out of the wilderness
I kept thinking
"I wish I had a huge whiteboard"
one large enough to pace in front of
and step back to look at
in order to see the big picture.
Guess what?
All sorts of kind people have posted
DIY directions for making your own ginormous whiteboard.
I hope to be back soon with photos and helpful links!
The sky is gray.
The temperature is below average.
The sun is nowhere to be seen.
But.
I’m feeling something today.
Something positive.
Hopeful.
It makes no sense.
And I’m almost afraid to admit all this.
But I’m going with the optimism.
EDITED TO ADD: The sun just came out. Hooray!
Wishing you all a wonderful weekend with fewer scowls than smiles!
This pretty much sums it up . . .
from 5/19/09
For any and all of my creative friends out there, some wise words from
Billie Joe Armstrong, Green Day songwriter, singer-guitarist……..
Sounds as if he knows a bit about the muddle in the middle.
I needed to extricate Zebu from weekly lessons and
thought I was doing instructor and me a favor by dancing around the truth
and instead of saying he’s killed Zebu’s enthusiasm for drums,
saying we needed to take a break for summer because
of various basketball camps and a possible family vacation
which would make it impossible to keep Zebu’s lesson time,
a time slot we originally selected from a whopping two choices,
which clearly proved the man had a full schedule and wouldn’t miss us
and would understand our leaving the fold.
And make my excuse brief and painless.
Except for then he offered to be flexible and drive over to the studio
to suit our schedule since he lives nearby.
Okay, I’ve already learned that lesson about Truth = Best.
Even when that truth is painful.
So why’d I forget today?
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
It means so much to me (and my mental health)
having this writing community.
Yesterday I shared my panic and angst
and kind writer friends took time to talk me down from the ledge.
Sharing wise truths along the way.
Reminders that I wasn’t delusional.
That I could continue my project in good faith.
I want you to know I just finished my 1000 words for the day
and it was a great session.
I wasn’t nervous or angsty or anything like that.
I was calm.
Deliberate.
Confident that the initial story spark and its ensuing emotions
were still there for me to mine.
Thank you, friends.
Have a wonderful laughter-filled weekend!
Maybe you’ve already seen this.
I just saw it on the blueboards.
It made me laugh and laugh
not because I’ve experienced this sort of “editorial direction”
but because it reminds me of being inside my head on this project.
What if, say, the main character dies at the end of chapter one.
I mean, not that but I mean something like that.
I mean, not like that but, yeah.
. . . . .
Yeah, so what if it’s not that but it’s JAWS?
THAT MITCHELL AND WEBB LOOK: OK . . .NOT THIS
I’m in a bit of a panic.
I’m 200 pages into the first draft of a YA that came to be because of a name.
A name that presented itself to me when I was playing around with this Band Name Generator.
I immediately loved the name.
The name offered so many possibilities for a main character.
Without going into details, the name includes a noun that stands for a specific kind of crime.
My entire storyline (and I use that word loosely since I’m firmly entrenched in blither-blather territory at this point in the draft) comes from that noun.
And now I’m wondering (mostly because of that blither-blather angst I’m currently experiencing) if I’m nuts to let a name
dictate a story.
Have any of you ever written a book based on a name?
Did it all work out in the end?
I cannot believe I have 200 pages written but am suddenly insecure about the whole project.
You might be happy to know I finally finished Carl Sandburg’s PRAIRIE-TOWN BOY.
So why am I still writing about Mr. Sandburg?
Because this morning I was reading the Rolling Stone interview with Bob Dylan.
Dylan recounts how in February 1964 he spontaneously drove with friends from New York
to Hendersonville, North Carolina, where he knocked on the door of his hero, Carl Sandburg.
From the interview (conducted by Douglas Brinkley):
Mrs. Sandburg greeted the stoned-out New Yorkers with Appalachian warmth. "I am a poet," is how
Dylan introduced himself to her. "My name is Robert Dylan, and I would like to see Mr. Sandburg."
The 86-year-old Sandburg had collected more than 280 ballads in The American Songbag, and Dylan
wanted to discuss them. "I had three records out at the time," Dylan says, laughing at his youthful temerity.
"The Times They Are a-Changin’ record was the one I gave him a copy of. Of course he had never heard of me."
After just 20 minutes, Sandburg excused himself.
I’m betting Sandburg went into the next room and tried to wrap his head around what had just happened.
What do you think about this?
From THE WRITER’S BOOK OF HOPE: ENCOURAGEMENT AND ADVICE FROM A VETERAN by Ralph Keyes:
Over the course of her distinguished career, Margaret Atwood made a hobby of collecting reasons for writing that authors mention in their autobiographies, press interviews, on talk shows and during "conversations in the backs of bookstores before the dreaded group signing …" From the long list Atwood recorded in NEGOTIATING WITH THE DEAD, a few of my favorites include:
This shocks me.
I admit that "showing the bastards" is part of my motivation for wanting to get published.
But actually, that’s not even true.
It’s more that I want to get published so my kids can see how working hard and not giving up can pay off.
Plus, I don’t want them thinking I’m delusional.
Whatever the reasons are these days, I certainly did not begin writing as a strategy for getting back at people in my past.
I mean, come on.
There’s got to be a less painful method for getting revenge.
So, confession time.
Anyone here start writing so they could stick it to their high school English teacher?
The thermometer reads 93 degrees.
I just got back from running on the trails.
Face is red.
Tongue is hanging out.
And all I can think about is this:
Still reading Carl Sandburg’s Prairie-Town Boy.
And again, he used that phrase I find so funny coming from him:
" . . . tried to get my head around the English Magna Carta."
Went for a run on the trails early this evening.
It was gorgeous!
Green, green, green as a result of this.
Western meadowlarks perched on the rabbit brush.
Singing their little hearts out.
Serenading me.
My huffing and puffing not quite so melodious.
But that’s okay.
I’m working on it.
I absolutely love this time of year.
One: a longtime friend, Vinca…..
Two, Three, Four: newly planted garden friends, Columbine and Clematis…..
And Five: my most tenacious "friend," Dandelion….
Wishing everyone a bloomin’ weekend!
Whenever I stop blogging
it’s hard to come back.
The pressure to edify, intense.
The longer I wait
for inspiration to strike,
the harder it is to believe
I can contribute anything worthwhile.
So I’m gonna make the leap
and proudly proclaim this:
YESTERDAY’S UNDIES
is a damned fine name for a band.
Wouldn’t you agree?
I’m reading Carl Sandburg’s childhood memoirs, Prairie-Town Boy.
Sandburg was born to poor Swedish immigrant parents in 1878.
The book was written in 1952.
Last night I was reading the chapter on the books he loved reading as a child.
The History of Napoleon Bonaparte and
Young Folks’ Cylopaedia of Persons and Places.
A series of history books by Charles Coffin.
Young Carl Sandburg loved many of the Coffin books,
especially one on the Revolutionary War.
But when he tried reading those written about the Civil War,
he found them dry.
Sandburg wrote:
". . . maybe it [Civil War] was so big he [Coffin] couldn’t get his head around it."
Wow.
I’m here to say it took me a while to wrap my head around
Carl Sandburg wrapping his head around
Charles Coffin and the Civil War he apparently couldn’t wrap his head around.
When I was going to school here for my teaching credential, I took a class on dream interpretation from a soft-spoken professor named George Jackson. He taught us the Jungian approach to working dreams and told us to drink a glass of water before going to bed and to keep a notebook and pen next to the bed so we could write down our dreams when we got up to pee.
George said an unworked dream is like an unread letter.
I think about that a lot.
Which isn’t to say I work all my dreams.
I don’t.
Not for quite some time.
This morning I had a dream between waking with Zippy and when it was time for me to get up.
Don’t worry.
I won’t bore you with the details.
Suffice to say it included
nudity
a slide
swimming pool
and an LJ friend who recently sold two books.
The dream was rife with symbolism.
And at first I thought it did not bode well for me and my career.
But as I let the symbols and feelings flow and connect,
I realized it was a perfectly wonderful dream.
And not just because it included a tall, super-fast slide.
Last night when Zippy reminded me today is May Day
the first thought in my head was a plane going down
and a pilot screaming "Mayday, mayday, mayday" into a radio.
This morning’s exhaustive (ahem) research revealed:
Mayday is, indeed, the international code word for distress
and is derived from the French venez m’aider
which means "come help me."
(Now that we’ve cleared that up…)
In much of the world and some regions of the U.S., May Day
is synonymous with the labor movement
celebrating workers’ rights and achievements.
May Day as a celebration of spring and fertility
isn’t as widely celebrated in the U.S. as other parts of the world
mainly because the Puritans were opposed to it.
Possibly because it involved . . .
Pole dancing.
But you’re in luck if you’d rather not celebrate with the May Day Dance.
Instead, you can make a May Basket and fill it with treats and flowers
then place it on a doorstep, ring the bell, and run away.
You should know, however, that the person receiving the basket might chase you
and if that person catches you, you have to share a kiss.
So consider yourself warned and gift accordingly.
Happy May Day, everyone!
Yesterday Wildebeest spent the afternoon in my brother’s high school math classroom.
My brother teaches at a last chance kind of school for troubled kids making a final effort to graduate.
It’s a pretty tough crowd.
Not all that motivated.
On the way home, Wildebeest explained how kids used to ask my brother for a bathroom pass.
They’d take the pass and walk out of the school.
For the rest of the day.
Never to return.
According to Wildebeest, my brother still gives out a bathroom pass.
Except now it’s one of these:
A full-size acoustic guitar case.
Covered with math stickers.
Wildebeest said plenty of kids used the pass yesterday.
And every one of them returned to class.
(And yes, I’ll find a way to use this in a story.)
As of today, I’m at 39,000 words on my WIP.
That’s Butt In Chair for 39 days straight.
Just sayin’.
(By the way, I discovered that an online search for "trophy" images results in
numerous penis drawings. Hmmm. Why do you suppose that is?)
Tracy Abell 