How To Waste TIme When the Words Don't Flow

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.

Douglas Adams

This weekend, while hiding from my computer and the thousands of words not yet written in my Nanowrimo quest, I buried myself in the quiet of my hammock. A book, filled with words from one more studious and dedicated than yours truly, aided my escape.

Movement caught my eye. Something fell into the water, just beyond the edge of the dock. I looked up to spy an osprey, perched on the top of the rope swing. A fish clamped in the talons of its thick legs. Lunch.



The fish appeared quite unconcerned. (Perhaps its demise occurring before the arrival at my house.) I watched with curiosity, unsure if the unpleasant butcher of a poor crappie might force me inside to my computer. But the osprey matched my silence and proved a most patient eater taking delicate bites of his prey as though enjoying the view while he lunched at the lake. Quite particular about which parts he chose to eat and dropped the unwanted into the water below. No doubt another in that food chain gathered nourishment from there.

I forgot about him after a while, engrossed in the pages I read, only glancing now and again to see how much longer he might be. Seemed in no hurry. Just like me - getting back to my novel-in-progress, somewhere in the word count.

My own bird chirped from up on the porch, my husband having put him out on the table to enjoy the day.



As to my Nanowrimo progress? My main character is no longer wandering in the middle of a prairie. She is further along the road to trouble. The tension grows. The road goes on.

And I'm very good at distracting myself with any number of fascinating projects, including keeping time with your average, every day neighborhood osprey. Incredible sight.

Hope he does the dishes when he's done.
(sorry for that one.)

How goes the battle for the rest of you?

Ode to the One I Didn't Hire

Insight, I believe, refers to the depth of understanding that comes by setting experiences, yours and mine, familiar and exotic, new and old, side by side, learning by letting them speak to one another.

Mary Catherine Bateson

Twenty-five years ago I lived in Salt Lake City and worked as an Office Manager/Accountant for an independent oil company. In need of an Executive Secretary, I advertised the position and received many resumes via the mail.

One resume I immediately discarded. In fact, the two-page document ended up in the trashcan within moments after opening. I’ve never forgotten that moment, and now it comes back to haunt me. Faced with that same situation today, I'd hire that applicant in a heartbeat.

The resume I tossed arrived from a woman in her mid-50’s. (We had to list our age back then.) Somewhere back in ancient times she had graduated from college with a bachelor’s degree, then married, and raised five children. Her resume listed each child by name as though an individual place of employment. She accounted for their educations, their achievements in academics and extra curricula, awards received, degrees earned.

Down the list it went from daughter the teacher to son the dentist. At the end of that muddle, she inventoried where she had volunteered over the past 35 years – PTA, church, boy scouts, girl scouts, and on and on.

I recall laughing, thinking how ridiculous this was. That this resume told me nothing about her qualifications. What she could manage. How could she think she was capable of running an office when all she’d done is stay home and raise five kids? The PTA? Come now.

I was 28 at the time. Married for six years, but had no children. I didn’t have a flipping clue. Three children and 25 years later, I most certainly do now.

Today, this Midlife Jobhunter is most regretful for the disregard shown that mother of five returning to the workforce for whatever reason I never bothered to consider or understand.

As many of you have mentioned in your comments or emails to me, midlife jobhunters are now a vast group (stay-at-home mothers only a portion) competing against the young or those with more complete resumes and education, or skills.

A diversified bunch, we are people in search of a place – taking in stride current situations to adjust to changing times. We are searchers finding our way as empty nesters, or newly divorced, or widowed with a dwindling income. Or one suddenly without an income for any number of reasons. We are searchers who can no longer continue with a current position's physical demands. We are searchers for satisfaction to not necessarily bring in a grand or needed income, but to unearth a creative spirit buried long ago.We are searchers who struggle with labeling talents and contributions, cornering a market on years of gathered work ethic and collected knowledge.

Midlife Jobhunters – a most interesting cluster of seekers. I can only hope that 25 years ago in Salt Lake City, someone smarter than me hired that incredibly overqualified jobhunter .

The Man Wall - A Project Complete

Beauty comes in all sizes, not just size 5.

Roseanne Barr

Back in September, I wrote a post about the shed on the dock. Remember this white wall? Or perhaps my suggestion for a neon Blue Moon beer sign or ONE large round sign with the name of our place?

And my husband developing his own interpretation of that suggestion and ordering 17 signs. The last sign finally arrived the other day and with the help of a neighbor, they drilled the signs into place. For eternity.

Click on the picture to get the full effect. My husband is most proud. Our true "lake people" neighbors think it's great. The McMansion folks - well, maybe not so great. Me? Whatever keeps him happy. I like that he let me add a few of my own. Squeeze Me, Stomp Me. Martinis in the Twilight Lounge anyone?

Somewhere Out There Nanowrimo Calls

In skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Tis the time of year once again for Nanowrimo. What could this be? Some weird holiday? A wrestling match.

Wrestling match indeed. A match of mind over matter. A commitment to the writing you often say you want to accomplish. That book you are going to write - some day.

Nanowrimo is the yearly Write a 50,000-Word Novel in a Month project. Sort of like driving cross country without stopping to pee. Excellent way to begin a new novel or further one you've already begun. Or use it to write that non-fiction book proposal floating in your head. Modify as needed.

Anyone out there care to join me?

If this is your first time at this venture, I suggest a little reading material. Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. From her book you can learn about the "shitty first draft" and not get stuck on revisions while you're pounding out your story. Your book will need tremendous work when you're done because it will be complete shit. And that's okay. Maniac writing sometimes get us where we need to go, just like timed writings do on a much smaller scale.

I also recommend practicing with Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. Natalie teaches us to park our butts and write, write, write. Go find a coffee house with a table in a dark corner. Write with your back to the crowd.

In my unfinished novel, my character has been stuck in the middle of a prairie in South Dakota since last Nanowrimo. I think she has suffered enough. So have I with the guilt of stranding her. Lily, come November 1, you shall be set free. (Or at least hitch a ride on an Airstream that will take you in even thicker.)

Please check out the website Nanowrimo Often local groups will gather in cities throughout the US to write/discuss progress together. Great opportunity.

A note of encouragement - some days it flows and some days it plugs up, a lot. But there are always plungers to clear the muck.

Take a step. And another. Don't be scared. Good luck.

P.S. Really good things happening over at my friend's site No One's the Bitch.
Something to do with Dr. Phil ...

Almost Wordless Wednesday - My Trees Have Their Say

Laziness is nothing more than the habit of resting before you get tired.

Jules Renard

Dancing in the Night

renewal |riˈn(y)oōəl| noun

the action of extending the period of validity of a license, subscription, or contract : the contracts came up for renewal | a renewal of his passport. • an instance of resuming an activity or state after an interruption • the replacing or repair of something that is worn out, run-down, or broken

One evening when I was a little girl, like four, I became angry with my family. They were tickling and teasing me and I hated it. Cried. Packed my little pink suitcase and ran away from home.

I rang the doorbell at the neighbor's and the mom came to the door. I told her I was running away and asked if I could stay at her house. I remember her standing there, probably holding back a laugh, and saying that it wasn't a good night for her. She had company. That maybe if I came back the next day, there would be a place for me then.

That rejection only offered one other door to approach, one other home where I would have chosen to reside. Certainly not to the Greenlee house as they had a bunch of boys, and I couldn't cross the street by myself. I walked back past my own house to the Dunfee's on the other side. I knocked and knocked at their back door. No one answered. No one wanted me. I had to go home.

I don't recall what happened after that nor anyone teasing me for having run away. I imagine my humiliation of having to come home offered them an opportunity to let me return in peace. Or so I hope. But with my running away at that age, I set a course for myself. One I've come to depend upon.

Yesterday, I ran away from home. All the years of occasional upset with my husband, or needing to breathe while caught in the mire of raising three kids, or just life itself, an escape plan became necessary. Often a walk around the block sufficed, or a trip to the library, alone. Maybe a visit to the greenhouse to finger the delicacy of a new plant.

Often times I escaped to the safety of my women friends, to the comfort of their kitchens or conversations, sharing our woes or asking unanswerable questions about why life makes us have certain feelings at uncertain times.

I did that Thursday afternoon. After a sluggish swim at the YMCA, I gave up on attaining my normal mile and quit at 3/4 mile. While making phone calls to several friends to meet at the bar in 45 minutes, I knew that wasn't what I should be doing. That I had projects going at home that required my attention. But I simply did not want to do them. So I ran away to the bar to join four friends who all in a small window of notice, showed up for the companionship also.

I am most grateful for those women, but there is something in me when I get in these moods that also requires solitude.

Yesterday afternoon I ran away to my cabin at the lake -- a much appreciated haven for this soul of mine. A settling place for my wits, a privacy I seem to require every now and then. Should I have been at home to cover what was needed there in terms of motherhood and wifedom? Absolutely. But I wasn't.

Last night, I sat in my blue chair, cranked my Ipod as high as I wanted. I stared out the window at the lake, a few lights across lighting the water's edge. With a glass of wine, I sang out loud to my heart's content. Brown Sugar, The Freaker's Ball, Songbird, Dream a Little Dream of Me, Brand New Day, Field of Opportunity, Shining Star, Green River, Hernando's Hideaway, The Trouble with Love is, Revolution, Amie, The House is Rockin', Give up the Funk, I Wish, Highway to Hell, Voodoo Cadilac, Twist and Shout, Freeway of Love .... and on and on. Name that tune. I sang it last night.

I finished the evening seated in my chair with eyes closed. In my mind's eye, I wore the white satin ballerina outfit I wore when I was 12, complete with the flowing net of a long tutu , the music of Frederic Chopin's Les Syphides filling the cabin. This ballet has no plot - only the mystical movement of white clad dancers floating in the moonlight, just like me. Sleep arrived.

Never would I do that with others in the house. But, now I'm sung out, danced out. Need to pack my stuff and head home as soon as I finish this rambling post. We will gather as a family (less the Arizona boy) tonight to celebrate my oldest son's birthday. I will attend, truly happy to be with all of them. For the time I've spent alone has proffered the privacy I required. I've become accustomed to gathering it as quickly as I can.

This morning I made a new list in my journal of things I need to do, goals I need to set -- become more organized, better read and more rested. I have a plan. That's what running away does for me. I am thankful not only for those friends and the cabin which offers the solace, but for the night.

On Eagle's Wings

We cannot always build the future for our youth, but we can build our youth for the future.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Imagine a gathering

Imagine...

...digging post holes in rock

in 105 degree heat.

Middle brother taking a breather
while oldest brother arrives with BBQ.
A dad gassed and seeking shade.

Weekend #2 mixing in 11 bags of cement.

Weekend #3 and #4 building benches

and an altar

while corralling more workers,

to create a visionand complete

an Eagle Scout journey.

Congratulations Ian. Most proud.

There is a Season - for Perspective

Won't you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan

Today is a different day at my house. I awake and there is no need to open the blinds in my bedroom so my neighbor will know I am home. She no longer lives there.

Neighbors arrive in varying forms - those you wouldn’t know if you ran into them in the grocery store. Those to whom you send a friendly wave as you drive by. Those you share a greeting or story with now and then.

Then those for whom you know the intimate details; the stories of their life as well as their worries and triumphs.

Mrs. R was the latter. From the time we moved in twelve years ago, she has been a surrogate grandmother for our family, her husband also fulfilling the role of grandfather until he passed away a few years ago. My boys knew their house as a safe place, where help and love was always available. Helped to fill the void of their grandparents who lived far away.

The boys mowed their lawn and performed small chores. Mrs. R remembered their birthdays, celebrated their graduations, gave them hugs when they went off to school. Or hugged me when they went off to school. As I told each of my boys that Mrs. R was moving, they all responded with such surprise. I understood. A certain shelter no longer available.

Her moving only came about the past couple of weeks, although we knew the possiblity hung for the past year or so. Age has caught up with Mrs. R and at 83 has decided the house is too much. Granted, it is, but I still regret having to see the change – both in her and the moving. Now an apartment will provide her home, surrounded by a hundred more kindred in age only. Someone will cook all her meals. She will have someone available 24/7 to call for help. Bridge, bingo, field trips to keep her busy. Perhaps a welcome change from the never ending call of keeping a house and the loneliness living alone can bring.

Inevitable change -- an apt definition of life.

Makes me cognizant the life decisions our 17-year-old has before him are not so dire. That the extreme pressure to make choices about his future are not those that will cement him forever. His changes are only few of many to come in his lifetime. We are mistaken to approach his decisions as pertinent for all his future. Nothing stays the same. Even at 83, he will face decisions about the future. Decisions he will make whether he wants to or not. We are only ever settled, just for now.

Yesterday, Mrs. R and I hugged as the moving van left and her visiting daughters waited to take her away. She said how hard it was, that she had been so happy here. The last place she was with her husband. Good neighbors, good memories.

I wished her well on her new adventure.

"Adventure? Is that what we can call it?" she said.

I don't know how else to look at it, without losing it. Change. Never easy. Always present.

My seventeen-year-old stood in the doorway to the living room last night.

“Is Mrs. R gone now?”

I nodded.

“I saw the moving van before I left for school this morning,” he said, in a soft voice.

I smiled at him. I understood.

I hope you slept well in your new home last night, Mrs. R. I shall miss you.

Pot Luck

It takes a long time to grow an old friend.

John Leonard

Wishing a Happy 50th birthday to my long-time friend, Savannah, the Oil Baron. Here we are last Saturday night in Dallas. Vanna and I met playing softball in Denver back in 1981. She pitched and caught. I played short stop. We were both in the oil biz, young, and I was much skinnier.

Happy Birthday Vanna!

Last week, ds, who produces the beautiful blog third-storey window, passed me the award/meme for Honest Scrap. I thank her. Please check out her blog as I label it one of my great finds. Part of the crowd reading Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier right now.

The award has requirements:

1. “The Honest Scrap” award must be shared.

2. The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves that no one else knows.

3. The recipient has to pass along the award to 10 more bloggers.

4. Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.

5. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.

As appreciative am I of receiving awards, I'm not the best at fulfilling the pass on part. And I hate to follow directions, but will attempt it here on a shorter scale. I'm such an open book, I seriously doubt there are ten true things about me that no one knows.

1. I can waste time better than anyone.
2. I sometimes turn on Fox News just to see if they are thinking.
3. My favorite TV shows are Deadliest Catch and Lost.
4. I can float on my back and meditate, and almost fall asleep.
5. I've been in 49 states. (Washington remains.)
6. I love the morning, but I think that is when I get my best sleep.
7. So far this week I've swum, swam, swimmed 3 miles. (Ruined it all drinking margaritas last night.)
8. I just joined NetFlex and am watching the last two seasons of Six Feet Under. For some reason, funeral homes don't seem so scary anymore.
9. I have a terrible habit of not beginning a book I really want to read as I want to savor each word. Waiting for my hammock, which has eluded me of late.
10. I fart a lot if I eat bread.

There - took way too much to get all that out.

Honest Scrap now awarded to:

128 Sticks of Butter - because she has lost 11 pounds and I haven't
Catbird Scout - who has bravely given up her job to pursue her writing
Ladybird World Mother - who makes me laugh
WZ Snyder, #167 Dad - for always fun posts and providing a different perspective

And an invitation from a couple of friends:

You are cordially invited to attend an "open house" beginning Wednesday, October 14, in honor of the newly renovated Rose &Thorn Journal: http://www.roseandthornjournal.com

Drop by, sign up for the newsletter, check out the new digs (and blog!), follow us on Twitter and Facebook, leave us your comments/thoughts, and wish us well!

Rose &Thorn is a quarterly literary journal featuring the voices of emerging and established authors, poets and artists.

Now...go enjoy the open bar and appetizer spread!

Angie Ledbetter & Kathryn Magendie
Co-Editor/Publishers
Rose & Thorn Journal

For Janine, and Many More

The life I touch for good or ill will touch another life, and that in turn another, until who knows where the trembling stops or in what far place my touch will be felt.

Frederick Buechner

Today I send special thoughts out to a lovely woman. Janine at Sniffles and Smiles is in need of thoughts and prayers today as she faces surgery, one of many.

When Janine first visited my blog, I was enamoured by her positive and friendly manner. Her writing is most impressive and I await her Saturday posts with gratitude.

Years ago, when I first began the practice of serious writing, I participated in many online classes in personal essay, short story, etc. Intrigued me to discover the intimacy developed between writers through our sharing and trust. Never occurred to me that the only thing missing was actually having met them in person. Seemed like they lived next door.

Once at a writing conference, I began a conversation with the woman sitting next to me. She said something that struck me as familiar. I glanced at her name tag to discover she was indeed familiar. That I knew many of her secret thoughts and desires, much about her family and dreams. That we had crossed paths in several places in the neighborhood of our real world never knowing we had knowledge of such private details about one another.

So goes the world of blogging. We share ourselves in a manner that opens our minds to new thoughts, ideas, and opinions while handing out parts of ourselves. We learn the heart of some that perhaps the people who live in our own homes don't know. I'm grateful for that venue.

Today, I consider Janine and other blogging friends in need of care, along with many others in my visual "family" that I offer my deliberate attention.

P.S. Please visit Teacher's Pet for a note from Janine.

Putting on the Game Face

No other man-made device since the shields and lances of the ancient knights fulfills a man's ego like an automobile.

Sir William Rootes

My husband is buying a new car today. Not really a "new" car. A 2006 model with 35,000 miles, but new to us. He's driven to Houston to pick it up and will arrive home, elated. Proud of his research and purchase. Thrilled, yet perhaps a little hopeful that one of his sons will be around to share his joy, rather than me.

Not because I didn't want him to get it (his car was ten years old and had 172,000 miles on it), but because cars just don't do much for me. As long as they start, have super cold air conditioning to accommodate hot flashes, and a radio, I'm happy.

Last week, when Bob emailed me the scoop on the car, I wasn't the most enthusiastic. "Do you really like that color of blue?" I wrote back. And then, "How you going to pay for it?"

Reality. Always a killjoy.

Back to cars. Combine my dad, three brothers, three sons, and a husband, I can't tell you how many hours I've spent driving through car lots in my life. (No wonder I learned to read and ride.) Despite that indoctrination, the men in my family don't understand my conceptual disregard for the meaning of a car.

I have to be honest. I don't think I'd understand even if I had a penis. Perhaps that's why my husband eyes my car with disdain and mutters, "Don't ever wash your car. You wouldn't want it to look good."

It's silver. Hides the dirt. Hauls all my crap. Besides, if I was going to clean something, I'd clean my house.

But, being the good wife that I am, in two hours time I'll put on a good face. I'll act excited for him when he drives into the garage. I'll walk around it and ooh and aha and gush. "Oh, so nice, Bob."

Wish me luck. I'm such a crappy liar.

My Dream Car

Lulled by the Rain

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

Langston Hughes

Rain has returned to Central Texas. After months of drought and knowing a lit match tossed carelessly to the ground might cause the entire region to succumb to flames, the haunting ruse of a landscape lost has expired.

Even though the flow of the hose or use of the sprinkler once a week kept my plants clinging to life, nothing compares to the fall of a few day's rain to bring them back to life.

Everywhere the flowers bloom. Lantana, Mexican heather, plumbago, zinnias, and more. My warm weather plants are putting out that last effort before winter's rise. Adds such beauty into the world compared to the dried up death of our rainless, hot summer.


As many of you enjoy the colors of fall, we wait. The green of summer reactivated before the bulk of our deciduous trees change in December. I don't mind the wait. My tomatoes, planted a couple of weeks ago, gained great height in the rainy, cooler weather. Tomorrow I hope for a blossom.

And a better post.

Even the cat had nothing to offer today. No lizards. No roll in the dust. Nothing.

My poor impatiens finally get to bloom and not just survive.

Mushrooms growing on one of my trees.

Go buy some pansies, Julie. Leave me alone.