Must Give Parents Credit Where Credit is Due

I don't have kids of my own, not by choice, but I do have numerous nieces and nephews.  I know it's not the same, but it's what I have, and I am dealing with what I have been given.  I often envy mothers for the treasure they've been blessed with.  I know what some of you mothers are thinking, "She's off her rocker!" If I were in your shoes, I may be saying the same, but I'm not and probably won't be, so my vision is a bit skewed.  Indulge me, because I think you will appreciate what I have to say.

You know the quote, "The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry"?  That is what happened early this morning.  I had planned to do a few DIY projects at the house today, but I was in no hurry to get out of bed.  As a matter of fact, I was passed out and in a very dreamy state when my phone pulled me out.  Lately, I've been sleeping through the melody, but today I was easily yanked "off stage right" by it at 7am.

I was being asked to play mommy for the day.  My two littlest nieces were the only ones that were in good health in a house of six.  Their mother was too weak to care for them and the rest of the house was not fairing much better.  I, of course, agreed to the undertaking of such an awesome responsibility.  Why wouldn't I? They are my nieces, and I love them to pieces.

I knew I would not be able to get my projects done for the day, but I figured I could definitely get some chores done that I had planned to put off until tomorrow.  That should be the easiest thing, right? Uh, yeah... Not really.  It is definitely something you have to be used to.  I watch them often, but never really for more than four hours by myself.  Usually, I just leave a hole in my day, so that I can spend time playing games, having tea, building castles out of chairs and blankets or seeing what Mickey Mouse's latest escapade was that week.

I picked them up and brought them over to my home. After bringing their items in, I began to cook their breakfast while attempting to make myself a much needed cup of coffee.  I am no good in the mornings without my medium-dark roast.  I have a Keurig machine so it couldn't be easier, right?  I mean all you do is pop a K-cup in, turn it on, once the blue light flashes, close it up, press the appropriate size (LARGE today) and viola, a deliciously aromatic cup of joe.  For some reason, it wasn't so simple today.

I nearly burned the eggs, because I had lost focus and was staring down the toaster instead of the stove.  I finished making our breakfast and sat down with them to eat a slice of toast. I only realized I'd forgotten my coffee when I went to reach for the cup I thought I'd brought to the table with me.  I went to the kitchen and couldn't find my favorite insulated cup--that I wash daily just to use it--the blue lights are flashing, and I still have the apple juice container sitting on the counter.  I go to put it away, and find my cup, sitting where the apple juice bottle had been shelved earlier.

How do you mothers get through your mornings?!  Although, in my defense, I was awakened off schedule, I hope structure helps you all get through.

The day progressed pretty well.  After breakfast, and my second cup of coffee, I got the girls dressed (forcibly with the youngest), and went to our kid-friendly room in the house--the Disney room.  We played a little before I decided I needed to clean up breakfast and I thought, "why not?"  I may as well clean the entire kitchen.  Oh, if only.

Only thirty seconds in the kitchen and I hear the toddling little feet heading in my direction.  It started out innocently enough with a simple request to watch Snow White.  Then another request to sit for this one part I had to see--"Watch this, it's good. No not that part, it's coming. Sit here with me." She pats the couch and I obey like a good auntie.  About halfway through the movie, I tried to get up again, but it was drawing time!  Something to do while watching the movie.  I figured it was no big deal, because the busier they were, the busier I could get at cleaning the house.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Lunch happened soon after that, and of course we couldn't agree on one meal, so I made three.  Last night's leftovers for me, PB&J with carrot sticks for the little and grilled cheese with carrot sticks and apple junks for the littlest little.  Then it was time for Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, because the little buggers remembered that I'd said they could watch it after lunch.  Since I hadn't been clear enough on the timing of said viewing, the loophole I'd left allowed a minor manipulation in the agreement.  These kids are good!  Little angels!

Someone needs to put a camera on a kid from the time of their birth and figure out when they begin to gain skills in manipulation and debate.

Of course, littlest little one decides I need to sit and promptly crawls onto my lap and cuddles against my chest.  She passes out within five minutes of doing so, and the other little is asking for a snack.  I told her that she could have one when littlest little woke from her nap.  I take the cuddler to the Disney room and lie her down, and yay for me, she didn't even stir!  Ten minutes later little miss "I have to have a snack now" conks out.

PEACE at last!

Now there came a debate between my head and my body.  Do I nap with them, knowing perfectly well that I may not be sleeping tonight, or do I get some work done around the house?  House won. Damnit!  Although, in hindsight, I suppose it didn't really matter much.  While I was able to get the dishwasher loaded and running, Littlest Little awoke ten minutes later and attempted to rouse her still sleeping older sister.  That was a battle.  I tried to get her to hang with me in the Disney room, but she really wanted her sister.

Before I knew it, the older little woke up, I gave them their snack and we Skyped with another aunt of their's.  All of a sudden I look at the clock and it is nearly 6pm and I hadn't even begun to cook dinner.  I rushed in, started dinner and found out that the dear, sweet man that I call my husband, was not going to be home for dinner.  LUCKY!

The older little came into the kitchen and told me that her tummy hurt. I asked if she felt like food was going to come out of her mouth or if she felt like the potty would help. She chose the latter and when she came back out, she seemed okay.  I was finishing up dinner when she came in and told me that she wasn't hungry, and she began to cry. HARD.  I texted her mother--because I didn't want to wake her--let her know what all was going on and asked her what she would like me to do.

Twenty minutes later, just as I'm getting the kids in their carseats, Mama and Daddy show up to take them home.  I had been with those two toddlers for less than ten hours.  I was exhausted and didn't realize that I had once again overstretched a muscle near my ribs, until I bent to pick up a cracker off the floor.

You stay-at-home mothers and fathers...I don't know whether to envy you or give you a medal for all that you go through on a daily basis.  You need a lot of patience, a phonetic toddler to adult glossary, be willing to give up control and give up sleep.

I won't call you saints, because no one wants to live up to that kind of ideal, but you are damn near.  I have never been so exhausted in my life, and I had painfully intense physical therapy not too long ago.  I applaud your every effort.  How you keep your sanity when there is so much chaos to be dealt with, I'll probably never know.  I don't believe anyone could truly fathom it.

I cleaned seven spills, wiped down the bathroom three times, kept a toddler from eating dog food and a dog treat, picked up the playroom twice, stood guard over Timeout Tower, etc...Long ass day.

A Love for One's Own Creativity

If you haven't been able to tell already, I love cooking almost as much as I love writing.  I can't express enough how much creating something with my own mind or hands thrills me.  What heightens the pleasure I get from it, is the pleasure that others gain from my creations.  If I can see smiles on faces, second helpings--or thirds--being taken from the serving dishes, or hear pleadings for a recipe, I know I've earned my praise.

When someone reads a story of mine, and then gets upset when it ends or is incomplete, I get a little pleasure from that because it means that I've done a good job...in most cases.  Sometimes I wonder if I hadn't written enough, but then I remember as a reader, I am not always satisfied when a story ends.  

A recipe of a good writer includes knowing how to leave some of the story to the imagination.  A reader can often create an image of a character in their mind, but it can differ from another reader's.  As a writer, you never want to write every detail of your character's image or life, right down to their death.  There's a reason fairy tales end with "...and they lived happily ever after."  They knew that the reader didn't want to hear about the pain of the female character's pregnancy or that the main characters struggled to hold their love life together while juggling purpose and occupation.  They knew we didn't want to know that the male character suffered a long painful death, while his wife cried daily by his bedside, watching him wither away.  Fiction is an escape from the very real situations in life, so most want the happy endings; sometimes in more ways than one.  

We all want our happy endings, but the truth is, they aren't always.  What if Snow White had eaten that poison apple while the dwarves were away and the prince had been slain by the Queen's dragon form?  What if true love's first kiss couldn't have saved Snow?

Courtesy mamuvies.blogspot.com

I know...

No one likes to think about it.  

They like the fairytale ending.

Happily ever after is more pleasing to the mind.

I, however, am one of those readers that doesn't at all mind reading the good with the bad, because frankly it makes me feel better reading about someone else having those same struggles.  It makes me feel as though I am not alone in how I feel.  I like feeling connected to the characters in that way.  That is what I try to incorporate into my writing.

When it comes to my cooking, I desperately want that happy ending.  I am constantly abusing using my husband in a "guinea pig" fashion.  He doesn't always mind, but I know when I've done something truly good because he has a tell.  He dances while chewing.  It's both the funniest and most adorable thing I've ever witnessed in my life.  It's when I know that I've had that happy ending in my recipe's story.

My husband did a little secret shopping last week.  He knew I'd been wanting to try buying fresh, locally grown products.  I'd told him that I wanted to see if there was a marked difference between buying these products and the products from the store chains.  I am already a mostly "from scratch" cook, so I wanted to take it another step further.  I can say with 100% certainty that there is indeed a difference.  Not just in helping my neighbors with their livelihood, but the taste of those products I used that were fresh.

Shipping is a terrible thing to do to vegetables.
They probably get jet-lagged, just like people.
~Elizabeth Berry

My wonderful, adoring, loving husband purchased green beans, carrots, asparagus, potatoes, onions, and garlic.  The difference was amazing! The colors were brighter and the taste seemed...cleaner?  I don't know quite how to describe it really.  What I can say is that I will be more than happy to purchase from my neighbors, weekly.  The reward was in the taste, and I won't soon forget it.

I know I had said at the top of the year that I wanted to experiment with food more this year.  So far I've made my own cranberry chutney/sauce, chicken soup, creamy cheese sauce, roasted picante salsa, and chicken stock.  All without the aid of a recipe and husband approved by chew-dancing.

When you finish a recipe and others take pleasure in it, you have to admit, you take pride in what you've done more than if you had stopped at the restaurant and picked up a pizza.  

When Old Projects Are New Again

I recently began to reacquaint myself with an old writing project of mine.  At first, I was scared to see how things were going to work out.  I didn't know if I'd be able to hear my characters in my head anymore.  I didn't know if I would be able to feel what they felt or see what they saw.

I worried that I wouldn't hear their voices talking to me anymore.  It's essential that I hear them.  I need this to be able to continue to work.

<If you didn't read my last post about this, go here. >

Then, my main character reminded me of just how funny he could be.  Truth is, he's a pain in the arse, but he is funny for the most part.  He's my way of getting my frustrations and aggression out of my system without outwardly hurting anyone in my real life.  He's my evil twin, so to speak.  I have a lot of love for this character and the further into the story I get, the more I realize how very much I have missed him.

I am thoroughly enjoying getting reacquainted with him and the others in his story.

He isn't the only one I think about, but he is my focus at the moment.

Alas, I have five or six other projects that are knocking on my window.  They all want attention, but I know I lack enough focus right now to work on them all.  I desperately want to finish this one work, so that I can say that I actually completed something.  I crave that sense of accomplishment.

Back to what I was saying...

I've missed him.  I find myself reading through his pages and laughing--or thwap him on the back of the head if the need presents itself.  It's as if I wasn't the one that wrote the story.  I know I did, because it's my print, but I'm experiencing it all over again as if it were the first time.  I know it's not the first time, because I can hear him saying how funny that moment was, or regretting a decision that was made.  I can hear the character telling me how different he'd wished certain events had transpired, and I find myself aching for him.

I know, I know...You're back to thinking , "Whoa!  She's looney!"  I wouldn't blame you.  I actual think I am sometimes, but like I said in my previous post, you kind of have to be.  If you think that I am completely off my rocker, let me leave you with this.  Are you familiar with Anne Rice?  The creator of Lestat from "Interview with a Vampire"?  She has said in interviews that Lestat would often converse with her while she was writing.  She a NY Times Best Selling Author.

Not so crazy anymore, am I?

Sorry to keep this so short, but I have to get back to my little guy.

He just told me not to call him that..."little," I mean.  He's so touchy!

Character Development

Which came first the author or the characters they've written about?

To be quite honest, I don't truly know.  I suppose it could be both ways.  Numerous authors have said that their stories came to them in a dream.  Is the dream technically supplying the characters or is it the author?  Since it's the author's mind, wouldn't it then be the author?

The mind boggles.

I was asked a question about my writing by one of my readers.  "Have your characters ever awaken you in the middle of the night and nagged at you?"

My answer?  Yes, yes they have.  Numerous times in fact.  It's funny actually.  I'll go to sleep thinking that I have ended my thoughts on a part of my story rather well, only to be awaken by a sort of rumbling in a dream.  Sometimes it's just an echo of a voice and other times, the persona I've imaged in my head, pops into my vision.  They can be such nags when they don't feel like they've been treated properly.  It can be so all-consuming that I have to get out of bed, grab my nearby notebook, and start jotting things down.  At times, it reverberates so violently through my mind that I end up writing chapters of rough information that I will undoubtedly tweak later in the day.

Now hold on! Don't go calling the guys in the white coats just yet.  I haven't gone mad.  I'm not insane, not that a little insanity isn't needed to be any good at telling a good story.  If you don't write, then you may know.

What you need to understand is that though people call writing a process, it's much, much more than that.  When you're writing, you have all these characters from your story, running around in your head.  Each one has their own personality.  Likes, dislikes.  They're constantly attempting to influence what you will write about them next.  No one wants to be put in a bad light, right?

You still think that sounds crazy?  Have you ever talked to yourself?  Chastised yourself for making a mistake...out loud?  Do you keep a journal where each entry begins with "Dear Diary" or some other greeting?

I'm no more crazy than you are.  A writer's characters are a way of getting their own thoughts, aggressions, aggravations, etcetera--I think you get the point--out.

In order to develop characters you need to know how people react in different situations.  Can you tell me that one author can fully know how to write about a killer and his feelings when he goes into a manic episode without truly thinking it through?  You have to imagine yourself in that situation.  Feel everything you can possibly feel without actually going through with the act yourself.  How is it that in another chapter, the writer goes through every feeling a clinically depressed girl has as she struggles with the decision of whether or not to commit suicide, while holding a knife to her wrist?  In still another chapter, that same author can write about the hope of true love, and how it begins as a small bud just stretching from the ground before blooming in the light of day.  Sure they can do research.  They can interview people that have actually experienced such things, but how do you get that exact emotion?  How do they make any reader feel every emotion from each and every one of those characters?

They've drawn you in, by telling you little details in passing.  Sure your experiencing what's happening with the characters in the moment, but you'll read a joke or someone will have a "remember when" moment.  You don't really see them, unless you pay very close attention.

My favorite books are the ones that make me feel what's happening.  I can conjure up an image of the character, feel what they're feeling, put myself in their place.  Those are the books I get involved in and hate when they end.

"Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader--not the fact that it is raining, 

but the feeling of being rained upon."
~E.L. Doctorow

You'd have to be slightly low on sanity in order to write about all the varying human emotions your characters are going to go through.  The good thing is, when writing about them it can keep you sane. I know...WEIRD!

Still don't understand how I'm sane?  Psychologists tell you to keep a journal so that you can analyze your thoughts when you are in a "normal state", or so that they can.  Can't storytelling be a confession of sorts?  A diary of a time in the past or how one wished how things had happened?  A good storyteller feels the emotion when they're writing it so that they can best express it to the reader.  If they're doing their job right, the reader can completely immerse themselves in the world presented.

I can admit that I don't mind the thought of being slightly insane.  If it makes me a better character developer, or writer/author, then I am all for it.  If I can draw my reader in and have them appreciate or love just one character, I'd be more than pleased.  I'd be ecstatic!

So...if I am insane, I don't want treatment.  My own personal character likes the thought of being able to "act out" through my writing.  If my sleep is interrupted by one of my characters/personas because they're angry with a decision I've made about their actions in a scene, I'm glad for it.

Hi, I'm insane.  I converse with myself and the people running around in my head.

Don't be scared; I don't bite.

Hard.


Where's my jacket?

When All Hope Seems Lost

I guess I am an odd duck.  The things I throw myself into at times could drive any other person mad.  Specifically my husband.

My genealogical research was stalled on a very important branch of the tree just two weeks ago.  The growth was stunted, because I was totally unable to find any information.  Instead of moving forward or staying in place, I decided to go back into the trunk and see if there was something I'd missed in the layers of bark.  Unfortunately, I only revealed to myself that I really had missed anything.  Every layer was in line and revealing every facet laid out in full perfect detail, save for one thing...I had chosen to ignore a tiny piece of information.

Why ignore it?

Because the email address for the data was over a decade old, and I honestly didn't believe that ANYONE would still have an AOL address.  I had seen this address numerous times in my research, and each time I noted the information that had been given in a forum and then moved past the contact without another thought.

I did this again just last week and decided to throw my hands up and resign myself to pray that someone would be able to find the information some day.  I moved away from the computer to break myself free for a few minutes before working on another branch.

I continued in my usually successful attempt to ignore this bit of information, only this time I felt like I was a mother with a child that desperately wanted my attention.  I was being poked, with my apron skirt being tugged on and a little voice kept asking me, "Why can't you talk to that one? Why? Why? Why?!  Come on, let's try it.  Please, can we? Huh? Please can't we just do it?!" Or like in Family Guy, Stewie nagging at Lois

You mothers, aunts, grandmothers, daycare givers and older sisters know exactly what I'm talking about--maybe even a few male counterparts.  There is always a little one doing just that to you for one reason or another.  And what do we do when this happens?  We give in and, just to shut them up, do as they ask.  So, I did just that.

I needed my brain to leave me alone about that contact.  I was 99.9% certain that there would be nothing coming from that contact.  Ever. Never going to happen.

Never. Say. "Never."

The very next morning there was a response to my email inquiry. I sent a timid and gentle reply back, thanking them for their time and that if they couldn't give me much more than what I already had, I would understand.

Two weeks later, that branches bark has strengthened.  Twigs have began to branch off to create even more beautiful branches have began to weave their way through and leaves have begun shine brightly.  The branch of that tree is once again blooming with information.

The smallest pebble on a mountain, may cause a landslide.
The gentlest of missteps can cause a small pile of snow to turn into an avalanche.
Never give up, never surrender.
When you believe things are hopeless, hang on to that sliver of hope that is teasingly dangling by a very thin and frayed piece of string.

All this and a small discussion on Facebook have increased my desire to write.  I have an idea, and it will require quite a bit of research, but I am ready for it.  I am welcoming the challenge that it may bring.  If I can succeed when all hope seemed lost, why couldn't I succeed when there is more than a glimmer of a chance at something?

Once you choose hope, anything is possible.

~Christopher Reeve