Just Like Starting Over...

It's been too long; a hard, crazy, chaotic couple of years. Let me recap:

• we moved to Tucson, ostensibly to be near family, but also because of the weather
• we bought a house - nothing quite so humbling as discovering exactly how much yarn you have, and then figuring out where to put it. Oh, and for the record, I do not like palm trees or dogs. I do love my tangerine and apple trees, though. 
• Did you know tangerine blossoms almost smell like jasmine?
• I discovered that knitting is not a top priority in the Desert Southwest. Let's be real, who really needs wool socks in 90°F heat?
• night shift is a survival tactic in the desert - if it's good enough for the coyotes, it's good enough for me
• I have more writing ideas than I can keep up with - working on a viable outlining solution - right now I'm working on a hybridization of the Randy Ingermanson's Snowflake Method and Lisa Cron's Story Genius - they mesh well together. I'll let you know how it works out.
• the Compassion Project is about 75% written - yes, you read that right, 3/4 of the way there. I'm into the meat of the project. Wish me luck
• I have discovered a wealth of support and chaos that is family
• Hubs has two books doing rather well, and is writing a third and fourth. He is play testing regularly.
• Tucson has a strong writing culture, including a somewhat active NaNoWriMo group - I will be attending camp in April and am hoping to us that time to finish the first draft of the the Compassion Project

Sounds busy, right? You betcha. We have a few straggling boxes left to unpack, two sets of curtains to hang, and built-in book shelves to create. 

So close, and yet, so far...

Crotchety old lady in training

Apparently I have reached that age where I will roll my eyes, shake my head and give disdainful looks. And if you are three teenaged girls riding the electric handicap scooters at Walmart, I will do this, especially when you were seen skipping through the parked cars in the parking lot on the way in. Especially if you decide to play follow the leader through the store, getting in the way of shoppers, like me. And if you have the audacity to be offended by my disdain, I will tell you that it is sad that you feel the world is your playground, that you have now run the batteries down so that other people who need the scooters cannot use them, that they are meant for disabled people to use - not three self-important little girls, and that it is sad that your parents obviously have not taught you needed lessons for the abrupt awakening of adulthood that is headed your way.

And then I will make my way out of the store as quickly as I can, hoping my tires will not be slashed in the near future.

So what are you going to do today?

I work in a profession where no one really works the same schedule, week to week or person to person. One week I'll work MTW. Next week it may be SuWT. My friend may work WThF. Who knows? So when you get to work with someone, at some point in the night the conversation turns to "Who's back tonight?"

Jessa asked me that this last night. It was my Friday, meaning I get a couple of days off. Next, almost required, question is usually "What are you going to do?" My answer this week was "I'm doing summer camp".

Summer camp for me is a mini version of what I do in November. NaNoWriMo has Camp NaNoWrimo.  Writing goals that are less stringent, more loosey-goosey. And I get to write.

I worked well last week, logged almost 12K words. Not too bad. I knew who my characters were, what they were doing. Tried to pick it up tonight, and just can't get a feel for it.

Enter my other hobby - gaming. Specifically DCC gaming. Thanks to Purple Sorcerer Games, I have an easy to understand system to record my characters.  I'll spend tonight getting character sheets in order, and hopefully tomorrow night I can hit it again.

Well Back to the Word Mines.

Return to sender...

Public Service Announcement:  This may ramble...

My grandmother is dying.  It has been coming for a while.  She was put into memory care eight years ago with Alzheimer's, and three years ago suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage that we didn't think she would survive.  But she did.  She's a stubborn old gal.  It's where we get it. 

Some time Friday night, she suffered a massive right sided stroke, that has left her with left hemipareisis and unable to clear her own oral secretions, let alone take nutrition.  Her already murmured speech is now garbled and unitelligible.  She communicates through hand signs.  I wonder what she really is saying to the staff, and my aunts and uncle. 

You see, I am not there.  She is in Minneapolis, the seat of the family tree.  I am in Portland, a long ways away.  By my own choice, mind you.  Minneapolis was never home to me, not for the lack of trying.  For too many reasons, ones I will not go into here, but may touch on.  It is too bad my other siblings didn't get to know her like I did.  We moved when they were little, like 2 and 4.  Does David know?  Did anyone tell him?

Can I just be the first to say that anticipatory grieving sucks?  See, I watch other people do this.  I'm a nurse.  A cardiac nurse.  A night shift cardiac nurse.  I help other people to the door.  Watch over them and their loved ones in one of the most vulnerable moments of their existences.  Death.  The long exhale that does not come.  I hold hands, provide tissues, and words of what I hope is comfort in a time where no words can help.  I am learning, today, the importance of touch in these moments; how much a simple hug can do.  Oxytocin is a wonderful drug, and cannot seem to get enough.

We are waiting for her to die.  She is in hospice care, hopefully in a SNF, and out of the hospital.  She was fluid rescucitated at the hospital, so it will take a few days for her to leave.  Maybe three or four.  She is being kept comfortable.  I hope they are using scopalamine to dry up her oral secretions so she doesn't notice them.  I hope they are using ativan liberally, to stave off the panic.  But those of us who are not near are waiting, Aunt Hilary's posts to her CaringBridge journal our sole source of information.

I thought about going to visit while we wait.  But I don't know what good it would do.  I last saw her in '91.  I kind of want to remember her that way.  Spunky, funky, full of life.  Not immobile, helpless, and unable to communicate.  Are her nails still red and filed sharp?  Did they remember her lipstick?  I just don't want to go.  And I feel bad about that.  But, I cannot take time off work for anticipatory grieving.  I get bereavement after she dies, not before.  I really could use it now.  Oh, well.  The tears come when they come.  Fortunately, I work with a wonderful group of nurses who are being so supportive and caring.  They noticed right away that something was very wrong on Sunday when I showed up for my shift with tears puffing my eyes.  I'd known for less than two hours then.  My eyes are still puffy.  I'm waking up feeling like I've been crying for a while, my pillow wet. 

In my own way, I was close to Grandma.  She loved me for who I am.  She didn't blame me for the situation of my birth, who my father was, the marriage, or the divorce.  She was supportive, and helped me explore the world.  From a distance.  In her own way.  I was just telling my husband about her on Friday night, as I was packing up the boxes of presents to my own grandchildren.  Grandma taught me how to do Yule.  Boxes of wrapped gifts, chosen for the recipient with knowledge of who they were as a person.  Everyone received fairly, equally, but she handled the age differences well.  Candy, cookies, and a bit of fun.  One year it was ice skating.  Another it was tennis, complete with an outfit.  As we grew older, and there were more children, there was art supplies.  Thread art, paint by numbers.  Oh and the chicken, the marionette chicken.  Doug hated the chicken.   Little did I know, as I was talking about her, she was making her way to the door.  Maybe it was her way of letting me know.  Grandma will be with me every year as I prepare Yule for my grandchildren.  Maybe they will pass it on to theirs.

Christmas at her house, and we did it every year until we moved to Tucson, was a production.  Between visits to extended family, huge family dinners, an overdone tree, and piles of gifts that took up more room in the car than we did, it was memorable.  A week in the summer and a week in the winter in Ohio.  With family.  The only family I knew.  Aunts only a few years older than I, and an uncle a year younger, it was fun.  We'd watch Batman, and drink ginger ale, pretending it was beer and playing pirate.  We'd slide down the stairs on boxes.  Jingle bells, and carafes of wine in the snow on the deck. 

Watching my mother go through this from a distance is also hard.  We all get caught up in our own grieving.  She is wrapped up in hers.  So are my aunts.  Everyone does it their own way, and everyone is selfish about it.  And Mom is in Tucson, not Minneapolis.  She didn't want to go.  I don't really know why.  It doesn't matter.  My aunts are providing information daily, but she thinks they are keeping information from her.  Paranoia runs rampant.  Here is the sad truth of sitting death watch: not much happens.  Everyone waits for the final moment, willing it to come, and yet feeling guilty-sick for it.  Some hope they miss it, yet feel honor bound to be there.  Until the loved one passes, there is not much to say or do.   It all seems trivial.  They are dying, and will continue to do so until they are finished.  And while we all hope that they are not alone, I can tell you from years of experience in helping ease the passing of others one crystal truth: everyone dies alone.  This is not something anyone else can do with you.

 I hope I don't have to hear every year from now on that her mother died at Christmas; I'm sure I will.  Don't buy trouble, my husband says.  I'm not buying it.  It's on layaway.  It's coming, I know it.  At forty-six years of age, I know my mother.  She'll do her thing, and it will all be about her.  She didn't even tell us about Grandma until tonight.  Um, it's Tuesday folks.  She posted it on Facebook, looking for support and sympathy.  That's how I found out.  Still hurts.  I shouldn't be surprised, I know that.  It just hurts.  Oh, look, my own issues with my mother.  She gets to grieve her way, I will do mine. 

I will trudge forward.  Grandma will be missed.  She was an invisibly present force in my life.   It is too bad my other siblings didn't get to know her like I did.  We moved when they were little, like 2 and 4.  Does David know?  Did anyone tell him?  I will go on.  It is what she'd want.  If there is a funeral, I will go.


In the mean time, Happy Holidays, whichever you may celebrate.  In our house it is Yule.  Give a squidge to those you love.  Give a hand to those you don't know.  You could make the difference in someone's day, and not even know it.  Hugs.   mikki

Procrastination 101

NaNoWriMo started yesterday.  I have a novel planned, and am about 4500 words into it.  In spite of my planning, the prose is not flowing.  I feel like I am pulling this one along, and it is dragging it's feet.  So, my world-class procrastinator gene kicked in.  Seriously.

I decided to dye the sweater I knit, using up a good two and a half hours of my night.  I knit Calligraphy.  It is a beautiful pattern.  Well written, clear, and took bust darts well.  The yarn I used was BMFA STR, PDX City of Roses.  Pink.  Very pink.  Very not-me pink.  I am not a pink person, much to my mother's dismay.  Blue, purple, grey - yes.  Pink just gets me a look of what-where-you-thinking.  I showed the sweater in progress to a coworker.  She love the color and asked who it was for.  I told her  it was for me.  She cocked her head to the side, and said 'Um, no?'  Theresa, thank you for your frank and lovely honesty. 

What does one do with a pink sweater?  Over dye the sucker.  Two jars of lilac dye later, voila!

Not my best dye job, but definitely not my worst.  I didn't want a perfectly even dye, got it in one.  It's a bit splotchy.  I found out just a bit too late that the pot I was using to dye the sweater was too small for the volume I was introducing.  Way to small.  By the way, if you ever want to know where every scratch on you stovetop is, let a dye pot overflow onto it.  Shows up like fireworks.  My hands are blue, and probably will still be when I go back to work next week.  My nails look downright cyanotic.  This sweater is not something for professional wear, but a kick-around, keep-me-warm sweater.  The imperfect dye job is really me.  Some areas are dark, heavy, passionate.  Some are lighter, incomplete.  All in all, I like it.  Even if it is not perfect.

It will probably take 4 or 5 days to dry.  I brilliantly waited until it was raining to do this.  Oh, and it's raining in Portland.  Finally.

Writing my own rules

1. Write.
2. Carry  notebook and pen.  Inspiration is Murphy’s second cousin, once removed for inappropriate timing.
3. Write when you are writing, edit when you are editing.  Editing is part of the writing process, but it is not writing.
4. If the scene demands pink unicorns farting gnomes, go with it.
5. Don’t forget Albequerque.  It stands to reason that your characters didn’t read your outline.  Even if they did, they probably didn’t approve it.   It’s a Bugs Bunny thing.
6. Keep it to yourself until you are ready for the world’s opinion.  Even your closest friends won’t get it  until you do.
7. Rejections are hard, but have value.  Accept them for the truth they hold, and grab a glass of water while you are at it.  It makes the whole process go down easier.
8. Don’t forget that writers write.  If you don’t do it, it won’t happen.
9. Read.  A lot.  Everyday.  Brain candy, craft study, other writer’s works...they all have something to teach about life and the written word.
10. Give yourself permission to be you.  And write it down, so you don’t forget it.

Forget the bones. I want the whole enchilada.

For a little over a year now I have been exploring the world of fiction writing – specifically novels.  I’ve studied structure, characterization, conflict, and plot.  I’ve worked on character studies.  I’ve even started a few pieces, and have developed an organizational system that works for me.  NaNoWriMo 2012 saw me finish my first draft of the first novel I’ve ever worked on.  Still I am frustrated, and find myself stymied by the process of writing, and the advice that is given.

Writers appear to come from two main camps.  First is the NaNo system, where you rush to put the story down as fast as you can, with a minimum word count goal.  You can fill things in later.  Now, if one writes 50K of crap, one can reasonably expect to remove around 20%.  This leaves the frustrated writer with a novella at best, unless they are able to add to their manuscript in the revision process.   The second camp appears to plan everything out carefully, artfully crafting perfect sentences that say only what needs to be said, devoid of embellishment.  Much of the detail is left to the reader to fill in, relieving the author of the responsibility for painting the picture.  This relegates the author to the role of narrator, indicating action and dialogue.

What if there is another way?  What if we can allow ourselves full creative license?  What if we write it all?  Free ourselves from the constraint of word limitations and economy of prose?  What if we can do what we intended to do: write and tell the full story?

Here is what I’ve gleaned, on a grand scale:

• Show, don’t tell.  Great idea.  I get it, less exposition, more action.  The character didn’t cry; tears rolled down her cheek in a torrent.  
• Know your characters, all of them.  Have you ever met someone, gone to lunch with them once, and been able to proclaim that you know them?  Me either.  It takes years to really get to know someone, in most cases a lifetime.  It can take a whole book to get to know your characters. 
• But what about this nonsense about not using adverbs?  In my opinion, if it exists in the language, it is fair  game to use.  Why use and adverb?  Consider for the moment the verb sigh.  One can sigh exasperatedly,  fitfully, contentedly, impatiently, fearfully, absently, or passionately.  Each conveys emotion, with precision.  

So here is my suggestion: write what you need to write. 

  

Your first draft should contain all of the words you need to say what you are trying to say, to convey what happens in your story, to describe as fully as possible the world and experiences of your characters.  Allow yourself to write the characterizations as they occur to you, you can fix continuity errors later.   Who cares if your first draft is 50K or 150K?  It is your first draft.  Writing is revision.  We all go into this, in some part, knowing that we will have to revisit the manuscript, repair plot holes, find timeline gone wild, embellish some parts, remove others, fix grammatical and typographical errors.  We can worry about word count, page length, and economy then.  Now is for writing, for discovering the story, meeting the characters, and putting it all down in writing.  

So forget about writing the bones.  I want to write the whole enchilada, sour cream and all.  I can change the recipe later.  The point isn’t to write a final draft the first time.  The point is to write a first draft that has meaning.  And sometimes meaning can take a while to show up.