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Lisa Nowak's Newest YA Novel, Getting Sideways is Out

2011-12-11T10:12:00.000-08:00

Getting Sideways: Book 2 in the Full Throttle Series

Getting shipped off to live with his uncle Race was the best thing that ever happened to fifteen-year-old Cody. Then a wreck at the speedway nearly ruined everything. Cody’s making every effort to get his life back on track—writing for the school paper, searching for the perfect girlfriend, and counting the days until he gets his drivers’ license—but there’s no escaping the nightmares that haunt him.

A chance to build his own car seems like the perfect distraction. Until Cody realizes he’ll have to live up to Race’s legendary status. But that’s the least of his worries, considering he doesn’t have his dad’s permission. All he has to do is the impossible: keep Race from discovering his lie until he can convince his dad that racing’s safe.

Yeah, sure. That’ll be easy.

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Haven't read the first book? Running Wide Open is on sale now for 99 cents.

Running Wide Open: Book 1 in the Full Throttle Series

Cody Everett has a temper as hot as the flashpoint of racing fuel, and it's landed him at his uncle's trailer, a last-chance home before military school. But how can he take the guy seriously when he calls himself Race, eats Twinkies for breakfast, and pals around with rednecks who drive in circles every Saturday night?

What Cody doesn't expect is for the arrangement to work. Or for Race to become the friend and mentor he's been looking for all his life. But just as Cody begins to settle in and get a handle on his supercharged temper, a crisis sends his life spinning out of control. Everything he's come to care about is threatened, and he has to choose between falling back on his old, familiar anger or stepping up to prove his loyalty to the only person he's ever dared to trust.

Praise for Running Wide Open:

"It doesn’t matter if you are a racing fan or not, Running Wide Open will captivate you and capture your heart." – Cari J, Amazon reviewer

“The roar of engines practically explodes off the page in this compelling, heart-thumping debut. Cody Everett is a straight-shooter with attitude, smarts, and whip-cracking wit; he doesn’t pull any punches, and neither does author Lisa Nowak. The collision of Cody and the world of stock car racing makes for a great story, one of the best I’ve read in a long time. Running Wide Open is a book not to be missed.” - Christine Fletcher, author of Tallulah Falls and Ten Cents a Dance

"The racing is easy to understand and does not get in the way of a rattling good story. I still couldn’t put it down on a re-read." – Elisabeth Miles, Amazon reviewer

"We race stock cars during the summer and even though this is a recommended read for Young Adults, we are seniors and enjoyed every page. We can hardly wait for the sequel to come out. MUST READING!" – Maxci Jermann, Barnes and Noble reviewer

"I say read this book, it’s fun, it’s beautiful, it’s a very cool read that will give you a feel-good state of mind. Awesome read." - L.E.Olteano, Butterfly-o-meter Books

Buy it on Amazon

Buy it at Barnes and Noble

Buy it on Smashwords

Author Bio:

In addition to being a YA author, Lisa Nowak is a retired amateur stock car racer, an accomplished cat whisperer, and a professional smartass. She writes coming-of-age books about kids in hard luck situations who learn to appreciate their own value after finding mentors who love them for who they are. She enjoys dark chocolate and stout beer and constantly works toward employing wei wu wei in her life, all the while realizing that the struggle itself is an oxymoron.

Lisa has no spare time, but if she did she’d use it to tend to her expansive perennial garden, watch medical dramas, take long walks after dark, and teach her cats to play poker. For those of you who might be wondering, she is not, and has never been, a diaper-wearing astronaut. She lives in Milwaukie, Oregon, with her husband, four feline companions, and two giant sequoias.

Connect with Lisa online:

Twitter: http://twitter.com/Lisa_Nowak

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/LisaNowakAuthor

Google +: http://bit.ly/LisaNowakGooglePlus

Blog: http://lisanowak.wordpress.com/

Subscribe to her newsletter for updates about coming attractions: http://bit.ly/LisaNowakNewsletter

Daily Good

2011-05-09T13:36:00.000-07:00

I recently subscribed to Daily Good, a site that delivers good news to my inbox every day. Every morning I read a positive message, often telling of some extraordinary or even ordinary act of kindness or a bit of information that brightens my outlook. Recently I learned how wisdom is defined. The article referred to a study conducted at UCSD into the nature of wisdom.

“Not all intelligent people are wise — somebody can be intelligent and yet not wise,” psychiatry and neurosciences professor Dilip Jeste said. Researchers found that wisdom is a uniquely human characteristic defined by six prominent qualities: general knowledge of life, emotional regulation, insight, helpfulness to others, decisiveness, and tolerance of different values. They also found that it can be learned and increased with age.

That last point is hopeful--you can increase your wisdom and you don't have to go to Harvard to do it. All you have to do is be aware of the ways you can practice it in your daily life. In the past week, news of Osama bin Laden's death has been the occasion for many to rejoice. Others fear backlash, and some shake their heads sadly at the continuation of hate and violence. Thinking about the definition of wisdom in light of bin Laden's death, I focus on tolerance of different values. It may be naive to believe you can change something so deeply ingrained in civilization as war is. But you can practice it on a personal level and perhaps become wiser for it, not to mention making your own small piece of the Universe a happier place.

The Pitch

2011-04-24T16:13:00.000-07:00

I was nervous, felt the heat rise from my throat to my hairline, but I did the pitch, leaning heavily on my index cheat cards. The young woman hearing the pitch encouraged me with her eyes and her smile and when I was done, she invited me to submit a full proposal. She said she'd known almost as soon as I started talking it was a book they would be interested in. Whew! On to the next step: I've written the proposal, now need to select 40 to 60 consecutive pages of the book to send along with it. Several readers are still looking at it and I'd rather get their feedback before deciding on the pages to send. But I am thrilled, and proud that I made it through and I'm still in the running.

Pitching

2011-04-12T15:52:00.000-07:00

Pitching a home run, pitching a hissy fit...no, pitching my nascent novel to Ooligan Press on Saturday, hoping it turns out to be a home run. I hadn't expected to do this until August, at the Willamette Writers Conference. Instead, on two weeks' notice, I kicked it into high gear, did a complete edit, came up with a pitch with a little help from one of the Chrysalis angels (my beloved critique group). Thank you, Alice, you're a gem. Then I started fidgeting over the ending. I've rewritten it four times and am still not happy with it. I rearranged the first two chapters and am not sure it still makes sense. Or whether it ever did. I'm not sure I'm happy with any of it. It sags in the middle. Maybe I should start over and re-write it. Or go into hiding and forget the whole thing.

Invasion

2011-03-26T11:41:00.000-07:00

It's early spring and time for the annual invasion of tiny ants. They stream in, goodness knows how--through narrow gaps at windows and outside doors--wave after wave, by the thousands. Their first line of attack this year was the desk in my upstairs office, where I spend about 80 percent of my waking hours. What would attract them there? I don't nosh at my desk; there are no crumbs or spills to lure them. Maybe that's why they changed course and moved their attack to the kitchen front. Much more profitable. I found hundreds of them in my supply of dried fruit. Many of them live, albeit briefly, in the dishwasher. I find them on countertops, in the cupboards, entire brigades marching across the hardwood floor, climbing walls, hiding in the coffee maker. I find them in my tea, in my hair, and, embarrassingly, on my neck or forehead while out to lunch with friends. They live in my sweaters and I'm constantly slapping and brushing when I feel a tickle on my scalp or in my armpit. Often it turns out to be just a stray hair, or nothing but my imagination. How long will it last? I don't use pesticides because we have two cats indoors. Two cats who sleepily watch the ants march by in front of their nose without twitching a whisker. My friend Laraine gave me a tip: spray them with Windex. They can't wash off the soapy coating and it suffocates them. What a boon for the Windex folks--you can go through bottles of the stuff and the ants just keep coming, undeterred by the corpses of fallen troops. But the house sure smells clean. Once the ant season has passed and peace comes again, I'll forget they were ever here, as I do every year, and when spring comes again next year, they'll take me entirely by surprise. Yet again.

The Power of Words

2011-03-25T12:17:00.000-07:00

We take words for granted. They're the mundane work-a-day tools we use for communication. But once in awhile one strikes us for its clarity, its beauty, its unfamiliarity, or its misuse. In a well-written work you often see words used deliberately to shade, shape, or even politicize a message that might have been neutral had a different word been chosen.

I read an article in this morning's Oregonian on the topic of Social Security and other programs for the elderly. The source was the Washington Post. The author wrote: "...Democrats are sharply divided over whether to tackle popular but increasingly expensive safety-net programs for the elderly, particularly Social Security."

Can you guess which word I take exception to? It's the adjective "popular." There are any number of other adjectives he could have used, including, for example: "crucial," "life-saving," or "useful." Or he could have taken a completely neutral stance and not used an adjective at all. My question is: did he use "popular" deliberately or carelessly? Am I being overly sensitive or nit-picky when I interpret his word choice to suggest the programs are frivolous? When I think of the word "popular," I think of such usages as, "She was a popular girl in high school." "Baseball is a popular sport." "The Bahamas are a popular vacation spot."

When I think of Social Security, I recall all those paychecks I received with Social Security taxes deducted. I think of the years I was self-employed and paid significant amounts into Social Security to ensure I would receive benefits after I retired.

As I read the rest of the article, it seemed to be fairly even-handed, so perhaps I'm being unfair. On the other hand, I feel journalists have a responsibility to choose their words carefully and use them accurately. If the article had been an editorial, the bias would have been appropriate, but it wasn't. It was a news article. In this case the author allowed his bias to show through. But then, consider TV news as it's presented today. It's entertainment, it's biased, it's written to have shock value. The line drawn between news reporting and editorializing has been erased. For those who remember Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite, news reporting today has become no more trustworthy than the tabloids we thumb through as we wait in line at the supermarket.

What are your thoughts about this?

The Bewildering World of Publishing

2011-03-24T07:48:00.000-07:00

Now that I've finished the first draft of my novel, I'm often asked whether I intend to publish it. I'm from a generation of writers for whom that question would seem ludicrous. Of course. If one writes, she dreams of being published. But that would not have been up to me. It's something the gods at the publishing companies would decide. I would lovingly pack my immaculately typed manuscript in a box and mail it off with a prayer that an editor would be drawn into my story with the first paragraph and not put it down until she'd turned the last page. I would get a letter in the mail--I picture the postman at my door asking me to sign for it--offering a contract with an advance. The editors would polish it until every word sparkled, make sure there were no embarrassing gaps in the plot, or characters who slip out of character, and soon I'd be flying from continent to continent signing books for my adoring readers. That was the dream, but the reality depended on someone in the ivory tower of publishing recognizing a story that would capture the hearts of its audience.

But it's an entirely different scene in the publishing world now, and it is, in fact, up to me whether I publish my book or not. The options are dizzying and I have steadfastly kept my eyes closed to that part of a writer's responsibility. "I'll think about that when the book is finished." Well, guess what. The time to think about it comes before you finish the book. It's the writer's responsibility to "build a platform," create a "following." In case the terms are unfamiliar to you in this context and you're picturing me standing on a soap box in the Park Blocks, it means I have to have a strong presence in the social network--people who check out my Facebook page daily and read my blog.

Reluctantly, I have stepped out into this unfamiliar and uncomfortable new world. Fortunately, when I started writing this book, I joined a critique group. I was extremely fortunate to have found one where the feedback is intelligent, helpful, and, most important, humane. Chrysalis is a critique group for women writers. It's free and open to as many as want to come. The leader, Pat Lichen, keeps us on track and makes sure no one exceeds the time allowed in reading their work. Now Chrysalis has a Facebook page where all of us can have a presence. And, thank you, Universe, a possible door into the bewildering world of publishing.

This past Sunday, the women of Chrysalis joined others in celebrating the launch of Puddletown Press, a new e-publishing company founded by two members of Chrysalis and another woman savvy in the business. I don't know whether this will be an avenue for my novel to find its way to an audience, but just being this close to the people who know how to make it happen has opened my eyes to the possibility. I don't have to go out on my own and try to figure out how it's done--I have access to the people who can tell me. Four of my Chrysalis friends now have their books out.

I still don't know which route I'll take--e-publishing, self-publishing (the least likely option), or submitting to a traditional publishing house--but at least I know what the options are. All I have to do is build my platform, start a fan club, and edit my book until it shimmies and shines and there are no embarrassing gaps in my plot.

Giving Life to Grief

2011-03-22T10:17:00.000-07:00

I have a close friend who is halfway through her first year following her husband's death. He lived just long enough to celebrate their first wedding anniversary, although celebrate is hardly a word that applies here. He was barely conscious.

Theirs was a fairy-book tale of a whirlwind romance. They met for coffee and listened to jazz on their first date. Ten days later he proposed; three months after that I attended their wedding. When she walked down the aisle, the preacher shouted, "Nancy Jane, you look GORGEOUS!"

Nancy is chronicling her grief in a series of poems that speak to the daily reminders of her much-too-brief marriage: "one year ago today we were packing for our trip to Paris"; "last spring he was teaching me how to prepare the garden for its season of blooms." Her poetry is personal and comes from a place most of us don't want to look into. Often when someone suffers a loss as devastating as this, we feel awkward trying to express our sympathy. But Nancy's poems, written in the form of prayers, give us a close-up glimpse into the stages of grief in its many forms, its twists and turns, the way it reverts back to a stage she'd passed once, only to visit it again. The poems are poignant and compelling. They're not a plea for sympathy, they simply show the reader how she makes it from one day to the next. As a collection, they illuminate a topic we tend to turn away from and allow us to see how one survives a loss so painful.

Here is one of her poems:

Living This Moment
By Nancy Jane Earnest

How I’ve waited for Spring,
yearning for longer days to
hang my sorrow on the
fencepost of an awakening
garden; yet I find the hours
of increasing light and promise
fail to satisfy me, Lord.

Flowers bob in the wind, tiny
leaves pop out everywhere and I,
overwhelmed with the tasks
at hand, am alone, responsible for
it all. The generous gifts he left
are growing immense in need,
conjuring disturbing dreams of
growing crisis, invoked insufficiency.

I’ve lost your moment, most gracious God!
The warmth of your sun in earth’s act
of blossoming, the sound of
birds joyously feeding, the beauty
of my garden.
Instead, looking under leaves for
insects that kill,
I dwell on the magnitude of my mission.

Shake me hard, dearest Father. Break this
cycle of borrowed woe. Give me
eyes for today’s blessings and a
heart at peace with your gifts.
Tomorrow will come, and
your path will be apparent. For today
your care is enough while I grieve
my lot. Tomorrow brings
its own healing.

Wintry Day

2011-02-26T16:17:00.000-08:00

After a mild winter, spring blossoming in the gardens now, it turned dang cold this week. The aggressively predicted snow for Thursday trickled into insignificance, after schools and businesses closed and appointments were canceled in anticipation of slick roads. This morning it was 19 degrees, which is cold for us wimps in western Oregon, and the sky has clouded over. It sure looks like snow, but no one is willing to predict it again. It's supposed to warm up and rain all week.

Can you tell I'm bored? I long to be working on my book. I doubt I'll last two weeks before I start editing it. But, I do have a busy week planned, so maybe my days will fill up and I never will get it edited. That's my biggest fear.

Portland State University's Oooligan Press, run by students and faculty, is holding its annual conference on May 22-23. This year it will focus on unraveling the mystery of the various publishing options available to authors now. Sounds like a life-saver to me, and timely for my purposes. Here's the blurb:

"Write to Publish is unlike any writing conference you’ve previously attended. Instead of focusing on the craft of writing, we explore the process of getting published. Our primary goal at Write to Publish is to demystify the publishing process for writers ... At Write to Publish, you can open your book to the possibilities in publishing such as digital publishing, niche publishing, self-publishing, and sustainable options."
Write to Publish www.ooliganpress.pdx.edu

I hope to pitch my book to Ooligan Press when the time comes. They are rooted in the Pacific Northwest and look for stories that portray the values and attitudes of those who live here.

A Day Without Writing

2011-02-25T17:29:00.000-08:00

I read or heard somewhere that you should try to let the first draft cool for four weeks before you begin to edit. But most people can't wait that long, so two weeks is OK. I've barely made it through the first day. I can't imagine how I spent all the daylight hours before I started writing this book. Next week will be better. I have a couple of appointments, I'll get together with some friends I've neglected for the past year and a half, get reacquainted with my children. But dang I miss my characters. I feel lost without them.

I'm beginning to think about looking into the many, many options for publishing. I'm of a generation (not that long ago) when publishing meant tossing your manuscript over the transom and hoping it would be read sympathetically if not enthusiastically by a new employee in the company who shoves it under the nose of the acquisitions person and the rest is literary history. Now there's self-publishing, e-publishing, building your platform, hoping a real publisher will spot your beloved brain child and want to bring it out into the light. This is why I've refused to think about it until now. It makes me jumpy just thinking about the odds of it sinking under the hundreds of thousands of lesser-qualified books self-published on Amazon.com and retreat back into my fantasy world assuming a publisher will come knocking on my door having heard through the social network that this is one helluva great book. Which it is, of course. Or will be after I edit it. Tomorrow.

First Draft

2011-02-24T18:02:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I finished the first draft of the book I started writing in July 2009. As is our tradition in the critique group that keeps me inspired, encouraged, and productive, I brought chocolate to share in yesterday's meeting. I plan to set the manuscript aside for at least a couple of weeks and let it cool. In the meantime, I hope to fill my time playing my flute, going for walks, doing my stretches and exercises which are badly needed after sitting at my desk way too much in the past year and a half. But today I'm brain dead, lazy, listless, and can't figure out what to do with the hours that used to sail by while I was writing. Maybe this would be a good time to write some short pieces, submit them to Sun Magazine, or something. But first I have to refill the empty well that used to contain words. Or maybe I'll just find a good book and read for a few weeks. What good books have you read lately? I need suggestions.

End of Summer

2010-08-15T10:24:00.000-07:00

Oregon saved its heat wave for the end of summer, when we'd started to think we were safe. It came just after our sweltering week in Florida at my partner's family reunion. They have their reasons for gathering in Florida in August, although to this web-footed Northwesterner, it seems like pure insanity. In addition to the oppressive heat and humidity, there's the round-trip flight across the country. I remember when flying was fun. It isn't anymore. In the five-hour flight from Portland to Houston, once the over-sized carry-on bags had been crammed into overhead compartments and the doors slammed shut by angry flight attendants, whose demeanor only perpetuates the unfriendly environment, and once all passengers, or "customers," as we're now called, were folded into our seats, we never once saw a cart go by offering drinks or snacks. All of that being said, though, halfway through the week, I began to adjust to the heat and humidity, settled into a routine of walking on the beach first thing in the morning and again in the evening. The Atlantic coast is very different from the rugged Oregon coast. The water is warm, for one thing, and the sand finer and less cluttered. And I enjoyed being with Bill's family. His nephew Rich even taught this old lady to boogie board! His wife took a picture; if she sends it to me I'll post it because I know you don't believe me.

It was good to get away from home and the book, which is faltering. I looked forward to coming back to it refreshed and finding that it was ready to take off again. Unfortunately, it hasn't been that easy. I'm struggling. My character is struggling. She has tough decisions to make and I find them converging with decisions I made long ago without nearly enough contemplation or foresight. She has to be wiser than I was or it won't be a story. I grieve for her; I hate putting her through this. I write a paragraph then play a game of Solitaire to "clear my mind." The fabulous women in my critique group continue to encourage me, which is all that keeps me going. And what am I doing now, sitting here writing on my blog after all these months of silence? Avoiding the damn novel, of course.

Reunion

2010-05-15T18:30:00.000-07:00

I went to a breakfast reunion of the women in my high school graduating class this morning. When I left Oregon in 1983, I never expected to come back--not to stay, that is. My parents and children were still here, so I had ties that would always call me back to visit, but I didn't stay in touch with anyone else in my home town. So when I unexpectedly moved back in 2003 (due to circumstances I won't go into here), I found it strange to be in a place where there was a chance I'd run into people I'd known when I was young. I'd grown used to living in places where I had no history; I could pick and choose what I told my new friends about my earlier self.

It was almost a surreal experience to be walking in downtown Portland, where flashy new buildings sat alongside the ancient brick ones I remember from my childhood. Sometimes I'd feel as lost as I'd been my first few days in Seattle, or in Prague, then turn a corner and see myself at the age of three riding on my father's shoulders on our way to watch the Rose Festival parade.

So here I was at the reunion, in a room with probably 30 women, all of whom had at least two things in common: we were the same age and went to the same high school. Many of them have stayed here all their lives, or returned, as I did, after being away. We're all 64 now, or nearly so, and naturally our looks have changed, presenting the challenge of matching faces to names of people you haven't thought about in 46 years. And they're all talking at once. It's deafening. I could barely hear the woman sitting next to me. And I'm shy, still, after all these years. Even with people I more or less knew back in the '60s.

It brought back so many memories, a lot of laughs and a few tears. It was so long ago when we were young, had firm chins and tight butts. Years stretched out before us when we could make choices, try one road and if it didn't take us where we wanted to go, choose another. Most of us have had more than one career. Two women in our class are on their fifth marriages. It reminds us it's never really too late to find happiness. But still, the road narrows and we have to choose more carefully because there are fewer choices and the risks are greater.

I'm glad I went to the reunion. Ironically, it put me back in touch with my closest friend in grade school (when there were 8 grades and then high school) who wasn't at the reunion. Someone mentioned she was on Facebook and I took a chance and sent her a message. She answered. We live in the same city--maybe we'll meet for coffee. If so, I'll tell her the secret as to how we became best friends on the first day of school, when our mothers held our hands and walked us into the first grade classroom. High school took us in different directions and we lost touch. Much as I lost touch with my home town and the people I grew up with. It's so good to be back.

This is the way it is

2010-04-29T11:17:00.000-07:00

I'm hopeless at writing a blog. I keep making resolutions to write daily, then I realize that three months have passed without a post. In my defense, I AM working on my novel. It scares me spitless when I don't know where it's going next, when I sit in front of the screen and the words appear haltingly only to be deleted because they're so lame. I sometimes feel like I'm slugging my way through a dense swamp, the story is lifeless, sinking deeper into the sand chapter after chapter. Where's the crisis? When does my character do something outrageous enough to wake the reader up? Then I tell myself to just keep writing, I can go back and fix it later, put the chapters into some order that makes sense, add details, drama, intrigue... Is it this way other writers feel or am I hopeless? I went to a conference in Italy (!) in 1997. Reginald Gibbons, who was teaching the fiction workshop, told me, "Don't stop writing until you've reached page 150." He didn't say what happens then. Maybe that's the point at which it either all comes together with fanfare and fireworks or you look back at what you've written, realize it's all crap and throw it in the trash. I'm on page 133 now. My critique group continues to say they like it, even though every week I take in a chapter and expect them to say, "Do you have any idea where this thing is leading?" Still, they think enough of it to offer good suggestions and keep me going. At least for 17 more pages.

2010

2010-01-12T16:01:00.000-08:00

I concede that my faithful readership of 1, whose loyalty was more occasional than faithful, abandoned me in my long, unforgivable absence, and I apologize for letting you down. I could blame it on a busy life, feeling drained of words after long days wrestling with them, or any number of other laudable excuses, but the truth is I have been tongue tied. It's probably not smart to speak of the Evil PB on a venue that's available for the entire world (and especially those who are in a position to do me harm) to read. And while my son's unresolved issue still hangs over my head, my life continues in a primarily joyous manner. I live in gratitude for the life I am so fortunate to lead, being free to spend my days writing, doing the occasional odd job for money, taking contemplative walks every day. After an interlude of nearly two months while I edited other writers' work, I've picked up the thread of my own novel again. I'd left it at the end of a chapter not knowing where it would go next, which is always a foolish thing to do. But after a couple of days spent reviewing what each of my characters has at stake, what their conflicts are and what confrontations need to take place, I'm back into it.

To keep things interesting, we've added a new cat to our household. My younger son's cat died just before Thanksgiving and I told him that as his Christmas gift I would pay the adoption fee for another cat from the shelter. Last week we went to pick one out and of course (who wouldn't have seen it coming? Well, Bill, that's who...) fell in love with a sweet all-black kitten, probably about 8 months old. Her coat is unusual; when there's light on it it has a copper tinge. It's gorgeous. The shelter offered to let me take her home and foster her until we determine whether she's a good fit for us and Gracie, our other cat. It's amazing how she and Gracie hit it off immediately--no hissing, bristling or slashing from either of them. Gracie thought she was the perfect new toy. But litter box use is way more than double what it was with just the one cat. Little Ellie eats, pees and poops more than any cat I've known and the laundry room is a wreck. She tosses food and litter all over the floor. But, fortunately, her adorable factor is extremely high. It may save her from being returned to the shelter. Still waiting for Bill's verdict. He was not happy when he came home and found another cat.

I'm starting the year lighter than I was in most of 2009. I've nearly reached my goal, but have set another one for five more pounds, which will take me down to where I was in 1996 when I came home from the Czech Republic at 120 lbs.

I also got an exceptionally good deal at a nearby health club and am doing the water aerobics class. This year I will lick this back problem once and for all. I will be pain free, move easily with strength and energy. Yes.

Happy New Year!

Remembering Al

2009-07-07T12:23:00.000-07:00

I saw in the Sunday paper an obituary for Al Siebert. My life and Al's briefly brushed against each other's in 1986. I'd been divorced two years then and was having a rough time. Jobs were scarce and I was typing reports for an occupational therapy agency for $6.00 an hour. My younger son Adrian was 8 then and Peter was 15 and raising hell. In his ad Al had specified that he was looking for a woman who was a professional which I clearly wasn't. I was truthful in my letter, though I don't recall just what I said. Something about it must have appealed to him, however, and he called. For some unfathomable reason I can't even imagine now, I invited him to my home. Was I just reckless or was there something in his voice or the way he talked that made me trust him? At that time I was living in a grand house that had been abandoned to foreclosure by a couple in the Unitarian Fellowship I belonged to. The owners had been forced to let the house go because of a job transfer to Alabama. They had offered me use of the house until it was no longer available, and I was in no position to turn down rent-free accommodations. So Al arrived the following evening and sat with me at my kitchen table. The boys were either in bed or at my mother's. I made him tea and we talked. He told me about the career he'd made for himself as a doctor of psychology and the concept of the resiliency of survivors. He related the story of his experience as a paratrooper in the Korean war, which he'd entered late in the skirmish. The unit he had been placed in consisted of the lone survivors of other units and it made him curious as to what traits they all had in common that allowed them to survive when others in their units had all died. He concluded that what the survivors all had in common was a resemblance to Hawkeye in MASH rather than to Rambo. Those are old allusions now, but at the time they captured perfectly the two personality types. Hawkeye was able to roll with whatever came his way, keeping his sense of humor intact and staying loose, whereas Rambo charged in with artillery and bared teeth. Hawkeye was resilient whereas Rambo was tough, determined and rigid in his approach. Survivors also have better intuition than others.

The evening sped by and I was so drawn to this gentle, intelligent man who had come up with a theory that made so much sense to me that I had to force myself back to the reality that I was not the one he was looking for. At the end of our conversation, long after the tea had grown cold and we'd lost interest in it, I walked him to the door. We hugged and said good night. As I closed the door behind him I knew that it would be the last time I'd see him.

He called the following night and told me how much he'd enjoyed meeting me and said it was a wonderful evening, except for that one little glitch at the end. I had no idea what he was talking about, so he explained. He said that just before he left he felt me shutter down, draw back. I don't know if I realized then what it was or if I told him even if I had recognized what had happened. It was the tamping down of the feelings I felt for him knowing that he would not be interested in a mere secretary, closing the door on something I wanted and knew I couldn't have.

As it turned out, it wasn't the last time I saw Al. As chair of the program committee for our little Fellowship, I recognized that his survivor theory would make an interesting program. I called and he happily agreed to make the presentation. That was the last time I saw him.

According to the obituary, Al did very well in his career, having written several books, creating a "How Resilient Are You?" quiz that has appeared in many magazines and online, and made an appearance on Oprah. His survivors included wife Molly and step children. I'd like to meet Molly. I know I'd like her.

Old News

2009-06-25T06:32:00.000-07:00

It's always instructive to read what I was upset about just a few days ago. That's why I write morning pages. After awhile you'd think I'd be able to see the big picture and not get so upset about things that will be old news day after tomorrow. I'll be on to new things to be upset about which in turn will mean nothing before the week's ended.

I went to the Mountain Writers Series conference in Hood River on the spur of the moment last weekend. It was so good to get out of town, immerse myself in writing, meet new writers and be in a lovely little town that has been completely rejuvenated since I was last there--oh, maybe 30 years ago. Even knowing where I was, I was stunned the first time Mt. Hood emerged from the clouds and hit me right in the face. It's amazing seeing it that close up. Yes, I grew up here. I took skiing lessons on that mountain. You'd think I'd take it for granted. But after 17 years away, 12 in Seattle where Mt. Rainier occasionally deigned to show itself, then being enfolded in the gently rolling hardwood-covered slopes of western North Carolina, I learned new ways to live among mountains. The NC mountains were right outside my doorstep. I walked to the top of one every day on my lunch hour. They soothed and comforted me like an old nubby sweater. They weren't the imposing, cold, remote giants that unveil themselves on the horizon when the sky is clear, reflecting a pink sunset on the snow that covers their flanks. They were old comfortable friends. I appreciate both the volatile, young mountains of the Northwest and the worn down ones of the Southeast, but somehow the mountains of Appalachia found an ancient place in my heart that responded to them in a way that's still a mystery to me. Mt. Hood is part of me in a way that the Smokeys and Blue Ridge Mountains can never be. Mt. Hood witnessed my childhood while the Carolina mountains only hosted me for five years. But they were in my heritage too. My mother's family was from North Carolina and I still have relatives near Greensboro. What surprised me, though, was how prominent my father's name is in the mountains. I didn't expect to have roots there from both sides of the family. The first question you're asked when you arrive in the South with your western accent is "who's your family?" Unexpectedly, if I answered with my maiden name, "Patton," I was accepted immediately. I'd thought it would be my mother's Hinshaws, Bradshaws and Hargroves that would be the key, but it was the Scot Presbyterians of my father's ancestry that gained me entry.

But how did I get so off topic? I was writing about how transient worries are, how writing about them lets you put them into perspective. Then I was writing about a writing conference at the base of Mt. Hood, which veered off into writing about mountains, home and heritage. It's stream of consciousness and is an excellent example of how writing works. You start with a prompt, a thought, an image, and suddenly you're careening off into memories and associations that take you someplace completely different. And that's what I've been missing. When you stray so far from your creative writing (no, grant writing, technical writing and even journaling to some extent don't count) you forget how that works and you become afraid to go to the page because you're absolutely positive you have nothing to write about. The longer you avoid writing the more fear you build up that you can no longer do it. I'm not preaching to you here, I'm preaching to myself. I do it over and over again--get so far away from my writing that I can't find my way back. So going to the conference was an act of courage. I got some words down on paper. They weren't brilliant, illuminating pieces of art, but they were words on a blank page. Then I signed up for a workshop offered near my home and I went to the first session yesterday. It's a whole different culture from the workshops I've been to in the past. It's a group of people that has been together for a long time. Some have been taking this class over and over for 10 years. They're like family. They're old. They're so comfortable together that the facilitator often finishes sentences with facial expressions rather than words. My first reflex was to bolt. This isn't what I was thinking it would be. But I think instead I'll stay awhile and write.

Scritchy Day

2009-06-12T12:11:00.000-07:00

I'm frustrated, angry and generally out of sorts. Last year we had our yard relandscaped because of drainage problems. Bill paid them by check but never saw the check come through his bank account. He hasn't gone into online banking yet, which would have saved him the angst that followed. Because there was a lot going on with his accounts at the time, he wanted to make sure it hadn't gone through, so he called the bank and they said no it hadn't, so he had a stop payment put on it and wrote the landscapers a new check. All these many months later, it turns out that the first check had, in fact, been deposited. Bill managed to get the fee for the stop payment returned by the bank, but he hated to contact the landscaper, so I did the dirty work for him. I've called about six times now and the landscaper always sounds very cheerful and understanding saying, yes, of course they'll return the overpayment. But it never quite seems to happen. Last Friday he brought a check and I heaved a sigh of relief, until, after he'd gone, I realized the check wasn't signed. So I called and he was to bring a check today when they come to do their weekly maintenance. He came, worked in the yard a bit and the next thing I knew he was gone. I called his cell immediately and he said he didn't have the check with him and would bring it by on Monday. OK. But, I waited here until 11:00 this morning, not taking my usual walk or going out to run my errands, and now I'll have to wait Monday as well. I could call and ask him to mail it, but then I'd just be waiting for it to come in the mail. Shit!

On Wednesday I got a call from Sprint offering me a deal on renewing my contract. They would add a third line to our family plan, which I don't need because there are only two in our "family" (no, I'm not counting the cat). But I'd get a new phone for free after a $50 rebate (last time we fell for that one we never got the rebate) and I've been waiting until time to renew so I could get rid of my old Motorola Razor phone that is a piece of crap. I went ahead and signed up, thinking the third line could be my business line. So the new phone came yesterday, but it has the new phone number on it and I'm stuck with the old Razor phone that still has my current phone number on it--the one I've had for eight years, the one that's on all my business cards, website, ads, printed materials, etc. So I called to see if I could switch phone numbers, but was told that switching numbers would invalidate the rebate. So I ordered another new phone that will have the old number and will also qualify for the rebate, just in case either rebate actually comes through. All of this will magically occur with minimal fees and charges (that add up to approximately $39,574) and an eternal wait for rebates all so I can have TWO cell phones as if I were one of those people who walk around downtown with buds in their ears talking and gesticulating like they were actually conducting important business but are actually engaging in trivial gossip and stuff we would never have considered worthy of a phone call just a few short years ago. Am I supposed to walk around with a bud in each ear now so I can answer personal and business calls at the same time? So I went to the local Sprint store to see if I could sort all this out with someone in person who speaks English and was told I had to either do it online or by phone, so I called them on my new phone from the store, relaying what the person on the phone was saying to the salesperson in the store, and finally ordered the new phone. After I left I realized I'd forgotten to buy a thingy that would allow me to walk importantly down the street with buds in my ears talking and gesticulating.

Now it's lunch time, I haven't gone for my walk or done a lick of work.

Priorities Addendum

2009-06-11T13:34:00.000-07:00

At the top of the list of priorities as I grow older is women friends. Friendships have always been difficult for me and I don't know why that is. I don't even know how to characterize the problem, if in fact it can be called a problem. I care deeply about my friends. Possibly in trying not to seem needy, intrusive, demanding, I end up being too distant. I don't know how to balance it. I probably am also too sensitive and see danger where none exists. My sister and I were so different where friendships were concerned. She had very few and when they moved away or the friendships dissolved she was devastated and became reclusive, saying friends betrayed her so there was no point in making new ones. I was very social as a kid and my friendships were intense. In 5th grade my best friend and I engaged in warfare through notes passed during class. The notes became venomous, cutting, soul destroying. I have no recollection at all as to what the trigger was or how it ended (the teacher probably intercepted a note and put a stop to it), but my feeling is that we were never close friends again. She went on to become a cheerleader and May queen in high school, as I recall. I don't engage in warfare any more and as friends drift off I reluctantly and fondly let them go. Moving around a lot doesn't help. I still have friends from the 5 years I lived in Asheville, where it was much easier to make friends than, say, Seattle or Portland, for whatever reason. Maybe because the town was small and logistics were easier. In any case, the friendship of like-minded, caring, creative, intelligent women is probably at or near the top of my list of what's important to me now. For all of you who call me friend, I love you and want you to know how important you are to me. And new friends are welcome. I promise not to get into note-passing warfare again. I'm a little more mature than that now, I hope.

Hair Update

2009-06-03T10:19:00.000-07:00

Scot, the new hairdresser, is fabulous. He described a hairstyle that would look good on me and it was exactly what I'd been trying to get my other hairdresser to do, but without success. In the meantime, though, he had to whack it way short to get past all the damage she did to it (big holes in back, one side way longer than the other). I was horrified at first, but it's a good cut and I'm growing fond of it. It's really easy to take care of, great for summer. And Bill, of course, was ecstatic. He loves short hair and consulted his therapist when I started growing mine out. He was disappointed to learn this hair cut will be growing out as we move toward one that comes below the ears, but I suspect he'll adapt.

Priorities

2009-06-03T10:03:00.001-07:00

I'm making a list of things that are increasingly important to me as I get older (not in order of priority):

Trees
Gardens
Views with perspective, both geological and philosophical
Birds and birdsong
Children
Dogs, cats, other animals, but especially dogs for some reason--I suddenly feel a strong connection to them
Friends
Work to do that means something
Health

to be continued

Missing Posts

2009-06-03T10:01:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I'll post an entry and it will be there when I check, but when I go back later it's gone. Does this happen to anyone else? Am I being edited? I'll admit I need to be, but...

Pebbles

2009-06-02T15:08:00.000-07:00

One day last week as my feet automatically took me on my daily walk, words flooded my brain, defining and describing experiences I hadn't been able to articulate until then--painful and profoundly important events in my life. The new-found words perfectly framed an experience I want to write about, possibly to be folded into a piece of fiction as a sub-plot, a sneaky way to deal with it emotionally. I didn't want to lose those words, they have eluded me for so long, so I repeated them all the way home. When I walked into the house, a friend of Bill's was there to play music with him. She gushed when she saw me come in and talked non-stop for an hour, words assaulting me like a swarm of wasps. Don't misunderstand; I like this woman and was happy to see her. But she so overwhelmed me with words that mine were lost. It wasn't a momentary experience. My mind has been silent since then. I crave silence. Words form reluctantly to express only the most necessary communications. Rather than filling my mind with words, it's as if she sucked all of mine out.

Random thought:

In Frank Rich's Lay of the Land, the main character's son asks him what it's like to be 50 and he answers, "I'm wrong more often." Yes, indeed. Time to put away the ego, the need to be right, and get used to being wrong. I'm definitely there.

Hovering on a Bad Hair Day

2009-05-22T14:29:00.000-07:00

Do you ever go through times when it seems as if the world pauses mid-step and nothing moves forward? New business that was poised to start with just the click of a "send" button suddenly stalls. Checks that were put in the mail weeks ago have yet to reach my mailbox. All those buyers following St. Joseph's call got lost on their way to our house. I've decided it's all because of a bad haircut. I love my hairdresser and until now she's always done a good job. I feel that I owe her loyalty. But damn I hate my hair. And as I'm sure you've experienced at some time in your life, nothing goes right when your hair is bad. It changes who you are, how you feel about yourself and how you present yourself even on the phone. I googled best hairdressers in Portland and one surfaced with great reviews. Most important were kudos for coming up with good new styles specifically for you, because I am completely hopeless about knowing what would look good on me or what my hair will do and what it won't. So I'm going to do the unforgivable and betray my hairdresser and give them a call. It's a downtown salon, too, so it will be a pain, but if I get a style that I like out of it it will all be worth it. And then the world can move on once again. That finger will hit the send key, buyers will swarm to our door, and I'll make one honking big deposit in my business account.

Ad Blitz

2009-05-21T11:25:00.000-07:00

Tuesday I reactivated my Microsoft Ad for grant writing. Rather than spreading out the impressions over the next two weeks, they blitzed the Internet with my entire allotted monthly budget in two days. I've been inundated with inquiries, primarily from people I can't help, one of whom called me about six times yesterday. My problem is that I want to find a way to help them all--they all have such good causes. That's how I end up working for free and I just can't do it any more. If I'm going to work for free I'll spend that time on my own work. Sorry, wish I could help.

Music

2009-05-21T11:16:00.000-07:00

I've been privileged since meeting Bill to hear the best Portland has to offer in the way of live music--Chamber Music Northwest, Oregon Symphony, the International Piano Recital series, and live jazz. Sunday we heard Joshua Bell play with the Oregon Symphony, Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto. I haven't the level of musical knowledge that Bill has but was transported to a new level of appreciation by this performance. Even I could tell from the first stroke of the bow that this was something beyond anything I'd heard before. And I've been a fan of Joshua Bell for years--I just hadn't heard him live before. Today I'm listening to everything YouTube has of his and, although my speakers aren't the same as listening live, I hear nuances I wouldn't have heard before.

For Sale

2009-05-14T17:41:00.000-07:00

There's now a sign in our front lawn telling the world (or at least the small portion of it that drives through our cul-de-sac) that this house is no longer loved by its owners and is looking for a new family. Its picture is broadcast over the Internet, under the alias MLS#9037443. We buried St. Joseph head down in the garden facing the street and said a prayer asking for an acceptable offer soon. We're ready to move on and resettle. Using my newly revived collaging skills I printed a picture of the house from the listing, found a Prudential "for sale" sign online (wrong area code and it says "commercial property" but who's being picky) and pasted it in the driveway of the picture, then printed "SOLD" in large red letters and pasted it on the sign. I made two of these and taped one above my computer and and one above Bill's. I have no pride. In this market I'll try anything. Last time we listed it almost no one looked at it. This time herds of eager buyers will stampede through. They'll start a bidding war. We'll meet our realtor at Starbucks to review all the offers and take our pick.

Shifting Sands

2009-05-12T08:38:00.000-07:00

I've been absent from my desk, my back in too much pain to sit long enough to write a blog post or a grant proposal. A visit to my genius chiropractor helped, but I need more movement to overcome this pain that has become chronic. Sitting at my desk is where I earn my money, where I practice my art. I'm afraid of the pain settling in as a permanent part of my life. It's the result of many car crashes throughout my life, the last one two and a half years ago. But it didn't assert itself until two back-to-back trips to the east coast last year. Sitting on planes and in airports for 7, 9 or 12 hours at a stretch wreak havoc on a fragile lower back. As I get older I look more toward mysticism for answers beyond the concrete physical ones. What is the psychological load I carry on my back? I can guess; I don't know what I can do about it. If I release it to the Universe to figure out, will I get what I can't now even visualize? In the short time I've been dabbling in selecting a result and repeating affirmations, I've been astonished by receiving what I've asked for. Still... be careful what you wish for.

Vancouver Revisited

2009-05-07T16:33:00.000-07:00

We spent yesterday looking at houses in Vancouver, being chauffeured by our agent. As passenger rather than driver, I was able to see more and I must say I saw more to like. And the houses for sale offer so much more. I think I can do this. We haven't put ours on the market yet and god only knows how long it will take to sell. Being a Unitarian allows me to take advantage of beliefs and superstitions of any and all persuasions, so I ordered a St. Joseph Home Selling Kit for $6.95. You bury St. Joseph (he comes with a little plastic bag for burial) upside down in your yard and he uses his influence to draw buyers to your house. Now, since he's head down, who exactly is he appealing to? I'll have to read the little booklet that comes with the statue and see if they address that issue.

When I'm 64

2009-05-05T15:44:00.000-07:00

All the dignities
we felt it necessary to preserve
as young people
slip through our grasp now.
Bodily fluids and gases
contained within until
released appropriately.
Memory of essential dates
and names.
Who would have thought
I’d ever forget the date
when, forsaking all modesty,
I shrieked in the delivery room?
Once I applied make-up
and styled my hair in an
all-out effort towards beauty.
Now, no matter the expense or effort
I go to, I look funny, old or
just plain ugly.
It’s downright…what’s the word?
Humiliating.

Rainy Day

2009-05-04T15:34:00.000-07:00

It's 53 degrees with steady rain. I had a deep massage this morning which, combined with the rain, has left me feeling lazy and at loose ends. I'd like to do something productive, but can't quite muster the energy to do anything but read, which leads directly to falling asleep. Maybe I'll just give in to it, take a day off. While lying face down on the massage table this morning I meditated on the characters of my story, getting acquainted, so to speak. I can tell myself I was working on the story. I also did the ritual packaging up of April morning pages and setting up for May pages. Yes, I know, it's May 4th. I don't always get it done on the 1st. I cut my fingernails, a job I hate and always let them get annoyingly and embarrassingly long before I do that. So I've accomplished 3 things today. And soon I'll put a chicken in to roast. I got the recipe from Katherine Lanpher's memoir "Leap Days." The memoir is about her move from Minnesota to New York City to co-host Al Franken's show on Air America Radio. It chronicles a midlife move, something I did myself, only I moved from Seattle to Ashevile when I was leaning more toward late life, unless I plan to live to 106. And my move was from a big city to a small one, which can also be a big adjustment. Anytime you leave your friends, the knowledge you've acquired of backroads, short cuts and all the best coffee shops and move 3,000 miles to a different culture, it's life-changing to say the least. It's a move I'll never regret, even though it ended badly, which will be a topic for another time.

Moving

2009-05-03T16:36:00.000-07:00

I used to be known in the small Unitarian fellowship I belonged to as "the Gypsy" because I moved so often. After my divorce I moved roughly once a year, sometimes more. I lived in Asheville for five years and moved three times. In the past five years, since coming back to Portland (and I won't even count that move), I've moved three times and now we're looking to move again. This time I have an accomplice. Bill realized this house was a mistake before our furniture was moved in. Is it that I continually make bad decisions? Am I just restless? Or do I want to experience as many different perspectives as possible? I often hear people say, "I'm a city girl," or "I was born to live in the country." I want both. I love city life with the activity, a short walk to a funky coffee shop and public transportation at my door. I also want tall old fir trees, lush gardens, an expansive sloping lawn and unobstructed views. I want to live in Portland near my kids and I want to live in Asheville near my friends. I'd love to live abroad again. I like quaint little cottages and modern houses with vaulted ceilings and light pouring in from skylights and huge windows. Am I as undefined as my tastes? I can be anyone you want me to be at any given moment. Just tell me which mask to wear.

So yesterday we crossed the Columbia to look at houses in Vancouver. The housing market there is completely different than Portland's. There are many more choices and you get a lot more house for the price. Having grown up in the Portland area, I know virtually nothing about Vancouver. And there's a good reason for that. There was never a reason to go there except to pass by on the way to Seattle. And yesterday I found out why. It is (with all due apology to anyone who lives in and loves Vancouver) totally devoid of charm or character. There is one strong argument in its favor: no state income tax. Well, that and the fact that we could afford the house we can only dream about in Portland. But no funky little neighborhoods with independent coffee shops and book stores. Disclaimer: we may have missed them all. Maybe we were just looking in all the wrong places.

What constitutes quality of life? If I have to get on the freeway and drive in stress-inducing traffic across the bridge for a coffee shop experience, how much will I really enjoy living in that beautiful house? This time I'm not making the decision alone. Will we be able to reach an agreement? Stay tuned. You probably haven't heard the last word on this issue.

Grandma Carol

2009-05-01T09:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went with my son to visit my granddaughters. He has supervised visitation and I go with him once a month. As you may have guessed, there's a painful story here. The girls are 16 and 9 years old and because I have lived elsewhere most of their lives, I don't know them well. The visitation center is also a day care center and the room we meet in has chairs and tables meant for very small people. With my stiff, aching back, just going into the room and folding myself into a chair, leaning over the 2-foot-high table to eat the fast food Peter and I bring to the meeting makes me feel about 87 years old. Then there are birthdays and Christmas, demanding thoughtful gifts and that's when I'm fully exposed as dismally lost in the dark ages. iPhones, PSPs, music and games I've never heard of. Polite thank-you's (and secretly rolled eyes) for the diary and paper dolls. Vanessa, the 9-year-old, is more direct. After opening her Hannah Montana Monopoly set from me, she watches Kassie open her iPhone from her Dad and blurts out, "Sure, she gets all the good stuff!" Yesterday was worse. It was a sunny day, so we went out into the playground, where I was encouraged to race with them on tricycles and to demonstrate the hoola hoop, which was invented when I was their age. I should be an expert, right? Only my hips don't move like that any more. This morning I'm walking around bent at the waist, hand on my hip. Where's that cane? It's downright humiliating.

101 Ways to Avoid Writing

2009-05-01T09:30:00.000-07:00

I have this book called 101 Great Ways to Improve Your Life. In it are 101 short essays, most of which have to do with goal setting, thinking positively, etc. But I found one on how to get unstuck on a creative project that's slid into the ditch. There was one suggestion that I latched onto and spent most of yesterday doing. It's the tried-and-true collage, only this time the theme is the creative project you're stuck on. I thought, this makes sense. If I can visualize my characters, where they live and what kind of dog they own, I'll have a firmer grasp on the story. I don't subscribe to magazines, so I don't have stacks of old Good Housekeepings in the garage. That's what has always stopped me from collaging before. But I do have the Internet and I found everything I wanted there. Most of the pictures have "Copyright. Do not use upon threat of condemnation and humiliation in the global community" printed across them. But a little magic marker in the color of the background takes care of that. And honestly, I'm not going to publish them or use them in ads. They'll probably reside in a closet after tomorrow. I spent hours finding faces that matched my characters, choosing a Great Pyrenees Mountain dog as their intelligent, calm and protective guardian (what beautiful dogs--now I want one), and the farmhouse I'll relocate to Oregon, and some other graphics. I went to Office Max and bought some poster board, then came home and carefully cut out all the pictures and words created with Word Art. This is without question the best way I've ever found to avoid writing.

Friendship

2009-04-28T10:30:00.000-07:00

When is it OK to cross a boundary and approach someone you've met on a professional basis for friendship? I meet a lot of women through my business (or theirs) and the one thing I'm lacking in Portland is women friends. Women really need women friends to share our stories with, to drink a glass of wine and get silly with, to talk about things our men have no interest in. How do I make that transition from a business relationship to a friendship? How do I make that first overture without sounding like a stalker? My social skills, as you might have guessed by now, are not great. I spend too much time alone at my desk. That's one of the dangers of working from home. Yup. I just answered my own question. Get out of the freaking house and go to meetings--Willamette Writers, MeetUp groups... And once there, TALK to people. Don't duck out right after the presentation. Sheesh.

An Inside View

2009-04-27T14:50:00.000-07:00

In the past two weeks I've had not one, but two psychic readings. It's unusual enough for me to have one, but two? Now that's extravagant. The last one I had, actually the only one before this, took place in 1998 in Seattle when I was thinking about moving to Asheville. A woman in one of my writing workshops was a psychic and offered to do it for free or a reduced price. I discovered it's worth paying someone to tell you about yourself, especially if they stick to the positive and don't tell you you're going to die in the next six months. The first reading I had in this go 'round was good and I learned some interesting things (that we'd be living in a different house soon), but was a little disappointed that she spent the last 15 to 20 minutes on a tangent about how grant writing should be the focus of my business, which I already knew and told her I already knew and spent the next 15 minutes getting more and more impatient and short in my responses. For a psychic she didn't pick up on that very well. The second one felt just right and there was more give and take. I felt I got answers to all my questions and some very good feedback on where I should be heading. What was most interesting was that both psychics spontaneously, without being asked, told me the same thing about my relationship, verbatim. They could have been reading from the same prompt card. They said, "Hang in there; within the next few months there is going to be a major shift in the relationship." Well, that got my attention. A shift in what direction? They both smiled and seemed happy when they said this, so I'm assuming it's positive. I love change, so this gives me something to get up in the morning for: what's going to happen; will it happen today? Will I know it when it happens? Will it be so gradual I won't notice? I feel as if there's a light shining through the darkness. The second clairvoyant picked up on my depression, said the physical symptoms I'm having are a result of that and not life-threatening disease. Whew.

Fresh Look

2009-04-25T11:35:00.000-07:00

After two days of being sick and sleeping many more hours than I usually do, with stormy, tumultuous dreams, the world is in sharper focus today. We drove to a new place for breakfast, breaking a long tradition of breakfast at Sully's in downtown Milwaukie (a great breakfast place, by the way). Driving down tired, run-down, sad 82nd street, there was what we finally figured out was a pre-parade--people heading to the formation spot. First there was a dun-colored military jeep with an enormous American flag square in the middle of the hood. I wondered if it was just a fanatic or if it's common for military personnel to drive around town with their view of the road obstructed. Then we saw groups of small martial arts enthusiasts walking with adults in the same direction as the jeep. Then more karate kids, probably from different dojos, one group wearing Statue of Liberty type crowns. Then more jeeps. Since we'd already seen the better part of the parade, we didn't turn around to see where they were headed. It made me feel alive again, made me curious, made me smile.

Priorities

2009-04-24T14:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning I got up at 4:30 and wrote morning pages with my usual cup of coffee, then felt very tired and hungry in an acidy sort of way. I ate breakfast then realized I was sick. I started burning up, shivering violently, was unable to pee although it felt urgent. This morning the fever was gone and I got up, tried to eat some breakfast and failed so lay on the sofa in the living room and slept until 1:00. All those things I absolutely HAD to get done? Funny how quickly your priorities can change. Now I'm going to go lie down again. All that sunshine going to waste. All those billable hours bubbling down the drain. The problem is I only have about 8 pages left in the book I'm reading and don't have another.

Flow

2009-04-22T15:21:00.000-07:00

What I miss most is being in the flow. That feeling of being so immersed in a story that I don't notice the passing of time, meal times going unnoticed, the room growing dark. I miss having a character's voice in my head telling her story, trusting my hand to transcribe it. I miss creating a fictional place lush with atmosphere and scent, charged with emotion and suspense. I miss being so passionate about what I'm writing that tears come to my eyes, or a smile spreads across my face. I have a story that should be like that, but can't seem to get into it, don't know how to organize it. It's resisting me and words fail me. I believe in this story. It's been with me a long time. Why does it refuse to be committed to paper?

Ants

2009-04-22T08:33:00.000-07:00

My energy has been unfocused; the words in my brain displaced by ants. They run around aimlessly, in panic, having lost their industrial purpose. When I think of writing and look inside for a topic, or even the next paragraph in a grant proposal, all I find is a pit filled with insects running into each other, blind, confused.

I'm thinking about going to the Willamette Writers Conference. I've never gone, could never afford it. But now it's tax deductible as a business expense and I could really use a kick start in my writing. The timing would be interesting. We would just be returning from Florida. I'd go straight from the airport to the hotel where the conference is held without even going home first to do laundry or look at the mail. I think that might be a good thing. I will be relaxed, having been away from my work and the dailiness of home, in a different frame of mind--palm trees, Gulf Coast, Bill's family...

Cosmic Black Hole

2009-04-17T10:33:00.000-07:00

Have you ever felt like you've fallen headfirst into the Bermuda Triangle of communication? That you've been erased from the collective consciousness and your email messages are vaporized when you hit the send key? That's how I've felt this week. It's not that I haven't heard from ANYONE--I have, and I appreciate you! I received lovely birthday greetings and even a message from my sister, the first in many months. But there are two notable, personally important, ones that shall not be named here, who have answered neither my electronic nor phone messages. I always turn it inward--was it something I said?

More Truth in Journaling

2009-04-16T08:19:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday to ME! Today I am 63 and more truth is being revealed to me about me every day. As I was writing my morning pages at 5:30 this morning, I was thinking about my blog, and the fact that two people actually read (that can be read in either the past or present tense) it. And about writing the truth. I so admire Rebecca Loudon's courageous honesty in her blog. But what about when your story is closely woven with another's and telling your truth is telling his as well? Is that fair? Maybe he doesn't want his truth to be revealed to god and all of civilization, well OK, to two readers. So here is my disclaimer: I will write my own story and when it intersects with his, know that it is written from a place of love and gratitude for his presence in my life and I promise I will tell him when I write about him. Someday.

Bill and I met five years ago (May 15) and two and a half years ago we each moved from our separate dwellings into a new house together. Neither of us knew then that Bill has Asperger's syndrome (an autism spectrum disorder). We only learned that about six months ago. Moving into the house (and I mean literally as the movers were carrying in his furniture) threw Bill out of orbit and he bolted. In the following weeks I would go to work in the morning and he'd take his guitar and go to his vacant former house. I'd come home to find that nothing more had been done toward unpacking than what I'd done the night before. He was MIA and I was left to put the pieces together. The house we chose, and I should mention here that the house is entirely Bill's--I have no ownership of it, was a mistake and our furniture didn't fit in it. That was the reality that hit him as the movers carried bookcase after bookcase in and there was no place to put them. I chose to have them put my living room furniture in the family room so that his furniture, which he was very fond of, would be in the living room. As we eventually settled into the house, boxes were unpacked and dishes put into cupboards, and we began living in the house, I gravitated to the tiny bedroom that became my office and dressing room (because there was no room in the master closet for my clothes). I spent 85% of my time in my office and 10% in the kitchen, more or less. The living room was oppressive to me, the walls lined with bookcases. Not pretty ones with leather-bound books. Plain Jane unstained bookshelves packed with paperbacks. Finally facing up to our mistake in choosing the house, we decided to sell. That's when the market dropped into a hole and we realized we're stuck here for now.

So, this past weekend we hired two strong men to remove all the bookcases to rented storage and rearranged all the furniture. My furniture moved up to the living room, creating a familiar and beloved space for me. The next morning I sat in my favorite chair to write in a space that felt like home. As I wrote I watched the sun come up through the fir trees across the street and felt redeemed. Morning pages are sacred to me. So is the space I write them in. I've written them in my homes in Seattle, Asheville and Portland. I've written them in San Diego, Seaside, on a cruise ship in Mexico and in Florida. I wrote them in Spoleto, Italy where I attended a writing workshop and met my good friends Pat and Ed. And in Provence, visiting my good friend Micheline. All of those places had special meaning for me and in each of them I learned a little more of my truth.

Living with Bill is teaching me a lot about myself. Some of it is uncomfortable. Sometimes I'm not who I'd like to be. I get impatient and judgmental. I feel lonely sometimes because with an Asperger's guy there's not the same kind of connection you expect in an intimate relationship. But with the help of our miracle-working therapist Laurie, and the truth I keep coming back to--that I really do love him--I'm learning how to accept gift of what we have together. If I let him read this, that's what I hope he takes away from it. How much I love him.

Journaling

2009-03-16T10:27:00.001-07:00

In 1996, when I returned from Prague where I was teaching English, I was at loose ends. I needed to work but didn't want to go back to being a legal secretary. The very thought of it depressed me. I applied for an editing job, but it payed so little my husband "encouraged" me to accept the job in a law firm I'd reluctantly applied for. I took the job. Every day at noon I'd pass the receptionist's desk and say, "If I'm not back in an hour check the airport." I was fired after 3 months. I signed up for a writing workshop at the Unitarian church. It was based on Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way," and it changed my life. I went through the book from cover to cover, highlighting sections in multi-colored markers, drawing pictures of myself behind prison bars in the margins, then fireworks and flowers in bloom. I began writing again. One story won first place in the local community college's writing program. Another was published in a little book called "Earth Angels." But the most enduring change was morning pages. Julia's advice, almost a mandate, is that every morning you get up and before you do anything else (except get coffee in my case) you write 3 pages. You don't think about it, you don't critique it, it's not "literature" it's a mind dump. You whine, obsess, worry, write about delights and triumphs, what you see out the window, what your husband said yesterday that really ticked you off. I developed a system for writing and storing the volumes that were mounting up. At the beginning of each month I take a stack of 8 1/2 x 11 paper that's been used (discarded drafts, recycled paper from work--this has the added benefit later of showing me what was going on at the time, where I was working, what I was working on), two-hole punch the tops, put a piece of cardboard (the backs of legal pads) on either side, and bind them together with binder rings. Then I write on the backs of the pages. At the end of the month, I take them out, put them between two pieces of colored card-stock paper, use water colors to paint the month and year and paste a picture I've found in the newspaper or elsewhere on the front. It's become almost a ritual. I try to find pictures that tell something about what was going on that month: weather, news, events. I've been writing them for 13 years now and I have a bookcase full of them. My biggest fear is that after I die my family will read them. The pages are not always kind.

Over the years my morning pages have become the place I can go to work things out. If I have a vague (or not-so-vague) feeling that something is bothering me but I don't know what it is, I'll write about it until it finally dawns, "Oh, of course, that's what it is." Some days I'm stuck entirely in the left brain and I march through lists of what I need to do. Other days they're dreamy or reflective. Occasionally I'll struggle to write 3 pages, other times I'm reluctant to stop after 11. It's how I start my day and if something prevents me from writing I feel like I've missed my morning shower, was deprived of coffee...it just doesn't feel right.

So here's my question: Do the morning pages improve my writing, loosen the flow, or do they hinder it? Have they become a substitute for "real writing"? They are so undisciplined, so self-focused I wonder if I've lost the ability to construct a fictional world. Or even write a cohesive essay. If I stopped writing morning pages for a week, would my other writing improve?

Journaling gets you used to putting your thoughts on paper, using words to express what's going on within you and around you. Does it also empty the well? Sometimes it feels like I'm just slogging around in the muck at the bottom of the well. One thing I can say for it, though, is that it keeps me honest. In my morning pages I never lie to myself. That helps me be more honest in my outer world as well, and to recognize when something doesn't feel authentic. And for better or worse, it has become as essential to me as water to drink and air to breathe.

I strongly recommend to my clients that they keep a journal. Keep it free and honest. Don't constrain it as my mother did when I was a teenager. She handed me a diary and told me to write about what I do but not to write about feelings. Hey, there's no better place to unleash those feelings than in your journal. Let your entries fly, flail, weep and jump for joy. Let them dream and mourn, celebrate and remember. Journaling, and more specifically writing morning pages, has helped me identify and sort out problems, reach decisions, develop story lines, set goals, work out how I feel about situations and people, and get through some extraordinarily bad times. They are valuable in so many ways. But keep an eye on the balance between your journaling and your creative writing and don't let it tilt too far out of kilter. Let your journal be a launching pad for your creative writing.

Makeover

2009-03-07T17:07:00.001-08:00

Do you like my new look? Did you see the old one? Is anyone out there?