Afloat

I’m not writing stories these days, but somehow I’m just as busy as before. My days are full with things like working out, baking pies, taking the boys to appointments, subbing (yes, I got back in the game!), occupational therapy. I’m mentoring another author. I got to do another senior photoshoot. Matcha has become suddenly snuggly, so that takes up some time. My days are full.

But then there comes a moment like when the guy at Domino’s says, “How’s your day going, ma’am?” and I start crying. Or when Kevin tries to teach me Dannemiller’s Formula for Change and I don’t make it past step two: What’s your vision? Because I don’t have a vision anymore. I used to, and now I don’t.

So there’s that.

Also, my journal is full of sad stuff, like about being adrift on an endless, foggy sea, watching the warm light of my stories float away and get swallowed up by the gray. And how my happiness feels thin, like it can crack with the right tap of a spoon.

Writers can be so dramatic.

Really though, I’m doing fine. I’m not just saying that to keep you all from worrying. If you see me looking happy, I am. My house was full of kids and brownies all weekend; I loved doing the photoshoot on Friday; I’m excited for our trip to Japan in two weeks.

Even though the sea seems endless, it’s not. There are shores and islands; buoys, ships, and lighthouses. There is life everywhere below and blue skies if you go high enough up. And my stories didn’t really float away. They’re still with me in my boat that is still floating.

So that’s where I’m at.

Clean-up, Aisle Nine!

I know you’re going to yell, “Nooo!” because you are a supportive, encouraging lot, but I think I need a little breather from writing stories. The angst is outweighing the good things right now. The rejections for my woodland creature stories have been disheartening.

What a word, disheartened. To be without heart. 

It’s hard to understand how something that was such a joy to write has not been given a joyous welcome into the publishing world.

The other novels I’m writing are harder and more complicated, and I don’t feel like opening them up. That feeling isn’t new. Every morning I have to walk through a swamp of doubt and anxiety before sitting down and writing anyway, but lately I don’t feel like making myself walk through the swamp. I want to turn away from it and hope that when I turn back around, it’s become something nice, like a meadow, or a lake, or a pair of woolen socks.

So what do I do now? I’d default to subbing, but I’ve had a couple rotten experiences this month that have left me feeling like I never want to do that again. Maybe I could teach my cats to fetch? Home school the kids? Macrame?

Kevin tells me I’m being extreme, and I don’t need to make a decision today that lasts for the rest of my life. Do you think he means the writing or the macrame?

I know we’re not defined by what we do but rather by who we are, but I still need something that makes me feel like I’m challenging myself and using my talents and connecting with others. I’m trying to find the perfect volunteer job to fill that need. I’m also trying to conduct a search for new throw pillows without having an existential crisis in aisle nine.

Until I figure it out, I’m thankful for piles of laundry and dirty dishes; for game pieces left scattered across the living room; for stashes of Lego bricks to sort. I’m grateful when a potato explodes in the oven and gives me something to clean up. I’m happy for the small busy-nesses of the day  that keep it moving toward the afternoon, when the kids come home and we pull out the board games and dump out the pieces again.

I feel like there’s some metaphor I’m supposed to make about the scattered pieces, but as I’m taking a breather from that kind of writing, you’re on your own.

Now excuse me, I need tend to the broken remains of an exploded potato. (I set you up for another easy one there!)

Happy 2024!

For New Year’s Eve, we did our usual Lego game, where ahead of time we build creations, then take them apart and exchange them at the party, giving no instructions on how to build them.

The result is a bunch of derpy versions of the originals. Take my turbo-charged unicorn, for example:

Kevin’s high security prison for a koala bear became a low security prison for a koala.

Rocco’s computer set-up with Minecraft on the screen became the Minecraft version of itself.

A racecar became a racevan with spare parts.

You get the idea.

For dinner, I made a 10-pound roast beef, mashed potatoes, homemade mac ‘n cheese, and a four-layer spice cake with mascarpone cheese. But you know what stole the show? McStreamy’s fruit salad.

Other than that, there was a lot of football talk, screen time, and countertop ping pong.

My dad earned the distinction of being the first person ever to look through one of my scrapbooks without being threatened or bribed to do so.

There was also a game of Telestrations where a pan of lasagna got turned into a kitty litter box, mushrooms got turned into palm trees then back into mushrooms, and our solar system got turned into an insurrection at the US Capitol building.

Eventually the adults slipped away while the teenagers stayed up until midnight playing games, and nobody noticed until it was too late that McStreamy’s parrot had taken a bad turn.

Is there anything else to write about my New Year’s party? Anything at all? Surely there must be something! My hour of writing time isn’t even close to being up, and once I finish this blog the only choice is to open my novel. The panic is setting in…

Perfect Gift

Amidst all the Christmas gifts this year, amidst the wrapping paper and half-opened presents, the ping-pong nets and bike helmets, the car wash coupons and Lego sets, the underwear and socks…

…amidst all that was a gift from my friend Kristen. Yes, the very Kristen of my postal disaster. I opened it to find the perfect book for an author.

I read the inscription she wrote, which was all about words, specifically my words and how much they’ve meant to her over the years, and I teared up. Then I opened the book and saw that she had added a few things.

In case your phone screen is too small to see, she pulled quotes from my blog and taped them side-by-side with quotes by some of the greats like Maurice Sendak, Robert Frost, Virginia Woolf, J.K. Rowling, and Amy Krouse Rosenthal, who is my Spirit Animal.

My words, my name, literally, on the same page as these beloved authors.

Well, you can understand why I sobbed all through gift opening this year.

This gift makes me feel that just because I haven’t published a book doesn’t mean my words are going unheard. It makes me feel like my writing is just as important as the next author’s. It makes me feel like I have the greatest friends in the world, cheering me on as I run in this never-ending marathon.

I’m going to have to ask Kristen for the font color because I have a new quote to add: The best kinds of friends are those who tape your words into a book of quotes.

The Morning After

Mondays are always hard, but the Monday after Christmas break is one of the hardest. The fact that today is Tuesday doesn’t make it any easier.

I sent the boys off to school on a cold dark morning, which felt cruel after all the light and warmth of the holidays. They were cheerful despite the return to the grind, so that at least softened the blow.

Over Christmas vacation, I took a two-week break from writing, partly to heal my radial tunnel/tendonitis, and also to take a break from my inner critic. The only thing I wrote was grocery lists, and my inner critic is blessedly silent when it comes to grocery lists.

So today, I’m going to take it easy on my writer self because if I don’t warm up properly I’ll likely pull something. I’ve set a time for one hour. Just an hour. While that makes me feel like I shouldn’t waste time farting around, farting around is exactly what I plan to do, starting with this blog post, which feels more important than The Novel anyway because it helps me shape the memories into something I can slip into my pocket so that later, I can reach into my pocket and feel for its shape.

To begin, I’ll take you to mid December and gingerbread houses. Behold: warmth and light!

Over the years, the kids have started looking bigger, and the houses smaller. Here’s a scene from the first gingerbread house event, thirteen years ago:

And now:

This year, every house had some notable feature. Kevin’s had a Gummi bear car and hot tub.

Rocco’s had a woodshed:

Haley’s had a pool and beach umbrella:

(Oh, the joy when Haley said, “I wish I had a tiny umbrella to put on the picnic table,” and I dug up the bag of tiny umbrellas from Rocco’s fifth birthday party that I hadn’t known why I was saving until that very moment.)

This one’s notable feature is maybe…two brown Chex windows?

Vincenzo’s had three Andes mint cars plus a roof on a fire because the three bears who were vacationing there built a fire too close to the house and are now on the lam.

The sounds of candy being sorted through, kids laughing, and the smell of gingerbread was beautiful enough, but add to the day a big pot of potato soup, a counter full of toppings, Christmas carols in the background, and we had a real a Courier-and-Ives kind of situation going on

…and the one hour timer just went off. I’m already feeling a bit better.

Maybe I’ll go buy a bouquet of fresh flowers today.