A few years ago, I was going through a difficult time.
The details of the difficult time don't matter much. The good thing was that I had people around who loved me and supported me in what I needed to do to get through it.
I didn't know what I needed to do, but I kind of had a sense. I heard about a place where one could have a silent retreat--which was important because an element of what was difficult about that time was that it was noisy. I was taking in a lot of stuff and had no place to put it.
On that retreat, something happened to me. My difficulties didn't all disappear at once or anything like that. But something happened, something that worked a transformation.
The story of that time, the journey I ended up taking, and what that journey held for my life was not something that I could talk about directly. I still can't address it head on, which is why this post is so choppy. The only way to get at it was to tell a story.
So, I wrote a story. The funny thing is that the story I ended up writing was about telling a story. It was about taking something that is inside of you and letting it live in the outside world, where it may have a life you did not plan for it to have. Storytelling is risky that way.
I have no children of my own, but the story also turned out to be about raising a child. It also turned out to be about a lot of other unexpected things. Storytelling is surprising that way.
I recently found out there's a website that lets you publicize a creative work if you want to invite people to help you release it into the wild, as it were. It helps musicians raise the money to release their own CDs, directors to create their own movies, and authors publish their own books. The story I wrote--which is called, of all things, "The Story"--has had much help along the way already from people encouraging it into existence. I would like to take the step of getting it out in the world more, so I am going to make it into a book, and I'm going to ask for help getting it published.
I've recruited a talented young illustrator, so part of the cost of publishing will be her fees--to be put toward her college fund.
Watch this space. I'll be announcing more details soon.
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Haggis!
S. called me up Saturday night; this is the S. of "Free Veggies" fame. "My neighbor is selling haggis," she said.
So yesterday afternoon I wandered down a few blocks, purse in hand, and knocked on her neighbor's door. "Word on the street is that you are selling haggis," I said. No, I didn't. I gave her a bit more context for my actions than that; I told her I knew S.
I bought $5 worth, which means I may have to conduct some haggis-tastings, because $5 buys you an awful lot of haggis. S.'s neighbor told me stories of the Cincinnati Caledonian Pipes and Drums Band and their Tartan Day Ceilidh, which had been the night before. The festivities included a haggis-eating contest. (I had to ask--just how much haggis would one have to eat to win a haggis-eating contest? Answer--one cup haggis, half-cup of neeps, half-cup of tatties. [Neeps and tatties are turnips--or in this case rutabagas--and potatoes.] The premium was speed, not quantity.)
I'm planning on letting the boys in the house try the haggis. I'll just tell 'em it's a type of sausage.
So yesterday afternoon I wandered down a few blocks, purse in hand, and knocked on her neighbor's door. "Word on the street is that you are selling haggis," I said. No, I didn't. I gave her a bit more context for my actions than that; I told her I knew S.
I bought $5 worth, which means I may have to conduct some haggis-tastings, because $5 buys you an awful lot of haggis. S.'s neighbor told me stories of the Cincinnati Caledonian Pipes and Drums Band and their Tartan Day Ceilidh, which had been the night before. The festivities included a haggis-eating contest. (I had to ask--just how much haggis would one have to eat to win a haggis-eating contest? Answer--one cup haggis, half-cup of neeps, half-cup of tatties. [Neeps and tatties are turnips--or in this case rutabagas--and potatoes.] The premium was speed, not quantity.)
I'm planning on letting the boys in the house try the haggis. I'll just tell 'em it's a type of sausage.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
NaNoWriMo
I've been meaning to write about my NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) experience since its conclusion, but seeing as it's the middle of December now, I guess you already know one key fact about it: it has not upped my literary output.
NaNoWriMo is a simple idea: try to write a 50,000-word novel in thirty days, specifically November 1st to the 30th. I've tried in previous years but never got very far. (The first year, in fact, was when I got diagnosed with Crohn's; nothing like getting a colonoscopy in the middle of the month to render one less excited about producing a novel.) This year was the first one in which I actually signed up as an official participant at the NaNo website. It wasn't to give my attempt more credibility and thus to motivate myself to stick with it, although that proved to be a side benefit. No; I signed up because Neil Gaiman had agreed to be among the writers who would send out pep talk emails over the course of the month, and the thought of getting an email from, you know, NEIL GAIMAN was irresistible.
I started the month full of enthusiasm (I think; I can't really remember back that far). I bought a couple of new notebooks and a couple Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball pens--my favorite. The notebooks were the toughest to pick out. I like the Mead Fat Lil' Notebook (known in Spanish as "Cuaderno Fat Lil'," according to the back) because they fit well in my purse, they've got lots of pages, and they're spiral-bound, but they are kind of bland, with solid-color covers in conservative shades. I was sorely tempted to buy a notebook whose cover featured a big-eyed Siamese with an elongated neck and the caption "Yes, I am that fabulous." But the Fat Lil' won out in the end because the Siamese was kind of disturbing.
I wrote in the mornings before work; I wrote faithfully, purt near every day, but had a tough time reaching the target daily word count. This may have been because I was writing and not typing, but I compose better that way. I think my thoughts arrive at writing speed, not typing speed. Later in the day I would enter my work into the computer to get a word count. This was a distressing exercise because usually, when I am working on a story, I use the typing stage to create a second draft--I'm altering as I go. (This entry is a case in point--its original draft was written in the Fat Lil' and is ever-so-slightly different.) But I wouldn't let myself do this for my NaNo project lest I lose precious words in the editing process. I had to just grit my teeth and type whatever I'd written, regardless of my low opinion of its quality.
And the quality was very poor indeed. I'd begun the project with one plot in mind--a second attempt at a story I'd thought up for last year's NaNo, plus a twist I was really jazzed about, an idea that had fallen from the sky in late October. I could hardly wait to begin. But in the actual process of writing the idea lost its savor. To keep myself going I started importing more and more from my own life, changing friends' names and barely fictionalizing details. The last 10,000 words, my desperate race against time, were a dream sequence only vaguely related to the rest of the plot.
Oh, those last 10,000 words...I had been plugging away, as I said, every day, falling further and further behind where I needed to be to keep pace. I wasn't being very faithful at typing up my work, however, so for a long stretch I didn't know my word count. On Thanksgiving I had a marathon typing session and discovered I was at 20,000 words--more than I'd ever managed in previous years, but far behind where I needed to be. So over the holiday weekend I abandoned the notebook and typed. And typed. And typed. Over three days I got out 15,000 or so more words--again, not quality stuff by any means, just quantity. Sheer verbosity, with the occasional glimmer of something interesting (but not enough to make me want to go back and read any of it).
Now I'd done 15k in a weekend. Could I do an additional 15k over the course of five weekdays--when I was at work during the day and had class and other obligations at night? When I was already feeling some ill effects from sitting in front of a computer screen most of the weekend?
I managed 5000 more words Monday through Thursday. No problem, though, right? I had until midnight on the 30th. At peak over the weekend I found I could churn out a thousand words an hour if I really, really pushed myself. I got off work at 4:30...at some point I'd have to eat...I figured I had seven uninterrupted hours in which to write. Maybe I could do it. I was too close to give up now, anyway. I had to give it a shot.
That's why the last 10,000 or so words were a dream sequence, really several of my own dreams strung together with some other elements--the Corpus Christi Carol, for one--thrown in. I'm sure it would make a fascinating psychological study if I could ever stand to let someone read it.
At 11:59 and 30 seconds I dumped the whole thing into the NaNo website's word counter and...
49,681.
Five more minutes and I coulda made it. That's all right--I got lots of sympathy from my fellow NaNoers at that weekend's Thank God It's Over party. They felt my pain.
That's another great aspect of the experience (and yes, I think it was a great experience, my griping about so-close-and-yet-so-far notwithstanding)--the chance to meet other Cincinnati writers. Throughout the month we had "write-ins," announced in the website forum, where folk could come together and work. There's nothing like a whole bunch of people all feverishly typing to keep you on task for a couple of hours.
Interestingly, the first write-in was held at the Speckled Bird, the neighborhood cafe, so of course I went. And there of course as I was sitting with this group of writers I did not know, I kept seeing people I did know--friends in the neighborhood. So every few minutes I'd look up and wave to Chris, or Bill, or Des--and after a while I wondered how this looked to my new writer friends. Did they think I was like Norm from Cheers?
I'd also mentioned to one of the writers that I lived down the street--and pointed in the direction of my house. But when I was leaving--at the same time that she was--I didn't go in that direction. I went over to the JFCCCH to walk Cori. Luckily she didn't ask me about this. I would have had to say, "No, I don't live there. I just occasionally go in their house and walk their dog."
NaNoWriMo is a simple idea: try to write a 50,000-word novel in thirty days, specifically November 1st to the 30th. I've tried in previous years but never got very far. (The first year, in fact, was when I got diagnosed with Crohn's; nothing like getting a colonoscopy in the middle of the month to render one less excited about producing a novel.) This year was the first one in which I actually signed up as an official participant at the NaNo website. It wasn't to give my attempt more credibility and thus to motivate myself to stick with it, although that proved to be a side benefit. No; I signed up because Neil Gaiman had agreed to be among the writers who would send out pep talk emails over the course of the month, and the thought of getting an email from, you know, NEIL GAIMAN was irresistible.
I started the month full of enthusiasm (I think; I can't really remember back that far). I bought a couple of new notebooks and a couple Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball pens--my favorite. The notebooks were the toughest to pick out. I like the Mead Fat Lil' Notebook (known in Spanish as "Cuaderno Fat Lil'," according to the back) because they fit well in my purse, they've got lots of pages, and they're spiral-bound, but they are kind of bland, with solid-color covers in conservative shades. I was sorely tempted to buy a notebook whose cover featured a big-eyed Siamese with an elongated neck and the caption "Yes, I am that fabulous." But the Fat Lil' won out in the end because the Siamese was kind of disturbing.
I wrote in the mornings before work; I wrote faithfully, purt near every day, but had a tough time reaching the target daily word count. This may have been because I was writing and not typing, but I compose better that way. I think my thoughts arrive at writing speed, not typing speed. Later in the day I would enter my work into the computer to get a word count. This was a distressing exercise because usually, when I am working on a story, I use the typing stage to create a second draft--I'm altering as I go. (This entry is a case in point--its original draft was written in the Fat Lil' and is ever-so-slightly different.) But I wouldn't let myself do this for my NaNo project lest I lose precious words in the editing process. I had to just grit my teeth and type whatever I'd written, regardless of my low opinion of its quality.
And the quality was very poor indeed. I'd begun the project with one plot in mind--a second attempt at a story I'd thought up for last year's NaNo, plus a twist I was really jazzed about, an idea that had fallen from the sky in late October. I could hardly wait to begin. But in the actual process of writing the idea lost its savor. To keep myself going I started importing more and more from my own life, changing friends' names and barely fictionalizing details. The last 10,000 words, my desperate race against time, were a dream sequence only vaguely related to the rest of the plot.
Oh, those last 10,000 words...I had been plugging away, as I said, every day, falling further and further behind where I needed to be to keep pace. I wasn't being very faithful at typing up my work, however, so for a long stretch I didn't know my word count. On Thanksgiving I had a marathon typing session and discovered I was at 20,000 words--more than I'd ever managed in previous years, but far behind where I needed to be. So over the holiday weekend I abandoned the notebook and typed. And typed. And typed. Over three days I got out 15,000 or so more words--again, not quality stuff by any means, just quantity. Sheer verbosity, with the occasional glimmer of something interesting (but not enough to make me want to go back and read any of it).
Now I'd done 15k in a weekend. Could I do an additional 15k over the course of five weekdays--when I was at work during the day and had class and other obligations at night? When I was already feeling some ill effects from sitting in front of a computer screen most of the weekend?
I managed 5000 more words Monday through Thursday. No problem, though, right? I had until midnight on the 30th. At peak over the weekend I found I could churn out a thousand words an hour if I really, really pushed myself. I got off work at 4:30...at some point I'd have to eat...I figured I had seven uninterrupted hours in which to write. Maybe I could do it. I was too close to give up now, anyway. I had to give it a shot.
That's why the last 10,000 or so words were a dream sequence, really several of my own dreams strung together with some other elements--the Corpus Christi Carol, for one--thrown in. I'm sure it would make a fascinating psychological study if I could ever stand to let someone read it.
At 11:59 and 30 seconds I dumped the whole thing into the NaNo website's word counter and...
49,681.
Five more minutes and I coulda made it. That's all right--I got lots of sympathy from my fellow NaNoers at that weekend's Thank God It's Over party. They felt my pain.
That's another great aspect of the experience (and yes, I think it was a great experience, my griping about so-close-and-yet-so-far notwithstanding)--the chance to meet other Cincinnati writers. Throughout the month we had "write-ins," announced in the website forum, where folk could come together and work. There's nothing like a whole bunch of people all feverishly typing to keep you on task for a couple of hours.
Interestingly, the first write-in was held at the Speckled Bird, the neighborhood cafe, so of course I went. And there of course as I was sitting with this group of writers I did not know, I kept seeing people I did know--friends in the neighborhood. So every few minutes I'd look up and wave to Chris, or Bill, or Des--and after a while I wondered how this looked to my new writer friends. Did they think I was like Norm from Cheers?
I'd also mentioned to one of the writers that I lived down the street--and pointed in the direction of my house. But when I was leaving--at the same time that she was--I didn't go in that direction. I went over to the JFCCCH to walk Cori. Luckily she didn't ask me about this. I would have had to say, "No, I don't live there. I just occasionally go in their house and walk their dog."
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
On the absolute last day I can get away with posting this
A poem by Dylan Thomas.
Especially When the October Wind
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
---
Why do I love this poem so much? For one thing, it sounds so good recited. The line about the "wordy shapes of women"--you start smiling as you say it and the smile comes through in your voice. Try to count how many times a letter ends one word and begins the next: "sea's side," "and drains," "Shut, too"--these combinations force you to slow down, to linger over each word as you speak. And all the alliterations make music as well.
It took me a long time to notice the rhyme scheme, since it's full of near-rhymes. It also took me a while to figure out that each line is ten syllables long.
This site goes into this poem into a bit more detail.
Especially When the October Wind
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
---
Why do I love this poem so much? For one thing, it sounds so good recited. The line about the "wordy shapes of women"--you start smiling as you say it and the smile comes through in your voice. Try to count how many times a letter ends one word and begins the next: "sea's side," "and drains," "Shut, too"--these combinations force you to slow down, to linger over each word as you speak. And all the alliterations make music as well.
It took me a long time to notice the rhyme scheme, since it's full of near-rhymes. It also took me a while to figure out that each line is ten syllables long.
This site goes into this poem into a bit more detail.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Puppy-Pants
I'm not going to write about Our Daily Bread all the time, especially when something interesting happens at home.
Recently at the JesusFreakCrazyCommuneCultHouse we pondered one of life's mysteries--why is the expression "Puppy-Pants" (first employed by T., adopted by the rest of us as the catch-all term of endearment for any of our three resident dogs) so darned funny? Can other words become as funny when they are "pantsed"?
M. and I worked out what we believe are the definitive -Pants Rules. I present them to you now.
1. The "pre-pants" word must be multisyllabic--two syllables are the ideal. This explains why "Puppy-Pants" is funny while "Dog-Pants," while funny, isn't as funny.
2. The accent must be on the first syllable of the two syllable word, or the penultimate syllable if it's multisyllabic. "Renee-Pants"--not funny. "Potato-Pants"--pretty funny. But not as funny as it can be, which leads us to the next rule:
3. The last syllable should end in an "ee" sound: "Spaghetti-Pants," "Angie-Pants," "Sammy-Pants"--all funny.
4. The crowning touch--alliteration. This can trump almost every other rule: "Popsicle-Pants" is funny even with the accent on the wrong syllable and no "ee" sound at the end.
So "Puppy-Pants" is the perfect storm of "-Pants" expressions--we've got the right syllable count, the right accent, the "ee" sound and three "p" sounds in a row.
"Poopy-Pants" works too.
Recently at the JesusFreakCrazyCommuneCultHouse we pondered one of life's mysteries--why is the expression "Puppy-Pants" (first employed by T., adopted by the rest of us as the catch-all term of endearment for any of our three resident dogs) so darned funny? Can other words become as funny when they are "pantsed"?
M. and I worked out what we believe are the definitive -Pants Rules. I present them to you now.
1. The "pre-pants" word must be multisyllabic--two syllables are the ideal. This explains why "Puppy-Pants" is funny while "Dog-Pants," while funny, isn't as funny.
2. The accent must be on the first syllable of the two syllable word, or the penultimate syllable if it's multisyllabic. "Renee-Pants"--not funny. "Potato-Pants"--pretty funny. But not as funny as it can be, which leads us to the next rule:
3. The last syllable should end in an "ee" sound: "Spaghetti-Pants," "Angie-Pants," "Sammy-Pants"--all funny.
4. The crowning touch--alliteration. This can trump almost every other rule: "Popsicle-Pants" is funny even with the accent on the wrong syllable and no "ee" sound at the end.
So "Puppy-Pants" is the perfect storm of "-Pants" expressions--we've got the right syllable count, the right accent, the "ee" sound and three "p" sounds in a row.
"Poopy-Pants" works too.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Words
People have been asking me this week, "So, are you enjoying your new job?"
I'm not quite sure how to answer this. Last night M. asked me why. "Is it because you're not sure whether you should enjoy a job that only exists because people are homeless and hungry?"
It's probably not as profound as that. It's because I'm just learning the job. Lots and lots to learn.
Today I learned about old typos on letters we've sent out. One letter apparently was trying to say something about "neighborhood shut-ins"--I bet you can guess the typo that was made on that phrase! Something like a hundred letters got mailed before the mistake was found, too...
Another time a guy said to Cookie (the organization's founder), "I think you made a mistake on this letter you sent out looking for more volunteers."
"Oh?" she said.
"You said, 'It's been quite busty around here lately.'"
She was able to cover the mistake up on that one though. Quick as anything she said, "I meant to say that! I was trying to get more men to volunteer!"
Speaking of putting the English language to creative use, Cookie was just telling us about one of our guests who complimented her on her makeup: "Oh! Your face always looks so pretty! Can you bring in some costume-medics for me sometime?"
I think "costume-medics" is a GREAT descriptive phrase, don't you? Reminds me of my friend D. who works at a place dealing with legal issues for people. She gets calls from folks saying, "Hi, I need to get my record 'sponged." That makes so much more sense--I mean, why would anyone want to get their record ex-sponged?
I'm not quite sure how to answer this. Last night M. asked me why. "Is it because you're not sure whether you should enjoy a job that only exists because people are homeless and hungry?"
It's probably not as profound as that. It's because I'm just learning the job. Lots and lots to learn.
Today I learned about old typos on letters we've sent out. One letter apparently was trying to say something about "neighborhood shut-ins"--I bet you can guess the typo that was made on that phrase! Something like a hundred letters got mailed before the mistake was found, too...
Another time a guy said to Cookie (the organization's founder), "I think you made a mistake on this letter you sent out looking for more volunteers."
"Oh?" she said.
"You said, 'It's been quite busty around here lately.'"
She was able to cover the mistake up on that one though. Quick as anything she said, "I meant to say that! I was trying to get more men to volunteer!"
Speaking of putting the English language to creative use, Cookie was just telling us about one of our guests who complimented her on her makeup: "Oh! Your face always looks so pretty! Can you bring in some costume-medics for me sometime?"
I think "costume-medics" is a GREAT descriptive phrase, don't you? Reminds me of my friend D. who works at a place dealing with legal issues for people. She gets calls from folks saying, "Hi, I need to get my record 'sponged." That makes so much more sense--I mean, why would anyone want to get their record ex-sponged?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)