April 29, 2013: So I tried to write a novel...

I've always been fairly confident in my writing abilities...on a small scale level, at least.  English classes were always my forte in school.  Grammar and spelling were never challenges for me--and improper grammar and spelling are one of my pet peeves to this day.  Stringing words together has always come naturally for me.

However....

I've always kept my writing somewhat contained.  The longest piece I've ever written was the twelve-page research paper required in some college class I've long since forgotten.  I've written some short stories, placed in a small contest or two.  I've done the same with poetry.  But longer pieces...novellas...novels...I've always shied away from those.

Until recently.  My sister-in-law asked me to sign up with her to do one of NaNoWriMo's summer camps, where you try to write a novel in a month.  I didn't figure on being able to do that.  I actually pretty much figured when I signed up that I wasn't going to do it.  But nearly a week into the month of April, I sat down and forced myself to start writing.  I'd set myself a goal of 30,000 words and on the 26th of April, I had a final word count of over 34.000 words.  In less than three weeks, I've "written a novel."  Well, more like a novella at this point.  But I'm a NaNoWriMo winner.

Here's the thing....

While I was writing, I was really excited about what I was doing.  Every time I got to update my word count and saw the progress I was making, I was exhilarated.  I really hadn't even planned on doing this, and now here I was actually doing it.  I hit my 30,000 word mark and felt ten feet tall.

Since then however, I have realized that it's not really a novel at this point.  It's just a word count.  It needs a lot of work...and I mean, a lot.  The ending's not even fully completed because I can't get it to come out the way I want it to.  Sitting and talking to Chaz about it Sunday night, I told him that I was having trouble because the ending felt contrived.  And when I briefly explained the plot to him, he told me that the reason my ending felt contrived...was because it is.  In real life, my plot wouldn't work the way I've written it.

I've picked up on that a bit as I've written.  I've had to stop a number of times and think about how I'm going to make things work.  Turns out, it's not working at all.  It need a major overhaul.  And I mean, MAJOR.  Looking back at what I've written, I like the voice it's written in, I like my word choices, I like the ease with which it's read.  But the plot sucks.

A crappy plot is what has held me back in the past.  I'm just not good at putting together a long, detailed, organized plot.  In the same vein, it's why I'm not a good chess player.  I don't tend to think that far ahead.  I don't know that that means I'm not a good writer/author, or it just means I'm not meant to write a novel.  Or maybe it just means that nobody...well, not nobody, but at least not me...writes a bestseller in twenty days.

Now I have a decision to make:  do I leave it as is and walk away, simply happy with the pride I feel in reaching a goal I set for myself, or do I go back and read and edit and reshape and recreate until I have a piece of work that I'm truly happy with?

I do know that now that I've written such a large piece (whether it's good or not), I know that I am capable of sticking with something long-term--so I can't use that as an excuse to not do it anymore.  I can do it if I really put my mind to it and decide I want to do it.  And that is refreshing to know.


All artists, I've been told (from a friend who is also an artist in her own right) go through this process of taking their raw first drafts and shaping them into the final works they become.  Now I have to decide--am I really an artist?

I guess only time will tell.

April 22, 2013--An old love, rekindled.

I had forgotten just how much I enjoy listening to music.  Simply sitting and listening to music.

Music has always been fairly prominent in my life.  I grew up listening to "the Oldies" with my parents.  I developed a healthy appreciation for a number of "old" groups: Journey, the Monkees, Kansas, The Who, REO Speedwagon, Toto, Asia, to only name a very few.  My mother was also a country fan (my father was not) so on the rare occasions that she got to control the radio controls we listened to Garth Brooks, Trisha Yearwood, Faith Hill, Reba, Randy Travis, George Strait, Alan Jackson.  And of course I developed a taste for a number of the artists who became popular during my own youth: the Backstreet Boys and N'Sync, Britney Spears, Savage Garden.

My tastes were fairly eclectic and they grew more so as I got older.  I went from listening to what my parents listened to as a young child to listening to the more "popular" stations as a "tween."  In high school I  was introduced to a number of pieces from musicals and there was born my great love of musical theatre, which continued on into college.  As did my love for certain movie scores and soundtracks--Braveheart, Lord of the Rings, Jurassic Park, Titanic.  (Say what you want about the movie itself, the music is amazing.)

I started taking piano lessons in the 7th grade and while I never had the discipline to become very proficient at it, I did learn enough to plunk out the few songs that I liked well enough to really learn.  In that, however, I learned that I did indeed love the sound of the piano and started listening to solo piano music.

It was in college that my love of music and my appreciation for its diversity really soared.  I sang in the choir and somehow found myself, with no experience whatsoever, playing in the pep band.  That led to a semester of playing percussion in the concert band as well.  I started college as a music education major so the necessary classes exposed me to a lot of music (mostly classical) that I had not heard before.  It was amazing; absolutely amazing.  I discovered a deep love for Beethoven, his Moonlight Sonata being my favorite piece.  After a fair amount of study in one of my classes, I was able to listen to a few bars of his 5th Symphony (duh-duh-duh-duh) and identify which exact part of the piece it was.

Everywhere I went, no matter what I was doing (working a job probably being the exception) I listened to music.  I listened to music during music classes, I popped in my headphones and listened to music as I did homework.  I had a playlist set for when I went out and walked or ran (cuz I actually exercised back then) and I had a number of soundtracks and mixed CD's in my car, just waiting to be blared with the windows down.  Often, when I had some time to myself, I would lay in bed or sit out on the quad and just listen to music.  I took such enjoyment from it that I didn't need to be doing anything else.  I could just listen and it was a perfectly acceptable way to spend my time.

Somewhere along the line that changed.  I quit listening to music regularly.  Chaz and I got married, we had two kids and now my life revolves around Disney movies and Madden '11.  It's not often that I control whatever electronic devices necessary to just listen to music and more particularly the music that I want to listen to, rather than the music that's going to keep everybody happy.  (And I'm not just referring to my husband; my two year old's fairly adamant about what she wants to watch and/or listen to.  It doesn't often coincide with what I want.  And for anyone out there saying, be the adult, listen to what you want, she'll get over it--try listening to music for enjoyment while a two-year-old cries/fusses/whines/screams about it.  Kind of defeats the purpose.)

For instance, when I would drive around Naperville, or take the four hour drive home from Naperville to Granite City, I would put in the soundtrack to Rent or Moulin Rouge or Jekyll and Hyde, blare it as loud as I might want it, and sing my lungs out.  I knew the words to all the songs, I listened to them that often, and I would just sing and sing and sing.  I don't do that anymore.  And I'm not exactly sure why.  I just haven't done it.  One reason, I'm sure, is that it would drive Chaz absolutely bonkers.  Not the me singing part (or at least he'd never openly admit it if it did) but the musical part.  Listening to the soundtrack of Rent isn't really his thing.

Anyway, the point is, I've been writing lately.  My sister got me hooked into doing this Camp NaNoWriMO thing where you try and write a novel in a month.  So far it's going much better than I ever imagined.  Not the point, though.  The point is that while I've been writing, I've been listening to music.  I normally do most of my writing between 9pm and midnight or so; it's after the girls are in bed and before Chaz gets home from work.  So I "have the house" to myself.  So I pull up Pandora and let the music play while I write.  What I have found, especially the last couple of days, is that I will be writing and then I won't be.  I'll simply be sitting there, listening to the music.  Immersing myself in the melodies and harmonies, identifying the instruments used, admiring the tonality of someone's voice, singing along without realizing it.  And when I catch myself and try to go back to writing, I find I can't really concentrate.  The music is pulling at me and all I want to do is sit there, relax and listen.  Enjoy.

I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed just listening to music.  It really does bring me happiness, plain and simple happiness.  Music.  The universal language.

I'm going to start speaking it again, I think.

April 18, 2013--Would you keep reading?

Simple question for you guys: after reading this, would you keep reading?
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The sun had long since reached its zenith and was making its slow and steady way toward the horizon.  Bright rays stretched their fingers towards the bay and making contact, caused the water to shimmer and dance.  The sky was still a vibrant blue with just the slightest hues of red and orange coming to life in the far off distance.  The artwork of afternoon was still in its early stages; the shades and images of late afternoon, twilight, dusk and finally night were still a fair ways in coming.

The water, bathed in sunlight shifted and swayed, changing colors from cerulean to aqua to stone grey and back again.  Its depths shimmered in shades of dark and light, creating patterns with no discernible beginnings or ends.  Waves lapped the shore in a gentle, constant rhythm, brought in by the light wind that held a hint of chill, creating a soothing soundtrack to accompany the breathtaking backdrop.  Couples walked hand-in-hand along the beach, their footprints imprinted distinctly for a moment, then disappearing, washed clean by the lull of the waves.

Far off in the distance, a handful of grey clouds appeared, a brushstroke of haze added to the emerging fire of the imminent sunset.  Whether they would creep closer and evolve from haze to smoke...that was still uncertain.

The old Catholic church, proud-faced and majestic, seemed to float in the middle of the bay.  In actuality, it sat on a small isle a few hundred yards from the shore.  Its white stucco walls shone pristinely in the sunlight and the slated roof, a deep brick red in color, had taken on a copper-like sheen.  The front doors were ensconced between two diamond-paned stained glass windows and when opened welcomed those who would come into a thirty foot high narthex, topped with a rounded bell tower.  Opposite the front doors, a massive pair of oaken doors opened into a vast nave.  More stained glass windows depicted famous scenes from the Holy Bible, most prominently that of the Lord’s Crucifixion, Burial and Resurrection.  At the front of the church was the sanctuary, with the altar always garbed in the appropriate attire of the church year.  Atop the altar stood an elaborate Crucifix, depicting the Lord in the throes of agony.  And to the side stood His mother, the Holy Virgin Mother, Mary.  The immense space seemed to stretch beyond time and echoed with the thousands of voices that had once spoken here, voicing the history of centuries past.  Intended to be a physical depiction of the Lord’s miraculous walking on water, the church had been built on the small island specifically and named The Insula, or simply “the island.”  The church had been erected over two hundred years ago and although renovations had been made, they had stayed true to the original aesthetic of the building.  While modern conveniences had been added and old supports replaced with new, the church looked the same as it had when first built.  

The bridge was sturdy, wooden, and it provided safe passage from the quaint little town of Wren, Massachusetts and its lovely beach to The Insula.  It was lined with old time gas lanterns, though it had been many years since gas had fueled them.  They ran on electricity but the picturesque appeal remained.  Lit at dusk each night, they lined the path trod by millions of feet and even in the darkest night left no one in doubt of the location of a place beloved by natives and popular with tourists.

A lone figure stood in the middle of the bridge gazing across the bay.  Garbed in a light overcoat, the collar upturned, the figure was distinctly male though that was all that was distinct.  A golden retriever lay contentedly at his feet as though the bridge was familiar to the canine and reclining against the bridge’s rail was a black umbrella.  Despite the bright sunshine and the calm water, the man seemed prepared for a storm.  His silhouette was a familiar one to the people of Wren, for he often frequented the bridge leading to The Insula.  He never crossed all the way, never went inside.  Always he stopped halfway across.  And there he waited, though no one knew for what.

As he waited, his gaze fixed and distant, the wind picked up suddenly.  As it whipped through his hair and the coat of the retriever, the waves became choppy and turned grey.  The sky lost its brilliant hue and the grey clouds that had hovered so distantly, so out of reach, began to race inland and brought with them the scent of rain.  There was a distant rumble of thunder and a brief flash of lightning.  

A storm was coming.

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Thoughts?

April 6, 2013--It's All About the Attitude

The past few days have shown me that I really can do more than I think I can.  That my attitude really does have a major effect on how well I handle the day-to-day things.  And now that I've finally acknowledged that realization, I can't decide if I'm proud....or ashamed.

Being rear-ended by some texting teenager while six weeks pregnant really sucked.  An extremely uncomfortable ambulance ride took me to a hospital filled with (in my opinion) arrogant and incompetent people--I mean seriously, when I told the doctor I was pregnant, he told me I probably wasn't, then when the pregnancy test came up positive, came back and informed me I was indeed pregnant (well, duh!) and because of that, he couldn't do anything for me. Go home, take some tylenol, have a great day! 

That's it?  Gee, thanks doc.

The next nine months were the most painful of my life.  Words really cannot express how much pain I was in--constant, never-ending pain.   All while chasing down an energetic one-year-old.  If you don't believe me, feel free to ask Chaz.  He will be more than willing to tell you how impossible I was to deal with throughout those long, interminable nine months.  It was a living nightmare.

Things got a little better after Daphnie was born.  I mean, I wasn't carrying a nine-pound baby in my uterus anymore--that took a bit of pressure off of my back.  Of course, now I was carrying a nine-pound baby around on my hip, so it pretty much equaled out.

The point is, I've still been in a lot of pain.  Day-to-day, constant pain.  Granted, now it's more like a constant 7 instead of a constant 9, but it's still not a walk in the park.  Unfortunately, this has not had the greatest effect on my parenting skills...or my marriage.

Chaz has said a number of times during some of our more serious discussions that I am not the woman he married.  And he's right.  I'm not.  The woman he married was in shape, active, fun (in his words).  Now my idea of fun is sitting on the couch with a can of Dr Pepper watching Grey's Anatomy while the kids nap.  I am constantly stressing.  About everything.  Money, the kids, the future, the failing plumbing, money to take care of the failing plumbing, bills, the kids, am I a good enough mom, getting to church, money, the kids, am I putting enough effort into my marriage, is Chaz bored with me, am I making Chaz happy, buying a new house, money.  And so on it goes.  All while living each day in pain.  Definitely NOT who I was four years ago.

Chaz made the comment to me the other night while coming home from the grocery store that he doesn't feel like I'm ever happy.  He comes home from work and I'm tired and worn out and stressed.  I hate that he feels that way because I don't think of myself as an unhappy person.  But if you were to randomly ask me how I was feeling, happiness probably would not be the first emotion that would come to my mind.  I had to really stop myself from not beating myself up when Chaz told me he doesn't ever come home to me happy.  I had to stop myself from only hearing "You have failed.  You're not good enough."  Because that thought process did pop up almost immediately.  But I knew he didn't mean it like that.  He was just trying to be honest with me.

One of the other things he said to me that I've spent the last few days pondering over is that if I'm going to be in pain anyway, one way or the other, shouldn't I have a better attitude about it?  Instead of focusing on how stressed I am, how unsatisfied with things I am, how much pain I'm in every day, shouldn't I really try to have a more positive attitude about things and make the best out of things?

My immediate reaction, again, was resentment and anger for being told I wasn't good enough.  That I wasn't handling things properly.  That I was a shitty wife and mother.  But after that immediate reaction, I acknowledged to myself that he was right.  I do tend to let myself get mired down in negativity, more so when he's at home.  When I'm at home by myself with the girls, I do try really hard to stay positive, to be in a good mood for the girls' sake.  But when Chaz gets home, he's able to take some of the load of the girls away and I'm free to sink into the tiredness and the frustration that I've been hiding all day.  And that's not fair to him and it's really not fair to me either.  Because in the end, I'm selling myself short.

I've been sick since Tuesday.  Congested sinuses, sore throat, achy body, headaches.  And both of the girls have been sick since Thursday.  And Chaz has been working overtime.  12 hours on Friday, working today and tomorrow (his normal two days off).  So I've been sick, dealing with two sick babies by myself for the most part.  Sounds like a recipe for fun, yeah?

So last night was absolute hell.  The girls were up all night and I do mean, all night.  I don't think they finally went to sleep until about 4am and then Daphnie was up again at 6:30 and Aubrey was up at 8:30.  I've been going on practically no sleep, feeling like absolute crap all day, dealing with two very tired, very fussy babies.

However, the day has not been bad.  The fact that the girls didn't feel good completely took precedence over the fact that I didn't feel good.  I've spent the day with either one or the other or both girls cuddled up on my lap, dozing in and out, fussing here and there, watching the same Disney movies over and over to keep them as happy as possible.  I've been giving out cough medicine and tylenol, cleaning up vomit, taking temperatures and speaking to a nurse.  All the while my nose has been either stuffed up or running like crazy, my throat is on fire and my back is killing me.  Yet none of that has really seemed to matter all day because I've been so focused on trying to keep the girls as comforted as possible.

Chaz got home from work around 4 and I was so grateful to see him but I didn't immediately sigh with relief, hand him the reins and go into hiding.  Did I refuse to ask for help....no.  But I didn't give him the attitude I so often have in the past--that oh great, he's home from work, it's his turn to deal with the kids and I can have a break attitude.  And I've done that when I've been well, when I haven't been dealing with some sort of sinus infection or whatever this is, when the girls have been well and well-behaved and the day hasn't been that bad.

Chaz has a point.  All things being equal, it really does come down to attitude.  I'm going to be in pain either way so I can either wallow in that knowledge and be miserable, or I can live my life and enjoy the moments I have with my family while they're available to have.

I'm not saying there won't be days that will be rough for me, where I will feel overwhelmed and tired and frustrated and be counting down the minutes til Chaz walks it the door.  And that's ok.  And if you don't believe that, feel free to check out this dad's blog.  (Seriously, it's amazing for anyone with young kids!)  But I really do need to remember that the day will take on the hue of whatever mood I'm in.  So if I get up in the morning and decide that it's going to be a good day, whether that means doing three loads of laundry, cleaning up the kitchen and having dinner on the table at 5pm, or spending the day camped out in the living room building block towers with the girls, it will be a good day.  And if I stay busy, if I stay happy, maybe the pain won't get in so many punches.

As I said, coming to this realization has filled me with equal parts pride and shame.  Acknowledgement is the first step and now I can take the next steps in living a better and happier life and providing happier lives for the people most important to me.  For that I feel pride.  That it's taken me this long to come to that realization, acknowledging that I've probably made my husband's life a living hell more often than not because it's been easier to whine and complain and blame him for "not understanding"--yeah, that's not such a hot feeling.

Admitting your flaws in not easy.  Of this, I am well aware.  But once you're able to admit those flaws--and I mean truly admit them to yourself and fully embrace them as part of your being--taking charge and making changes is that much easier.

I thank God that He blessed me with a man who has accepted me, flaws and all, and more importantly does not shrink away from bringing me face-to-face with those flaws and demanding that I do something about them.  But not for his sake.  Not to make his life better or easier.  For my sake.  To make my life better and easier.  To make me more satisfied and happy with who I am as a person, as a wife, as a mother.

I am truly blessed.  Even with the congested sinuses and the sore throat and the fussy babies.  I mean, c'mon--a girl can't have everything, right?