Mountains

It is time for a sabbatical. I have chosen the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, since it has been so inspiring to other writers. I will set up camp in the thin, icy air surrounded by open blue skies. I will be alone. I will wait to be inspired. I will work on finishing my novel, and so I will bring a sacrificial alter to kill my darlings.

Speaking of darlings..ahem...

I, of course, cannot afford to take this trip anywhere but in my mind. I will be away for awhile, though. Mostly because my "free time" has suddenly been cut in half with the dissolution of nap #2. That's right, the day has come...the boys have decided and it is so. I have under two hours a day to get in all the
"can only do when children are sleeping" things like showering and writing.

Also, there are major life changes on the horizon. The opportunity to move back to Florida has come up and it is both a dream and a nightmare, as life changes often are...that yin/yang ebb and flow ever present, inescapable.

So, please bear with me as I wiggle and squirm in my new boundaries, and try to find space for writing within ever-closing walls. Focus is what I am hoping to find.

Unless we take the challenge of packing up and relocating camp.

Then, I will find myself happily and frantically moving mountains.

Serendipity

I'm hovering. In my novel progress, not in the room. It's not because of writer's block or anything that romantic. It's because I have an emotional scene to write next, and I couldn't get the right emotion to well up for inspiration. Until today.

I believe in serendipity. I believe in doors opening at the right time, people coming into your life when there is something to be gained or lost, lessons given freely if we would only sit still and open our eyes and our minds. This is the faith by which I write.

If I am stuck, If I am drowning, if I am in need of a direction, I sit still, I wait, I watch...I hover. Always, without fail, I am eventually shown something, taught something, given something that is exactly what I need. Maybe this is true in every aspect of life. I have experienced this only with my writing, but who knows...

Anyway, the scene I was stalled at was one where my main character has to let go of a girl that has become like a daughter to her. My problem here was goodbye has never been hard for me. I don't look back, I don't mourn the past...in fact I thrive on change. Or so, I thought. One thing about children is they will show you exactly how wrong you are about yourself.

This is the lesson I learned today, this is the lesson that has given me the exact emotional response I need to go forward with my next scene. Today I went with my daughter to our first college tour. Not exactly a lesson in letting go, right? That's what I thought.

Wrong.

The tour was great--beautiful campus, exciting prospect. The future was wide open, bright and smiling on us. When the tour was over, she went to eat lunch with a friend instead of riding home with me. Here's the serendipity part.

I'm sitting at the traffic light to go straight and her and her friend pass me and make a left at the light. Before they make the turn, her arm emerges from the passenger window and she waves. A small gesture. A familiar arm, a hand I have bathed, and held and watched grow into a younger version of my own. But it wasn't just a "see you later" wave. It was a moment in slow motion, a glimpse at the reality of letting go. It was a message as clear as if she had whispered it in my ear.

"Yes, Mom, I am a separate person. I am my own being, with my own destiny which will be different from yours, but in my grace I am acknowledging you and the fact that I am leaving you behind."

So, in that one surreal, stripped down moment, I have been given my emotional response. I have experienced the pain and beauty which exists in the moment of a child's goodbye.

I have found the broken heart and hope from which my main character will now experience the next part of her journey.

What Book Are You?

I've seen this fun little test on a few other writers' blogs and it usually gives a mixture of compliment and humorous insult. My results were so eerily accurate I just had to share.

You're The Giver!

by Lois Lowry

While you grew up with a sheltered childhood, you're pretty sure
everyone around you is even more sheltered. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, you were
tapped on the shoulder and transported to the real world. This made you horrified by
your prior upbringing and now you're tormented by how to reconcile these two lives.
Ultimately, the struggle comes down to that old free will issue. Choose
wisely.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

What book are you?

Californication

I do believe the evil showtime gods are conspiring to seduce me back into the mind numbing cult known as cable TV. Here's how I know:

Latest temptation

David Duchovny! A story about a writer! In California???? It's being touted as a male "Sex in the City". Just plain mean and unfair. MEAN, Showtime. I have just barely gotten over my X-Files addiction and I mean, Dexter is bad enough. A serial killer working in forensics...brilliant. The books are great, full of humor and death. I resisted your 89 godzillion dollar a month plan, though. BUT now...David a writer! You've gone too far and...

I think I'll be knocking on my neigbors door on Monday night...say around 10:30???

Just Do It

This post is in response to two events. One: another aspiring mom writer asking "How do you find time to write with twins?" And two: My recent excursion back into the land of pain, sweat and abandonment issues (aka- I joined the gym) And the abandonment issues are mine, not the boys.

Let me just say that when you bring children into this world, something has to give. You have to give up part of yourself or something in your life. I know we would all like to think we can have it all and do it all but--if we're honest with ourselves--there is just not enough time. Unless, of course, you can afford a nanny, and you don't care if your kids call her mommy.

Giving up writing, for me was completely off the table, non-negotiable and necessary for my mental health. That's how I find the time. I just do it. It's a priority. Actually it's a sickness. Trying to find time to balance the rest of my life between these two priorities--kids and writing--is the real problem, but life is all about balance. About not getting out of balance. There are other important things: friends, other family members, your physical health, food, down time...sleep. All of these things must be squeezed into a measly 24 hours, only to begin again the next day. This repetition of needs is both necessary and corroding. My coping mechanism: a schedule. If I have to squeeze something else in and things get jostled around a bit, that's fine. I do this so I don't have to think, because I have a tendency to think too much. If I start thinking about how I'm going to get two toddlers to the gym with all their labeled sippy cups, snacks, diapers, extra clothes, etc or if I start thinking about how I'm going to finish this monster of a novel I have bitten off...I start to panic. I freeze.

I was thinking (see what I mean?) about this while dying on the back half of my first real workout this morning. Why do I do this to myself? Is it worth it? I don't know, really but I know it's necessary. It's for balance. It's for the completed circle: Mental, Emotional and Physical health.

So, what did I give up?

Sleep.

Moving On

What I'm working on: a speculative fiction story for the Futuristic Motherhood Book. Thanks to Shawn for bringing this contest to my attention. It is actually right up my alley, except for the whole "pressure of a deadline" thing. Which I don't do well. Which is why I don't freelance. Anyway, I think it's coming together, but time is not my friend on this one. If you write speculative fiction at all, you should check it out.

What my subconscious is apparently working on behind my back: poetry

Last night I got up in the middle of the night and wrote this one down:

Sex and Evolution

Dawn flicked out his tongue
And licked night away.
Stars crackled and died--
Once again in his glory--
Leaving nothing alive but today.
His light melted galaxies
And rose to be our god,
Nothing exists beyond light or love
Except perhaps another day.

I really have no idea what I was thinking...or my mind was thinking without me. Ahhh, the mystery of where words come from...and why they wake us up like a freakin' four alarm fire drill at three in the morning.

Rejection

As you all know, I've been working on writing and submitting some short stories. So, in keeping with the spirit of sharing my writing journey, I'll share this rejection from an editor at Boston Literary Magazine:

"Hi Shannon, thanks for the story. I have to be honest, nothing about it felt real to me... that a professional psychiatrist would be unnerved by a patient asking if they ever think about dying didnt sound authentic to me. And why would the psychiatrist have a gun in her desk? Are they in prison? Does this patient have a violent history? How did this patient have access to the desk to find the gun? Also I wasn't clear on the ending.. you say the psychiatrist unlocks the drawer to get the gun... and you say the "I" character lets her "feel the metal" and then leaps up. I wasn't sure if you meant the psychiatrist reached in and felt the metal of her gun... or if you meant the "I" character grabbed the gun and held it to the psychiatrist's head... if I were you I would go over this story again and resolve some of these issues... pondering what is human is a very interesting concept, but I don't think this story did it justice."

Again, I'm very very grateful that he even took the time to send a personal note. This does make me feel like I'm at least in the game.

Okay, now I'll share the quick fiction story since I'll have to rework it to the point of being a different story anyway:

Only Human

The psychiatrist’s office is chilly today. I caress the cool skin of my cheek, this mask that shields what is underneath. Pressing harder, I feel the bone, the skull, the eye sockets, the teeth. I think this is all that will be left of me one day. A skull like those in the science books and museums which have been excavated and displayed for the purpose of teaching, of learning. Of learning that time marches on. That we exist in a blink of an eye. That one day, we will be stripped of our masks and bleached white by the sun. I imagine when this happens, my soul will be freed and wonder where it will float off to. I know there is such a thing as a soul. I know because I can feel mine trying to scratch and claw its way free from the confines of my body, its prison. I know it is a thing separate from my mind, because my mind is its tormenter. I wonder if this is what it is to be crazy? I know this is what it is to be human.

A harsh noise pulls me from my thoughts. She has cleared her throat loudly. This is her signal that I should open up to her, that I should tell her what I’m thinking. I make eye contact. This is what I’m supposed to do and she rewards me with her most encouraging smile.

“Do you ever think about dying?” I say.

I see her trying to hold her encouraging smile, but I’ve said something wrong. I feel myself shrinking, sucked inward by the vortex of disappointment.

“Do you think you could hurt yourself?” she asks, her voice even and professional; her eyes a separate betrayal. “Or someone else?” Too casual. She is afraid of me.

I want to tell her I’m sorry. I’m sorry that my curiosity and my tiny silver lock pick have already discovered her revolver in the third desk drawer on her right. The one she is now casually unlocking. I look away and pretend not to notice the shadow of her foot begin to wiggle nervously beneath the desk.

Intuition. That’s what humans have.

“Yes,” I sigh.

I give her time to feel the cold metal but not enough time to think it through. I have had too much time to think it through myself. I jump up. I see the flash of light but I feel nothing. Maybe I am not human after all.

I lunge into the unknown.


So that's it. The funny thing is I was picturing the patient in a prison setting with a dangerous background. So, the editor got it--even if he didn't know he got it.

I'm beginning to wonder if I just don't spell things out enough? I want to give the reader credit, give them pieces and feel confident that they can put together the puzzle. I want to give them a bit of mystery, of challenge. I guess this isn't the best way to go about a short story.

Learning as I go.

Paradise Lost

I'm back.

Things I learned from this trip:

1) I have been away from the beach way too long. I have lost the connection. It was like looking into the face of a long ago friend and seeing a stranger. The grace of a pelican in flight was shocking. When did I forget this?

2) I have forgotten how to do nothing. When the boys went down for a nap and we had two hours to kill, I didn't know what to do with myself. I watched the ocean, trying to feel the familiar pull, trying to sink into the calmness, the tranquility I used to feel. After five minutes of this I left the balcony and rummaged around the condo. Surely there was something that needed cleaned, folded, tucked or scrubbed? I found a stash of books by the TV. Something to read! Perfect. I took a few outside and flipped through them. Shallow beach reads. None of them held my interest. I was beginning to panic. Instead of relaxed, I was anxious...even bored.

3) As busy as nature looks, there is a rhythm, a pattern of work and rest, of energy exerted and then released. The pelicans: flap flap flap...glide. flap flap flap...glide. The ocean: waves of energy created and dispersed. I have lost my rhythm. I am all flap flap flap...create create create.

Eventually, in the last few hours, I began to experience moments of familiarity, of lightness. Moments of recognition, of remembering. Moments I was connecting with myself and in turn, connecting with the world around me. I was encouraged that more time could have healed the distance.

Maybe next time.

Now, I will be working on trying to find my own natural rhythm.

I will try to remember how to glide.

Off to the Beach

I refuse to call this a vacation. Mainly because we have packed enough to call it a move and we are about to try our first four hour car ride with two eighteen month olds to a new place that has no gates, no drawer locks, no baby-proofed potties, plants or people and water without boundaries, bottoms or fences.

But, I'm okay. This will be my view for the next four days.

It will be...an adventure.

So, you all have a great weekend and no, this doesn't let you off the hook for participating in the top ten list! I expect to see some exposure...ahem, some...dis-closure when I get back!

Tagged, My Top Ten

Okay, only for you, Joyce.

My lovely friend, Joyce, has tagged me with this meme. You describe 10 "weird or different experiences in your blog," and then must tag 10 of your friends to do the same. Here are mine:

1) I have a serious dump truck fetish. I blame my grandfather for buying me a shiny metal one when I was two. My dad recently built me a wooden one by hand (see picture). I also paid a lot of money for a B&W photo of a dump truck by a NY photographer. Strangely enough, there is also one that's been parked on a hill behind my house for a few months now which the sun rises behind every morning, and I take as a small gift from the universe.

2) I have experienced that invisible web that connects us all. When I was seventeen I had a terrible dream that my mother's cousin, who lived in a different state (we'll call him John) had kidnapped me and assaulted me in an abandoned coal mine. It was so vivid that I wouldn't even go back to my room. The funny part about this was, I had never even met "John." I just knew instinctively it was him. A few weeks later, my grandmother sent us news that John had been arrested for this crime. It even took place in an abandoned coal mine.

3) I have experienced the full fury of nature. Its name was Hurricane Andrew. I was living in Ft. Lauderdale, and when the winds were gusting at 175 miles per hour, I thought I would also die there. Some beauty did come out if it as the aviary at the Miami Zoo was destroyed and we had gorgeous tropical birds landing in our yard for weeks afterward.

4) Growing up in Florida, I have stepped on both a pygmy rattlesnake and a sand shark.

5) Three years ago, I took a belly dancing class and was hooked. It is now my favorite form of exercise.

6) Six years ago I became a vegetarian because of a disturbing dream I had in which I bit a lamb. Yes, bit. Hard. Drew blood. I know, it's a weird thing to change your lifestyle because of a dream but it was irrevocably etched into my psyche. I can still hear the poor thing scream.

7) A bit of irony. I have lived and driven in four different states but have received my only speeding ticket in the state that I was born in (Pa.) while driving through cross country.

8) From my senior year Algebra class window, I watched the space shuttle Challenger launch and then explode. It was a shocking event. Not only for the live's lost but for the loss of innocence and the lesson in life's unfairness and mortality, even when things are planned so carefully. You are never in control, never safe.

9) When I was twenty five I got to visit Denmark. It was seriously one of the highlights of my life. The people were incredibly warm, real and fascinating. I loved it so much I wanted a reminder of my trip that was more than a souvenir I would plop on a shelf. So, before getting on the plane to come back home I found a small tattoo parlor in Copenhagen and had my belly button pierced, (the commitment of a tattoo is too much for me) not thinking about the many hours sitting upright on a plane I would have to endure with a throbbing belly. My souvenir is now a tiny scar.

10) In an eleventh grade creative writing class, we had to write a true story about something that affected our lives greatly and the teacher sent them in to a contest for a magazine that would be distributed to all the Florida high schools. I wrote a story about one of my parent's friends, an older gentleman that used to bring me butterscotch candy, and how his passing affected me. Although it was supposed to be a true story, I made this one up and so was shocked when my story was picked. Even more so when an office worker brought me a box a few weeks later filled with letters from high school students saying how touched they were by my story and how it helped them understand a loss of their own. That's when I experienced the power of fiction writing and fell in love.

On that note, I swear I didn't make any of these up. :-)

I know it's summer and you all are busy, so I'm not going to force you to participate. BUT, it's fun...so if you read this just DO IT. GET NAKED.

Of Mice and Men

So, say it's the future and you're adopted. You go in search of your genetic parents, only to find out that they are...mice! Yes, I'm talking about the squeaky, furry little lab tenants. What would be your reaction? Horror? Disbelief? Would you start looking for the hidden camera?

Is it far fetched? Perhaps. Is it possible? Entirely.

It's possible because of a little thing scientists like to call a chimera. A chimera is created by mixing cells from two different species. In a simplified version of the scenario above, you could inject human stem cells into some mice embryos and let the resulting mice be born. You are bound to get some mice born eventually that have human reproductive cells. Just mate a mouse with human sperm and a mouse with human eggs and you have a 100% human baby. Of course, the embryo would have to be implanted in a human womb, but that is a routine procedure now. Which brings me to a fascinating debate going on in England.

The British Parliament is considering allowing scientists to create chimeric embryos as long as they are destroyed after two weeks. They say it will be against the law to implant these embryos. The problem is The Catholic bishops have come out and said if these chimeric embryos are created, they have a right to life. They don't think they should be made at all, but if scientists do go ahead with it, then they should be allowed to live. Specifically, this is what the Bishop's say:

"It should not be a crime to transfer them, or other human embryos, to the body of the woman providing the ovum, in cases where a human ovum has been used to create them. ... Such a woman is the genetic mother, or partial mother, of the embryo; should she have a change of heart and wish to carry her child to term, she should not be prevented from doing so.”

Can you imagine?!!

Because this is the topic of my current book, I have asked a lot of people their thoughts on a non-human animal/human hybrid creation. I can tell you that the reaction is almost always something akin to "ick" or "are you crazy?" or "god help us if that ever happens" or "step away from the tequila." Actually, by the reactions I can honestly say I think these creatures are better off not ever being born. They would be outcasts, slaves, burned on stakes in horrible rituals, tortured, ridiculed and at the very least have no rights.

Here in the U.S. we tried to pass the Human Chimera Prohibition Act back in 2005. It never became a law. What we have instead is a National Academy of Science ethics board that scientists are urged to run experiments by before they attempt anything like this. There is also only regulations put on government funded labs. Private labs can do whatever they want.

So, now I'm asking you. If scientists are allowed to create human-non-human embryos...do you think they have a right to be born? What if the creation had more than sixty percent human DNA and only forty percent mouse? Would that make a difference?

Poetry Sharing

Okay. So, I have company this week (well not just any company) but my mother. Which, on one hand will be great, as she is an awesome grandma who already has the boys in the palm of her hand. But, this means I won't have time to write this week, soooo I figured this would be a good time to share something I've already written.

As I've said before, although I love poetry, it's not my strong point. Maybe it's because I only write poetry when I need to release some sort of emotion--usually pain, frustration, etc. All the dark stuff. It usually does the trick for me, as I feel better after writing it. As far as sharing it, it doesn't usually make sense to anyone else.

I found this one which I think is pretty cut and dry:

A Blink of a Breakdown

I want to tumble, spat from bare air
as fear sulks, left behind by Newton’s law.
I want to ride a dirty train in some foreign country,
drowning in novel accents
where I can stand naked in ignorance,
watching strangers blow out heavy tar-smoke
like burnt souls filling the cab, laughing
at something, as if life were actually amusing.
I want to stare
at a building so breathtaking
that I actually forget
to breath.
I want to fill my lungs with ocean salt.
I want to be reborn so many countries later,
I ring the front desk to ask
what day it is.
I want to taste the speed of light.
I want to stick my tongue
In the lemon meringue sun,
Lick the gathering foam
From death’s noble steed-
Gallop faster, won’t you?
Scream,
I want to scream.
I want to plop on the fire branded sands
And wink back at the seas of possibility.
I want to give someone a thing of
value and turn away before
they smile politely,
having no fucking clue
what lay dead in their hand.
I want to hear glass shatter.
I want to be transported to magical lands
by strange mushroom drinks
concocted by uncivilized hands.
I want to stare, unblinking star by star
And know down time’s line
a spent story of light will exist
In memory of me.
I want to flee down a haunted hall.
I want to not be haunted.
I want to shatter every mountain
and feed their ground bones to the sea.
Heaven is flat, open, infinite.
I want to breath.
I want to live in the darkness
because the light shows the ugliness of humanity.
I want the darkness to not live in me.

So, those of you out there that write poetry, what moves you to start a poem? Is it emotional or more physical, like an event? I would love to read some of yours so feel free to post them!

Have a great week.

Top Ten List

Top Ten Reasons Why Writing as a Profession Rocks

1) You can be successful without having to deal with the pesky fame part of it. Worried about being too brilliant and getting mobbed at the Jiffy Lube? No worries...unless you are J.K. Rowling, of course.

2) The average professional baseball player's career only lasts 6.5 years. As a writer, you don't have to be concerned about physical injury derailing your career. You can work your knotty little arthritic fingers to the bone well into your nineties. (Bar the deformities such as your ass becoming the size and shape of your computer chair)

3) Afraid that you won't hear enough stories about your nutter friends and relatives? No need to worry. As soon as you tell them you're writing a book, you will have stories coming out of your ears.


4) What other job is there that you can work in your underwear and fuzzy bunny slippers?


5) Hearing voices and arguing amongst yourselves are considered valuable tools of the trade.


6) The fan mail is nice, yes...but more importantly are the helpful souls out there that selflessly scour your books for inaccuracies or other things that may accidentally conjure up the devil, and expend a great deal of effort coming up with career matches that would better suit you such as a vacuum cleaner sales representative...or perhaps, just the vacuum cleaner.


7) Writers don't have to worry about becoming complacent and taking things for granted such as new cars, diamond studded socks or a private island getaway. (Again, unless you're J.K. Rowling)


8) Rejection. It's addicting. Better than crack. Don't believe me...here, try it--


Dear Reader,

Although I appreciate you taking the time to read this blog, I'm afraid your blue moon rising just doesn't coincide with my sparkly fairy tattoo. Good luck placing your foot elsewhere.


Having flash backs yet?


9) You get to make your own schedule, which forces you to be highly organized, disciplined and free from any and all procrastination tendencies. In other words...perfect.


10) After creating a three hundred plus page story-- filled with places and people that don't really exist, powered by events that never really happened--coming up with a story about the gallon of missing mint chocolate chip ice cream that was just bought two days ago is a piece of cake!

Monday Short

Life Lesson #38

I dip the wand into the thick, soapy liquid. When I pull it out, it runs down my arm. This is meant to simply be entertainment. The first time, I get the wand too close to my mouth as I blow, spitting to the delight of my toddler, who practices this spitting thing after me. Squeals ensue as bubbles explode from the wand, released by the wind instead of me. Some form of disappointment expands within me at this fact. I watch as he toddles after them, arms raised, fingers splayed. He falls, gets back up, toddles more, giggles more. This time, I shield the wind and blow the bubbles myself. When he chases these, it is a sweeter flavor of joy.

Now, he has squatted down. He has spotted a bubble sticking in the grass, quivering in the wind. I watch silently as--with a deliberation that could make the whole world disappear and a smile that is the whole world--he pokes his prize at last, touching it with a tiny pointer finger. Fragile meets fragile. The disappointment is instant, appearing exactly at the same time the bubble pops. With eyes watering from the sun, the wind and the sheer unfairness of a goal reached, he looks up at me with questions I don’t know how to answer, uncertainties I don’t know how to protect him from. So, I simply watch him with my own eyes watering from the wind and the bitter sweetness of life.

I smile and I say, “Precisely, my son.”

Rockin' the Blog

This is mine, you can look but don't touch!

Actually, I joke but I am honored that my new rockin' twin mommy-slash-writer friend Shawn awarded me the Rockin' Girl Blogger award! Also, it gets passed on to five other rockin' girl bloggers, so technically others can & will touch it. But, for now, it's mine to hug & squeeze & admire. (I bet someone out there will find my blog now by googling "others can & will touch it")

This would be a good time to say--when I started this blog, I did it to get used to other people reading my writing, to sort of come out of my shell. What I didn't expect is the connection I feel with those of you who I've met on this blogging road. I would have never thought it was possible to care about people, and laugh and cringe and feel compassion for people that I have never met in person. But, I have done all of those things. I guess technology's good for something after all.

So, without further babbling, and in no particular order, here's who I'm awarding the Rockin' Girl Blogger award to:

Tertia Albertyn Tertia is a mom and writer living in Africa. I have always been drawn to the exotic, the new, the unknown. Which is why I began to read her blog. I love meeting people from far away places. The reasons I keep reading are (1) her sense of humor and honesty are at a level that I can only gaze up at, never reach. And (2) she blogs about her struggle with infertility which ended finally with the birth of her twins. My path was eerily similar to hers and even when there is a happy ending, there are scars from the journey that need to heal. Laughing and nodding while reading her blog has become my therapy.

B.E. Sanderson Beth is one of the kindred spirits I have met through this blogging journey. She's a fellow speculative fiction writer who I read because she's beside me in the trenches and I don't feel so alone in my journey when I visit her. She definitely rocks!

Bee Lavender Bee's blog is where I go when I want to live vicariously through someone. Besides having a great name, she is an amazingly unique person, who has been through so many illnesses, cancer, surgeries, near death moments in her life but still, instead of being bitter or afraid, she is actually living life to the fullest. She is savoring life in Cambridge, which is fitting for her, she is as charming as I have always imagined England to be.

Rebecca Taylor Rebecca is a lady who works in the molecular biology field and started her blog "Mary Meets Dolly" to try to clear up some of the misconceptions the general public has about issues such as genetic engineering and reproductive technology. Although I don't share the Catholic viewpoint she is writing from, I admire her immensely for the fact that she saw a need for public education about things such as cloning and stem cell research and she is doing something about it. Her posts are always well-researched and I have learned a great deal from her.

Alexandra Sokoloff What can I say about Alex? She's a gorgeous thriller writer with spunk who's posts keep me in the loop of what's going on in the world of writerdom. 'Nough said.

And last, but certainly not least, I would like to nominate someone for the counterpart to this award. THE AWESOME GUY BLOGGER.I cannot leave out Christian, the person who has graciously become the supporting beam to my blogging life. He is also a writer, but his blog is like stepping into wonderland--you never know what is there waiting for you. It could be bits of writing, reviews, rants. Whatever it is, it's always honest and he doesn't hold back. I wish I could be as free!

So, Christian, thanks for both the entertainment and support! You rock. Of course, I can't get your bling to post here so check your email!

Can you feel the love, people???? I know I sure can!

Thanks again, Shawn!

Zen

I have always subscribed to the belief that we should live in the moment. One of my favorite books is "The Power of Now". The problem is, it's way too easy to let life get in the way of how to best live your life. I manage to live in the moment about thirty seconds a week. Sometimes I catch myself, and I think "okay, I'll do better next week when I'm not so stressed, busy, cranky, overwhelmed, emotionally drained, bla bla bla."

Of course, there has to be some balance here. After all, looking back down the road is good for a few things. It's a useful way to avoid the same mistakes, to appreciate how far you've come and to realize how quickly the present becomes the past. Unfortunately, most of us use it as evidence against ourselves to keep living in a world of self-imposed guilt and penance.

Looking forward also has its usefulness. Humans have evolved to possess an imagination, a tool in our survival belt. The proper way to use this tool is to avoid and prepare for possible disasters in our future. This is how we survive, how our species exists, but unfortunately it is not how we find happiness.

Which brings me to the point of this post. Zen. Zen to me means living in awareness of the moment. Being both the participant and observer in one’s own life. Being both the artist and the one standing in front of the canvas, smiling in appreciation.

Over at Shawn's place, she has an interview up with Karen Maezen Miller, author of "Momma Zen: Walking the Crooked Path of Motherhood". Karen is a Zen Buddhist priest, a wife, mother and writer. She is also giving away five copies of her book! How Zen is that??? So, in order to enter, you have to post at Shawn's place and finish the statement, "For me, Zen is....."

So, here goes:

For me, Zen is…

The moments I can block out fear. Fear of the future, fear of the past, fear of failure. Zen is the moment one of my children meet my eyes and I feel a rush of love. Zen is the moment of a new discovery, a moment I recognize a connection with a new friend, a moment I feel myself breathing and am grateful. Recently, I have consciously logged a few moments while I was experiencing them and so these I would call Zen. A moment standing on the porch while black clouds rolled in and heavy winds made me catch my breath. A moment when my twins were crying after a biting match and I let myself cry with them, completely overwhelmed. For that moment I let go of all fantasies and preconceptions that I could control anything. It was a surprising moment of peace, a seed that had burst forth from the heat. A moment of physical pleasure with the first mouthful of a newly discovered wine, a freshly scrubbed kitchen floor, and a moment of relief when my kids actually ate the new recipe I tried, instead of throwing for distance.

I suppose for me, Zen is just being able to exist in the moment and let it be what it is. A moment without reigns. A moment embraced and then released to make room for the next moment. Whatever it brings, heartache or joy, saturating myself in it because it is life. Life is not one perfect moment after another…or is it?

What is your Zen?

This is My Brain on Summer

Since it's summer and I'm having a hard time solidifying any one thought...with the exception of "God, I wish I were at the beach right now!" I'm just going to blog about some of the randomized writing stuff I've been up to.

I am not a particularly politically inclined individual. I don't get politics, but I'm trying because things are really starting to frighten me. For instance--what the freak is up with China???? Are they secretly trying to poison all our pets, our kids and all of us who brush our teeth? Or are all these recalls some secret political game our government is playing? Maybe we should start opening our factories back up, making our own products right here where we control the regulations, putting money in our own worker's pockets. Oh...

See what I mean about having a hard time keeping my thoughts from sprouting feet and running off in a different direction. Ahhh, summer. ANYWAY...I'm currently reading John McNally's "America's Report Card." It's basically about how ridiculous standardized government testing is and some about conspiracy theories. A real eye opener. But more than that, it's hilarious! Here's a quote:

"She even sat through interviews conducted by Larry King, a man who reminded her of a corpse that had been exhumed from a long-forgotten cemetery and then brought back to life with a billion watts of electricity."

Besides being funny, that is so true! Or maybe that's why it's funny.

Anyway, great book so far.

I'm also a beta reader for fellow speculative fiction writer & Ayn Rand fan, B.E. I'm enjoying her novel, Blink of an I, very much. But, I can't tell her that yet, because I feel like I should have some critique to go with it. So Beth, if you read this...just ignore that part.

Besides the novel, I'm trying to work on some "100 words or less" short stories to submit to Tuesday Shorts. Do you know how hard it is to whittle a story down to 100 words?! Crazy hard. Well, for me anyway. The closest I've gotten is 259 words. It's fun to try.

Go on, try it!

Real or Imagined?

What makes a memorable story?

They say our brains can't tell the difference between something that has happened to us and something that we only imagine has happened to us. There have been all kinds of experiments about this. The one that comes to mind right now is the one where they took two groups of kids and allowed the first group to practice basketball for hours & told the second group to spend the same amount of time imagining they were practicing basketball. At the end of the experiment, the two groups had improved equally.

Our bodies apparently react to an imagined stressful event in the same way as an experienced stressful event.

I started noticing recently that when I have my toddler twins out in public and I loose sight of one of them (mind you, I only take them to gated in areas when I 'm alone with them, so it's not like they can run off) I have been reacting a lot stronger than I have in the past. By this I mean, I pretty much am over-reacting. I get the whole heart racing, light headed fight or flight thing. When it happened today, I tried to pinpoint the fear and what I came up with was that I was reliving a memory. A memory of losing my child, of wondering where he was at that moment, knowing he was terrified to be without me. Only, I have never lost my child.

The "memory" stems from the story of the four year old little girl who had been kidnapped from her parent's hotel room while they were vacationing not too long ago. I am so empathetic by nature that every time I read something about this story, I couldn't help but put myself in the parents shoes, imagining each detail in technicolor, feeling the horror...the terror and the heartbreak as if it were my child. Of course, I will never know the fullness of their pain but for me, this story has become my own terrible memory.

So, the question of the day is...can we, as fiction writers, affect people like this with our stories? Or is it only "the truth" that can do this. If our brains can't tell the difference between what we are experiencing through our imagination and what we are experiencing in the real world, then it should be possible.

McCarthy Interview

For those of you, like me, who find it impossible to watch tv in the middle of the day and equally impossible to bring yourself to purchase TIVO, good news:

Oprah has the Cormac McCarthy interview video on her website. You have to join the bookclub to see it, but that only takes a second and besides, you could be a lot worse things in life than a member of Oprah's bookclub. Watch it. It's a real treat!

Enjoy.

Personal Essay on Shock Absorbers

Life is simply shocking.

This is my answer to the statement that life is unfair. I didn’t come to this conclusion from experiencing things too harsh to give light to-- divorce, bankruptcy, a two-year war with clinical depression-- all before my thirtieth birthday. Though those things did happen, life is kind enough to numb you during the really big matters. (Have you noticed that when people get their limbs torn off or something equally awful, they always say, ‘I didn’t feel a thing’?) This is the way it is with the big things, you are suddenly suspended, freed from natural laws by some unnatural kind of mercy. Life is what happens in between. A series of brightly lit moments, tiny glimpses of truth strung together like Christmas lights.

My earliest recollection of one of these jolts of truth was before I was eleven. (I only know this because it came before one of the biggest shocks of my life, which left me with a background noise of fear. But I’m getting ahead of myself.)

Living in a small Pennsylvanian town, lightning bug season was our answer to fireworks. Fireflies. Our faces pressed against the window, our eyes straining to see through the dusk and dirty screen for the first blink of green. Their mating call, our signal to begin the hunt. Mason jars gripped tightly in both hands, we would rush out, squealing, laughing, charging the tiny lights and then try to follow them through the growing darkness until their biological processes betrayed them once again. Once we got bored of gathering them into a living lantern, we would start to make glowing jewelry from their gooey, torn off abdomens. The last season, maybe metaphorically the last season of my innocence, came in the moment I realized the other half of the bug was dead, and I had killed it. It felt foreign, this thought, foreign and then hot and startling like a sudden summer storm. Shock. It was to be the end of lighting bug jewelry for anyone near me.

Living in the woods, there were other moments of death-shock. The baby moles I had tried to save from the cat by putting them up out of reach on top of my sliding board- my aluminum sliding board…on a sweltering summer day. Shock. That same cat’s kittens being mauled by a neighbor’s dog. Shock. But nothing could have prepared me for the realization of my own mortality.

I always ask people now if they remember the exact moment they realized one day they would die. They always say no. Is this normal? My exact moment came as an eleven year old, lying in the grass, staring up at the sky. Something uncomfortable began to grow within me as my fingers absentmindedly stroked the grass, thoughts were reflecting the motion of the clouds, drifting unchecked, uninhibited. Discomfort exploded into a moment of blind truth, a searing white moment of conclusion. The sky was ripped open as the veil of childhood fell from my eyes. One day I would no longer feel the softness of grass between my fingers. One day would be my last. One day, I would no longer exist. This one sent shock waves into my future.

There are two choices a person has when faced with such a truth. One- don’t allow yourself to reach that deeply into thought ever again, or two- begin stacking layers of beliefs, superstitions, religions between you and the truth, a mental padding that you can fall back on, a shock absorber.

Alternating these two things seemed to get me from one day to the next, until the subject of death once again touched my life. I lost my best friend of fourteen years. There were a few hot-truth moments strung out through that experience. Beginning with the fact that death steamrolls right over love, care and devotion; then it rips away the padding you so carefully built up over the years so the things you thought you believed in become a rapidly disappearing mist of illusions. You are naked once again. Shocked.

Months later, bursting from the ashes of mauled-over grief came another jolt of truth. Love had survived. (Me-shocked: what?) Yes, after all, it makes sense. Something as powerful, infinite and incomprehensible as love could not have just burst into being 18 billion years ago along side our infant universe. Love is the key to immortality. So, this is the one illuminated moment I keep on top of the rest, as the tiny points of truth wind their way through my life toward the brightest truth of all.

Love cheats death.