food is innocent, people—even evil piles of oiled spaghetti

Wanna hear my latest pet peeve? (You do.)

Mean cooking shows. What the hell is wrong with this country?

I don’t watch a lot of shows besides Downton Abbey, Girls, New Girl, Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix (where has that show been my whole life?), One Tree Hill on Netflix (TOTAL crap, but I can’t stop), Louie and (best show ever) Felicity which I only watch on DVD since Netflix uses the wrong songs in some places and it ruins entire episodes. Don’t mess around with my Felicity. You’ve been warned. There may be some shows I am forgetting to remember... Oh! Nashville. So gloriously trashy! So aside from all of those, I don’t watch a lot of shows. I forgot Shameless.

But I totally love cooking shows. They are like delicious white noise. Almost anything on the Cooking Channel or the Food Network—LOVE it. I usually watch a little of The Chew (how much do I LOVE that show?) while I eat my lunch and lately ABC has been advertising a new show called The Taste and it is just all mean. There are other mean cooking shows, too. And they all suck. Not that I’ve watched them. I refuse on principle.

Can we just allow some things to be nice? It’s food, not the giant trash heap in the Pacific. Or global warming. Or malaria. Or the wrong songs in some places on Felicity ruining entire episodes.

(Okay, I’m done with that.)

So, you can anticipate only one blog post from me this week. (Take a moment if you need to. Alright... you okay now? Good.) I am into heavy edits on The Mosquito Hours and very busy scrutinizing every word and examining every theme. And—because what would my life be without freaking out about pretty much everything (I’m exaggerating—it’s only almost everything)—I find myself concerned that not every single thread and theme and thought and metaphor and motif and other literary devices I don’t remember from AP English are not fully realized.

This is a 101,826 word document. Do you know what it that is like?

I can’t even explain it.

(I’m a writer—I should try.)

It’s like an enormous and evil pile of oiled spaghetti—you prop up one area to have a look and the rest droops and slides away. You prop up some other area to have a look and the rest droops and slides away. You prop up some other area to have a look and the rest droops and slides away.

(I think you get it.)

My workspace. Totally overwhelming pile of notes and one of my favorite pens. Yes, that is One Tree Hill on the screen.

You have to try to remember every way you did everything for the sake of consistency, make sure the story doesn’t get bogged down anywhere, too speedy anywhere, make sure the prose is interesting yet clear and the story lines are believable, find and fix all typos (totally impossible), insert/adjust the excellent ideas and feedback from your friends who have graciously read the 101,826 word document.

(Aren’t you freaked out now, too?)

But then I remembered that writing is truly a collaboration with the reader. My readers are smart—I have to allow them space to find the themes and the connections. Find the meaning and metaphor. And that might be somewhat different for each reader. And that will mean the book itself will be essentially different. Each reader brings his or her own perspective and that will shape their experience with my words. And that is really pretty amazing. So, thank you ahead of time, as I know you will find wonders in my book of which I had not even conceived.

It’s gonna be great.

In the meantime while you wait to read The Mosquito Hours, do not watch mean cooking shows. Or Felicity on Netflix. Seriously.

i’m gonna need another bookcase...again

I have these lovely IKEA bookcases—5 of them. FULL. Actually, they were full until I culled back by 2 entire bookcases worth of books. Those bookcases made their way into the kids’ play and create space and house their books, games, art supplies and such.

I won’t tell you how many books I have in the to-be-read pile.

(Including the Kindle, 47. Including books I checked out of the library, 53. Including the book I just ordered from half.com, 54.)

(I have a problem with books.)

I find books in all the usual places—your Barnes & Noble, your Amazon.com. I also love half.com and alibris.com. Also the Salvation Army Thrift Store, the Friends of the Library weekly book sale, paperbackbookswap.com, the consignment store, the Friends of the Library weekly book sale in the town over, the local used bookstore, the distant used bookstore, my sister’s bookshelf when she is otherwise occupied. I have a computer folder full of PDF eBooks I downloaded from different blogs I follow. Did you know that you can borrow eBooks from the library? I do. And you can get practically anything via interlibrary loan. I have 53 books checked out of the library right now. Granted, about 40-something of those are for the kids. They each have a blossoming problem with books.

(My son got a book-light in his stocking. He’s teaching himself to read after he goes to bed. I’m not making that up. All my efforts for naught—he’s just doing it himself. That’s the way they do it, I am learning. Or maybe they are teaching me?)

I am ecstatic to read Dear Life by Alice Munro—she said she was retiring several years ago and hasn’t and THANK THE UNIVERSE for that! Munro tells a story in such a way that you are completely absorbed and in the end you have no idea how she just did what she did but you know it was extraordinary. I received Flight Behavior by Barbara Kingsolver for Christmas and it is sooooo delicious so far. Her prose is an inspiration. I am on a Louise Erdrich kick and if you’ve never read any of her work run to one of the book-getting outlets I mentioned above and GET SOME. I am just about done with Hannah Coulter by Wendell Berry and he’s another one who writes in such simple, lovely way that in the end you simply marvel. I’ve got The Dovekeepers by Alice Hoffman, a bunch of homeschooling books, a book called Gilded which recounts the rise of Newport, RI’s high society and the development of their mansions (or “cottages” as they called them). I have The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields which I have attempted to read a number of times, but it won’t penetrate my brain. I’m giving it one more shot. I just received The Optimist’s Daughter by Eudora Welty from half.com—a copy from 1979. Pretty funky! Oh! And The Middlesteins by Jami Attenberg from the library which is SO good so far.

Believe it or not, I am a really picky reader. If I start a book and the story isn’t grabbing me, I stop reading—life is too short to read a book you don’t like. If the prose is blah, I quit. If I can see what the writer is attempting to “establish,” I’m done. I know I sound like a jerk. I am snooty about books.

I have been saying for years that I will not buy any more books until I have read the ones I already have. I really mean it this time.

(No, I don’t.)

What are you reading right now?

things about which i just found out AND meet my monkey!

Spotify. What!?

How awesome is Spotify? I could waste endless amounts of time with this. Most likely I will. I tend to discover things 500 years after everyone else has. For all I know, there are people out there getting around with jet packs or in fold-up cars or actually using Jedi mind tricks effectively—right now. Like I’ll bet there’s a whole information superhighway out there. I’m sure I’ll soon find out if it’s happened. (Or maybe I just invented something awesome! I’ll call it “cyberspace”!) But holy crap-a-doodle-doo, I could waste a lot of time on Spotify. And what about Pinterest?! How cool is Pinterest? I totally did not get the point of it and then one day I suddenly totally did and now I am wondering how I ever got by without it.

So, I have been giving a great deal of thought to my writing plans for 2013. I am hesitant to call these plans “goals” because goals are way to pressure-y. Plans on the other hand are malleable. Pleasantly jelly-like. Then instead of failing to meet your goals you adjust your plans. See how that works? (And, no—semantics is not a cop-out.)

I had everything sorted out regarding the publication plans for my novel, The Mosquito Hours. I mean pretty well sorted out—the bones of a plan. (I won’t bore you with the details. That’s what Steve is for.) So, I had these lovely plans beginning to coalesce, merge, jellify. Then I decided to enter a big novel writing contest (more on this as it unfolds—if it does indeed unfold) which sort of threw all my plans to chaos. And last night I stayed up until midnight to enter this contest at exactly the moment they began to accept entrants even though I was so wicked tired and I made the mistake of really reading the contest rules and it was rather confusing and I think I may have agreed to something unspeakable and then if I win I have to go to Seattle and that will involve, presumably, a ride in a plane and I don’t like that and do I even want a book contract in the first place and should I keep editing The Mosquito Hours or move on to one of my other novels-in-progress and this goes on but I will stop now just at the point before your ears start to bleed.

(You’re welcome.)

There is a concept in Buddhism known as monkey mind. Here I present an excerpt from Taming the Monkey Mind by Thubden Chodron (1995):

The monkey mind is a term sometimes used by the Buddha to describe the agitated, easily distracted and incessantly moving behaviour of ordinary human consciousness... Once he observed: “Just as a monkey swinging through the trees grabs one branch and lets it go only to seize another, so too, that which is called thought, mind or consciousness arises and disappears continually both day and night...” Anyone who has spent even a little time observing his own mind and then watched a troop of monkeys will have to admit that this comparison is an accurate and not very flattering one.

Meet my monkey, dear reader! Isn’t she cute? (She’s not cute.)

After my monkey started going berserk last night, I couldn’t settle down. (Really? you say. I totally know you’re being sarcastic.) That stupid monkey tore back and forth around the joint and roosted in the rafters to throw poop down on any reasonable and calm thoughts that might happen to make their way through my vibrating gray matter. I finally fell asleep but had this terrifying dream that I was in a treehouse and was inexplicably filled with dread and doom and my husband had to wake me because I guess I was whimpering. Then I dreamed that I was lost and couldn’t get home and there was some really urgent reason why I needed to get home. Then some kid woke me by climbing into bed and kicking me repeatedly. Then I dreamed I was making out with this really cute boy. That wasn’t so bad. Then some other kid woke me. But that time I didn’t dream anything. And then my son woke me at 7:00 to ask me if I was awake.

I feel better today. My monkey is definitely tamer while the sun shines. The Buddha said to work towards deer mind. “Deer are particularly gentle creatures and always remain alert and aware no matter what they are doing.” So, I will work on my edits, take one moment at a time, see what unfolds and calmly and mindfully respond to whatever it might be. And cultivate deer mind.

And occasionally, when the monkey gets to flinging poop, I will retreat into Spotify. It’s happy in there and very sedate. And you can make playlists of songs from the '90s when you were 20 and hot and one called “old timey mellow mix” with artists like Gerry Rafferty and Seals and Crofts.

Don’t worry. I’ll find what sustains me. We all will.

You've been as constant as a Northern Star The brightest light that shines

"nests"—a flash fiction story

A very short story based on the things left behind in one of my kitchen cabinets.

His wife left behind a mini-muffin tin, an aluminum cookie sheet and a tacky, scratched green metal tray decorated with an artist’s renderings of New Hampshire tourist traps. The Old Man in the Mountain, Clark’s Trading Post, the Kancamagus Highway—all etched in white. The scratches were etched in rust. In the kitchen of their old house, two tall and narrow cabinets flanked the stove, one of which she had forgotten to empty. They intentionally left behind an old upright piano. It was too expensive to move and they had no room for it in their new, small apartment. He had painted that old piano with a creamy white semi-gloss paint. A long time ago. He wondered if the new family kept it. It was very out of tune.

His wife was deeply distraught about the things she left behind. She lamented them and repeatedly expressed her distress to him, to their children, to friends over the phone. It embarrassed him—her bald and passionate grief over a muffin tin, a cookie sheet, a scratched old metal tray. And he couldn’t recall the last time—or any time—she ever made bite-sized muffins.

“You never even used that pan,” he said to her.

She looked at him hard. “Yes. I did.”

“When?” He was sincere, not combative.

“That’s not the point,” she said.

What was the point? In the face of what had been lost, what could these things mean to her. When he considered the missteps that had led to this end, they each seemed small when examined one at a time. But the accumulation was calamitous. A muffin pan? He thought this but had been married long enough not to say more. Who cares about a muffin pan? he wanted to say, but didn’t.

**

Sometimes, on his way home from work, he drove by his old house.

The new family had removed the big juniper bushes and rhododendron from the front of the house. It could not be denied that the plants had been terribly overgrown, but now the house held a naked, vulnerable look.

There were small children in this new family. Once when he drove by, he saw the new woman corralling them, one after the other, faces like bright new buttons, into a minivan parked in his old driveway.

For years, his sons played in the fort they’d built in the backyard. The fort still stood, the weathered wood dulled to a muted gray. His wife spent years worrying that one of them would fall to the ground.

“It’s too high,” she always said, peering out the kitchen window to the backyard.

“They’ll be fine,” he always said.

He was right—no one ever fell. But it was possible they kept the near misses to themselves.

He was no voyeur. Neither was it a kind of intimacy he was seeking. What then?

He gazed through the passenger side window as he drove slowly.

The feeling of what once was—the recovery of a precise sentiment—settling in his deepest tissue. Right down deep in his belly, seeping into his rib bones.

That was what it was.

**

Spring came.

The forsythia bushes that encircled the backyard were in bloom. From the street out front he could see the outer edges—they peeked from around the sides of the house. Pretty and cheerful every year, they made the backyard seem nicer than it really was. The dense foliage hid all the overgrown stuff he never managed to remove from beneath them. The accumulated fallen leaves of many autumns, the vines that had sprung up on their own. Also the discarded and forgotten toys that once belonged to his children with a fierce possessiveness, thought of as lost or forgotten altogether.

Blue jays nested in the forsythia. Not the same birds year after year but seemingly so. Although he knew this could not be true.

Blue jays are ferociously territorial. They have been known to chase cats, dogs and humans away. They mob owls who get too close. They are large, they are noisy. They are smart. And while those qualities could not be denied, his blue jays shared those same forsythia with cardinals. A spill of colors amongst the yellow and green. Bright and bold in the nakedness of winter over the setting of white snow.

**

He began to drive away. He looked at the weathered gray siding of his old house. The new family had painted the shutters a different color since the last time he drove past.

It was just a muffin pan.

All that yellow in bloom now.

Just a pan.

He would not say such a thing.

Who was he to say.

meatball triumph! (...and tragedy)

Meatballs are a pain in the ass. Maybe not to Mario or Giada, but for me, a total pain in the ass. They’re messy and raw meat totally freaks me out and I don’t like touching it. Then when I fry them up in the giant sauté pain (which is also a total drag to clean later), they always seem to stick and I have to chisel them out to flip them over and the olive oil is spitting all over the top of the stove. One giant pain. (Do you ever wonder when you read this blog, Is there nothing about which she can’t find to complain? The answer is no. It is one of my special talents that I share with you. You are welcome.) But everyone eats meatballs with exuberance which makes them little miracle balls. Let me make clear that when I say “everyone,” I mean everyone except my son who only eats 6 things. Wanna guess what they are? If you said boxed mac-n-cheese, pizza, peanut butter and jelly, waffles, nuggets and fries and bacon you win! What do you win? Nothing. It’s just an expression. (And I exaggerate. He eats, like, 8 things.) Everyone knows that when I say “everyone” eats such and such, I am excluding my son. Who is everyone? You know, just everyone. Everyone who eats meatballs. Which is everyone except my son. (Are you following?) At any rate, I had a meatball epiphany the other day. It was more like several different meatball ideas merging to create the PERFECT method for making meatballs. (At least if you are me.)

Here’s what you do.

Make your meatball mix. I always make Giada’s. (Just use white turkey meat if you can’t get dark, which mostly you can’t unless you live near a Whole Foods, which I personally do not. Or you can kill a turkey yourself. Your call.) Grab a nice cookie scoop and a mini-muffin tin.

Let me break here a moment to tell you about my mini-muffin tin.

In my kitchen, there are two skinny cabinets that flank the stove. They are the perfect size for cookie sheets and cooling racks, cutting boards and muffin tins. The people who owned this place before we did lost the house because they over-financed it. I don’t know them, of course—the house was owned by the bank by the time we found the for sale sign on the lawn. One of the neighbors told me about the foreclosure. She told me that she sometimes saw the man who used to live here drive by, which made me feel really sad. I love my house, but like most houses, it contains a history that precedes the footfalls and chatter of its current inhabitants. All the former footfalls and chatter echo.

Well, the day we moved in, my mom and I took to cleaning the kitchen cabinets in preparation for their filling with my stuff. The woman who used to live here forgot to empty out one of the skinny cabinets and I acquired a sheet pan, a tray covered with a flower pattern and a mini-muffin tin. I always wanted one, but never could justify the expense. I mean, who really needs a mini-muffin tin? But it is nice to have it. So thanks to the woman who used to occupy this kitchen—I am putting her muffin tin to good use.

Ok, back to the recipe.

Spray your mini-muffin tin with oil and drop the uniformly-sized (Who doesn’t love uniformly-sized things? Crazy people, that’s who!) meatballs in the mini-muffin tin wells. (Did I really need to articulate that? Were you thinking you would just drop the meatballs on the counter and see what happened? Anyhow, any confusion is now diffused.) Then you BAKE THE MEATBALLS (I know!) at 425 degrees F for 20 minutes or so. Then, because I am a freak who worries about undercooked meat with an insistence that would shock you (or would it?), I drop them in a big pan and simmer in sauce for about 10-15 minutes. Just in case. (If you are normal, I think you can just serve them with warmed sauce.)

Can I tell you the joy I felt when all this came together?

Now, the tragic part of my little story.

I find that one jar of sauce is not enough for a batch of meatballs, but 2 jars is too much. The other day when I was making these meatballs, I happened to find a baggie of sauce in the bottom of the freezer—about half a jar’s worth. Perfect, methinks! I gleefully dumped it into the pan with the meatballs and it smelled wrong. More like misplaced. But I shrugged it off. Until it nagged at me and I took a little taste.

Chipotle!

It was NOT tomato sauce but chipotle salsa. I’d frozen it a while back and thought I would use it in a chili or something. I was certain that I would remember what it was so I didn’t bother labeling it. I did not in fact remember what it was.

Kids won’t eat spicy food. So what would have been several meals joyously consumed by everyone (except, you might recall, my son), now it’s just me and my husband who will eat them. And we’re the least picky eaters in this house so who gives a crap.

Label them baggies, people! I mean it!

This is why you should always label baggies of stuff before you abandon them to the bottom of the freezer. You will not guess right even though you will insist that you will. Trust me.

And this is how I came to have a meatball triumph and tragedy all in the same meal.

I wrote a flash fiction story inspired by the mini-muffin tin. I will post it on Friday for your reading pleasure! Please come back.

(Please.)

is anyone else totally confused about what day of the week it is?

I have no idea. Could be Wednesday; could be Sunday. Actually, I know it must be a weekday from what’s on NPR. Further than that, I really have no idea. Happy New Year! How are you? I’m confused. And a bit untethered.

Newton's First Law of Motion states that a body at rest will remain at rest unless an outside force acts on it, and a body in motion at a constant velocity will remain in motion in a straight line unless acted upon by an outside force. Resisting motion if at rest or resisting changing speed if in motion is called inertia. (I totally lifted this from the Internet—I could never spew this on my own.)

I never took Physics—and math-y concepts typically elude me—but I think this might apply to me.

This is the long view down my legs to my fanciful slippers. I am firmly ensconced on the couch with my Kindle. I can’t lie to you—I never want to get up again. I mean it. Not for any reason. Oh, but then what about wine? FINE. But that’s my only concession.

I shut down in December and now I can’t seem to get back on track. From Thanksgiving week until now, there was only time for the holidays and doing Christmas-y and Solstice-y things with my kids, and all the stuff that goes along with those occasions, so I just told myself everything could wait until after Christmas and then I would return to real life. Which I think means work. Which I think really means I dropped the stuff I wasn’t sure how to figure out and now I have to pick all of it up again.

Frankly, I do not want to pick all of it up again.

When and how to publish, how to figure out a work schedule that works for both my husband (who is now working from home) and me, what the hell I am going to do for paying work, a homeschooling plan (or not?) for the kids. Blogging. Oh, and my LinkedIn page is a disaster. And I should be more active on Twitter, which is to say I should be on Twitter.

Also, the mess keeps growing. The living room looks very, very bad. Very, very bad. I keep thinking from my perch on the couch, someone has GOT to clean that up. But, unfortunately, I think it’s gonna be me. I really don’t want to inform myself, as I think I will be pretty bummed when I figure it out.

I decided to simply chill after Christmas which for me means reading a lot and not worrying so very much at all about picking up or cooking meals that make nutritional sense. Or showering. And, you know, I sort of like this. A lot. I don’t want to get back into real life. Sometimes in real life, I feel like that poor dude who follows circus elephants around with a bucket and shovel—that poop dude. You might not know this, but there is an endless amount of poop. Metaphorically, I mean. Also literally.

But then again, here and there, I feel the new year excitement creeping in. A purposefulness and hopefulness and energy. I find myself slowly moving back into the work. Reorganizing, writing up lists of household projects and upcoming blog posts. Homeschooling ideas. I bought fabric to sew up some new kitchen curtains. Also I am moving furniture around. I opened a new document today—draft 5 of The Mosquito Hours! I am going back in and these will hopefully be the final edits.

Look at my curtain fabric! Feisty!

I wish you a very happy beginning to 2013. I hope you are exuberant and energized and hopeful. I hope you are excited about your work.

And I hope we can all figure out what day of the week it is. That will definitely happen.

(Right?)

one light

There is so much I could say about the tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut and yet so few words can make sense of it. Actually no words can make sense of it. I intended to write about our Solstice traditions this week and then I waffled and thought perhaps I shouldn’t. I mean, I know life goes on, but the reality of that can feel so cruel. Anyone who has known personal loss can attest that life moving forward is one of the most painful aspects of loss—the brutality and heartlessness of that onward movement is nearly unbearable. As I considered writing this week, everything felt selfish as my three children lie safe in their beds. As I sit here attempting to write now, it all feels selfish because before I go to my own bed tonight, I will turn on the hall light as I do every night, and touch their faces and hair gently and feel their breath on my hand. I will take one last look for this day at their sweet faces before I succumb to sleep myself.

But then I thought perhaps it would be good to write about the Solstice, which is a celebration of the rebirth of light. Of hope and warmth. Maybe that is something in which we all need to bask right now.

"Little darling I feel that ice is slowly melting Little darling It seems like years since it's been clear Here comes the sun Here comes the sun, and I say It's all right" —The Beatles

I feel so grateful that my kids are little enough to be oblivious to this tragedy. I want to protect them from the knowledge that this kind of violence is possible in this world into which I’ve brought them. (I know this kind of protection will not be possible forever.) While my children live in blissful ignorance, I know that the children who hid in closets and bathrooms at Sandy Hook Elementary will never be innocent in this way ever again. My hope for them is peace and the knowledge that there is good in this world.

For us, the Solstice is a quiet moment in the midst of the whirlwind that is the Holiday season. A time for my nuclear little bunch to huddle up close and breathe in the quiet and the light. I made a Solstice countdown board for them—animals and plants that populate our part of the world in winter, the sun, the moon, snow clouds. They add one element to the board each day from December 1st until the day of the Solstice, on which the sun is pinned in the sky. My hope is to nurture a connection with the natural world. A oneness with the Earth and all its inhabitants. To help them to witness divinity (whatever form that takes for them) in the turning of the seasons, in the light of the sun, in the delicate strands of the white pine, in the smallest of seashells and most majestic of mountains. Our Solstice board is reminder of the world we share with all living things, the way the Earth moves forward through its cycles, and our place within it.

On this Solstice as we dim the lamps and light a single candle, as we eat our supper of sun pie and wish bread, as we listen to “Here Comes the Sun” and place the felt sun I sewed in its place on our Solstice board, I will hope our one light shines out into the darkness. I will let go of any idea of selfishness and instead meditate on humble gratitude.

Yes, life goes on. The sun will rise again, the days will slowly grow longer. We have no power to thwart it. But what we can bring to this unstoppable, inescapable forward motion is a cultivation of light and goodness. And share the flame when the light of hope dims for another.

"If you light a lamp for someone else, it will also brighten your path." Buddha

Happy Solstice. May you know light in your life and peace in your heart.

how to build a chicken coop

I feel like Charlie Brown this week: “I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus. Christmas is coming but I’m not happy. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel.”

Everything has kind of gone off the rails. It’s December and everything always goes off the rails in December. Our homeschooling rhythm—loose as it is—has pretty much fallen apart. My work time has been more than disrupted—bombed-out is a better word—utterly taken over by craft projects (which I do because I love to craft) and Holiday parties (which I like but mostly could do without as I am borderline anti-social) and gift buying and wrapping and card-ordering and envelopes that the freakin’ printer won’t address for like 30 torturous and confusing minutes until I make Steve figure it out. (Which he does in 30 quick seconds. Seriously. But can he embroider? No, he cannot.) I have plans for Christmas and Solstice activities to do with the kids and I can see them unraveling a bit and I know without question that I am going to have to pare it all back. I haven’t officially cleaned the house in 2 weeks, just done that panicky oh my sweet lord how long has it been since I ran some cleanser and a brush in there? kind of cleaning.

The other day my sister and I were texting. She asked how I was doing. I said:

"Kind of feeling hopeless-ish and sad and overwhelmed. I’ll be okay. Just down for some reason."

She said:

"That was my whole week last week. So I decided not only to exercise each day which helps me, but also to nurture myself more and I have done that this weekend and feel better. I have also worked on the record player in my head. I love you... You are wonderful!"

(This is why everyone needs a sister. Unless you have a kind of crappy one, in which case no one needs that.)

My sister had been freaking about about her unfinished chicken coop, worried that her girls would freeze or go and eat (more of) the neighbor’s vegetation. She didn’t know how to build a chicken coop, which was the main crux of the problem. This was also the crux of her bad week. And from there she slid into the pit.

The morning of my bad day I’d heard on the radio the Philippines Prime Minister speak in the wake of the devastating typhoon in his country. He tearfully implored world leaders to seriously address global warming, not in the name of political posturing but for the good of the 9 billion people for whose welfare they are responsible. I think that was the root of my hopelessness which just spiraled out as the day grew long. Then I started to think about all the places where I was not quite hitting the mark (in my humble opinion) and from there it was all downhill.

Good grief!

Besides the noble art of getting things done, there is the noble art of leaving things undone. The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of non-essentials. Lin Yutang

As with all months of the year, you do not get time back in December. You use it and it is gone. This is how stupid time works. There’s no way to get everything done, especially when you are special like me and get overly grand ideas about what MUST get accomplished. (That sounds familiar...)

But at the end of the day, I can remember to thoughtfully choose where to give my energy. I can gracefully recall the blessings in my life. So, while it is wise to mindfully leave some things undone, I think the bigger question might be why we slide back into those hopeless places. How to stop the slide?

Today my sister finished her chicken coop—she got it done. She had to wrestle with a great deal of unruly chicken wire and call on the help of a good friend who does know how to build a chicken coop. She sent me this pic this afternoon moments before she jumped in the car to pick her kids up from school.

So maybe we just keep trying and call on good friends and in the face of hopelessness gracefully recall the blessings. Maybe we wrestle with the unruly until we get it done, whatever that might be.

walk the pig

I had an extremely vivid dream the other night. Its meaning was brilliant and genius and completely enlightening when first my eyes opened. And then I rolled over and it sort of dimmed and made somewhat less sense. And yet, something about it has stuck with me for the last few days. There was a subway station—I think maybe Kenmore Square—and a pig on a leash. And me feeling on the threshold of something big—an important step. It was something about which I was hesitant, but knew inherently I shouldn’t be. There was a spirit guide—a disembodied voice—demanding I walk the pig. I was anxious at first, filled with hesitation, but then I simply moved forward. I walked through the turn-style of the underground T stop holding a thick twine leash tethered to a corpulent, pink pig.

Walk the pig.

The voice was insistent. Adamant.

And as I felt more confident, the twine leash dissolved and we walked right through the turn-style without need of a token. I was afraid the pig would run away, but it didn’t—it stayed right with me. All my fears and reservations dissolved as well.

Walk the pig.

I have been thinking a lot about what walk the pig means. When that phrase emerged from my good old subconscious, my dream self perceived it as tremendously profound—a mantra of sorts. My awakened self was left a bit less impressed. Or perhaps simply muddled. But I think maybe my dream self was onto something. I think walking the pig might be doing the thing that scares you. And everyone knows you should definitely do the thing that scares you. I remember the guide, which I recognized as some part of myself, relaying the wisdom that walking a pig was indeed unconventional, but that fact should not stop me from doing it. Should not make me fear it.

You ever wake at 2am, lying prone with the darkness pressing down on you? Ever notice how everything feels its worst and most terrifying at 2am? The most fearsome things blown up too enormous to manage? The fearsome thing that is so unique that the lack of a roadmap holds you back?

I think that might be the pig.

I am actively defining my pig right now—thinking a lot about that fat, pink, curly-tailed girl. And then, whether I am afraid or not (I will be), I’m gonna walk that pig.

What’s your pig?

please assure me that i am not the only one who sets potholders on fire

I am not referring to a singular occasion wherein one might have done this. I mean regularly. I mean every pot holder that makes its way into the house.

You do this, too, right?

The smell of a burning potholder is quite familiar to me. I was recently on the phone with a friend and cooking pasta at the same time. (I am really good at multitasking.) I smelled something distinctly not food-ish and knew it immediately as the scent of burning polyester. I calmly removed the flaming potholder from the top of the saucepan where it drooped into the gas flame of my stovetop, ran tap water over the small blaze and never missed a beat of the conversation. Boo-yah! I can burn stuff and do other stuff simultaneously.

So, I have a confession—for the first time in 4 years of participating, I quit NaNoWriMo before I hit 50,000 words.

31,159.

That is the amount of words I managed to write between November 1 and November 22. Yes, I did some writing on Thanksgiving, before the big dinner, in between cooking it and eating it. Then afterwards, as I sat by the fire pit in my parents’ backyard, drinking a nice glass of wine and chatting with my Dad, I looked up at the clear, cold, starry sky and said, “I am quitting NaNo this year. And I am totally okay with it.”

(The little loops, too. No part is safe.)

Usually, I push and push and push. And when I am exhausted and spent and seemingly at my limit, I push further. (Then I am usually somewhat difficult to be around. Just ask Steve. He is nice and might lie and disagree. But trust me on this one.) So rather than go down this old road, I decided instead to try to recapture the joy.

Nothing (aside from the gracefully shared, unbridled happiness of my children) gives me more joy than writing. And the joy was gone. I was pushing through it. And this is a novel I have nurtured for a long, long time. A story I really love. And the joy was gone. Replaced by a drive towards a self-imposed deadline.

NaNo is nothing like setting potholders on fire. More like putting the fire out? No, not like that, either, exactly. Actually, maybe it is like setting potholders on fire—frenzied writing for 30 days. I guess I smelled the familiar odor of burning polyester and threw that fire in the sink. That’s okay. There is always next year. And more potholders, too.

stuff i am grateful for (and stuff i am not)

(Warning: total fluff post. I am way too busy wrapping up NaNo, cooking Thanksgiving dinner and going Christmas shopping to write something legitimate. And, let’s be honest, you’re too full of turkey to read something legitimate. This probably works out better than I originally thought...)

compost crock

I love my compost crock. Before I got this, I used an old stainless steel mixing bowl. This is much prettier. I scored it at our neighborhood yard sale back in September. At the end of the whole shebang, I walked over to say hello to one of my neighbors and there it was, unclaimed on her yard sale table, next to some VHS movies and creepy knick-knacks. I said, “Oh, I want that! It would be perfect for my counter compost collecting!” (Or something like that.) She said, “Take it.” (Exactly that.) And it had a $3 sticker on it, down from $5, so I really made out. I took that $3 I saved and got 3/4 of a mocha at Starbucks. (How else does one afford Starbucks?) (As I rethink this, I should have taken the $5 I saved and bought an entire mocha. Oh, well—hindsight is 20/20.)

ceramic colander

I just bought this recently at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. It goes very nicely with the compost crock (which is really an old soup tureen). I like to drop off things I don’t want anymore at the Salvation Army Thrift Store Donation Center and then go buy things other people didn’t want anymore in the Salvation Army Thrift Store. They are conveniently adjacent to one another. I’m not sure how the math works here, but I’m pretty sure I came out on top. Either way, this colander is just cool. And at a mean $2.99, how does one pass it up, I ask you? I’m not that strong.

Both together. Nice, huh—what did I tell ya?

breezeway storage unit

Scored this from another neighbor—one neighbor’s crap is another’s breezeway storage unit! Yes, it’s not entirely sound, but it’s not as though we have toddlers (anymore—they survived it, don’t worry). It holds all the stuff that makes sense to belong in a breezeway as well as the stuff that I have no idea how to categorize and therefore store with any sense of logic elsewhere.

my husband’s bureau

I do not like this. My husband—let’s call him “Steve”—neither cleans nor organizes his bureau. Ever. The bureau surface holds many assorted items and a shitload of dust. (He often leaves one of the drawers open, too. What is up with that?) One might infer from the expansive collection of deodorants here that he has an odor problem. However, I have been in close proximity to him since 1998 and I don’t think he smells bad. Maybe I’m just used to him. I don’t know. No one has mentioned a bad smell. I, like you, wondered about the collection.

“‘Steve’, why do you have so many deodorants?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Didn’t you buy them?”

“Yeah.”

“So?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have an answer.”

I am not making this up.

Found here: several boxes of matches, basket full of random crap including giant headphones, a roll of black electrical tape, the combination smoke and carbon monoxide detector—safety first, after all. (Don’t be concerned: it is functional, it simply inexplicably resides on his bureau rather in the ceiling of the hallway.) And a lone drum stick. Many of these things would seem to have nothing to do with bedroom-ish activities or needs. Or perhaps I’m just not as creative as he would have hoped when he married me.

(How many of you want to bet “Steve” will not allow me to write about him on this blog anymore? Don’t worry—I’ll ignore him when he tells me not to.)

blue bathroom tile

Does this require explanation? If it does, look at this. It will solidify your understanding.

I don’t know what it is, either.

Thanksgiving banner

I stitched this several years ago when we moved into our house and I was hosting our first Thanksgiving dinner for family. My son was about 4 months old. And all hilarity aside, I am thankful for many, many things outside of my compost crock, cool colander and rickety shelf.

I am grateful that I have something creative that I love to do and have always had the support and encouragement of my husband, parents, sister and good friends to keep doing it.

I am grateful that we are healthy and happy and that our problems are small.

I am most grateful for my buddy, Steve, and our kids, and this life we are living and figuring out together.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE!

our homeschool life—which pretty much just looks like life OR observations from a hannaford supermarket shopper: “it’s the middle of a tuesday—why aren’t those annoying kids in school?”

I’ve had my first blog post topic request! And as I think I have about 7 readers, I thought I’d better honor the request lest my readership be reduced to 6. SARAH commented: Since you seem to have time on your hands, can I making a blogging request? I would love to hear more about your 3 month plan with the kids and unschooling. I find it super interesting but also kind of foreign to me. Also, please clean that dried crud off the stove and change your panties. This isn’t a college frat house.

Per her request, I cleaned the stove and am now writing the blog post. (The panties bit I could not accommodate. Sorry, Sarah.)

So, to explain, unschooling is a way of educating that encourages and champions child-led, natural, interest-driven learning. We don't utilize a fixed curriculum. We think of living and learning as the same thing, doing so together and pursuing interests as they arise. When you think about it, the way all of us learned before we went to school was organic. Learning to walk or talk—those things are encouraged but not directed by a curriculum of any kind. They are modeled and encouraged, yes, but allowed to unfold naturally. That is the basis of the concept behind unschooling.

In allowing interests to direct learning, those organic interests lead to reading texts and doing projects and, later, taking courses. But the important factor is that the energy and activity around an interest is chosen by the kid, rather than chosen and dictated via an all-encompassing curriculum, meant for all kids, when we know that kids and the ways in which they learn best are all different. Since unschooled kids are not on the usual time-table, you might find some that read when they’re 4 and others when they’re 10, for example.

When we started to think about this, I wondered how the kids could be different and think differently about the world and their place in it if the learning environment were less dictated by adults and more fine-tuned to their own interests and views. The hard part—coming from my school-learning perspective which spanned 20 years—is allowing my kids the freedom to learn from/in the world without worrying that they are learning the "right stuff" at a pre-determined pace. I have to “de-school” my own brain all the time, which is really challenging. Also difficult is being certain that I am doing “enough” and doing it “right.” There is no guide to follow and that’s hard for me. Which might speak to the influence of school in my life...

When I talk about my 3-month plan, I simply refer to my loose schedule of craft projects (for the girls, the boy HATES crafts for the most part), science experiments, cooking together and outings. I find cool stuff to do (tons of stuff online and in some of the books I have and check out of the library) and make sure I have the supplies on hand. Outings are very simple: from trips to the playground with other homeschoolers to activities at the library to nature walks to programs at Audubon sites, etc. I basically sign up for every email and Facebook update from sites and groups in my area. Then we do the stuff if we want to, or don’t. Or sometimes it gets replaced by an activity that comes up. Sometimes they simply want to play all day.

I like to make sure several things happen every day: reading aloud together, time outdoors and learning games (cards, board games, etc.). These are the anchors. At the beginning of each month, I check out a crapload of books from the library. Books that focus around their interests, the current season, stories that are simply fun and some surprises thrown in to potentially pique new interests. They are given a lot of time for free play, which I really believe is highly underrated for learning and development.

And let me just admit how often we don’t do the activities I plan, which totally freaks me out. But life gets in the way and their own ideas take over or people get sick and fight left and right, etc. It doesn’t take much to throw it off. And I am learning to be okay with that. I think of the 3-month plan as more of a guideline and an insurance policy that I have activities at the ready.

One of the best perks about unschooling is how it affects life: it becomes an entire lifestyle view. And we can do what we want when we want and that includes staying in bed until 8:30 every morning cuddling.

I have plenty of days when I want to run screaming and fantasize regularly about all the time I would have for writing and getting homemaking done and showering if they were at school all day. I also second-guess myself all the time—ALL THE TIME—about how we’re doing. But I wouldn’t change it. I know this is not for everyone and I have utmost respect for all the ways by which other parents choose to educate their kids. And I only hope for the same in return.

This is very much a simplified overview, but I think it might give you a sense of it. Following, please enjoy pictures of what the play and create area typically looks like. Enjoy!

don’t fret—there is enough room in the world for more novels

I totally DO NOT have enough time to write a blog post today, and logic would recommend that writing a quickie blog post would neither be wise nor professional. But I refuse to allow that stop me! So, I have seen a number of NaNo naysayers on Facebook and the webs. They say such things as there is already too much crap out there and maybe not just anyone should be writing novels. They use words like drivel and garbage and junk. And phrases like junky, crappy manuscripts flood agents.

But NaNo changes lives and creative processes. This is my new reality since my NaNo adventures began in 2009: write like mad all month, then Thanksgiving arrives for which I cook for, like, 20 people, then after Thanksgiving NaNo ends, then Christmas is on the way. Then I do all the planning, shopping, hiding, wrapping, Christmas festivity figuring outing (so the kids have a nice holiday season which ensures they will end up with good childhood memories blah blah blah), travel arranging, packing, staying up late to put it all under the treeing. Sometimes in December I sleep. For about 3 minutes. (I absolutely LOVE those 3 minutes.) In spite of all of that, I write 50,000 words every November, then more in December to wrap up my project.

So here follows my take on National Novel Writing Month. Let’s get real, there is already a crapload of crap out there. What’s a little more crap gonna hurt? Is there room for more war? No. More starving children? No. More glaciers melting? No more room. Bottom line: people creating is never a bad thing. NEVER. Even if they create junky, crappy drivel with which they flood agents.

People, PLEASE DON’T BE GRINCHY AND SCROOGEY ABOUT NANOWRIMO. And there is my Christmas reference to bring this thing full circle.

Peace out.

Joy to the World. (See how I did that? I’m awesome.)

(I am also 3,596 words behind. Crap... Gotta go.)

(Did any of this make sense? Don’t tell me... I don’t want to know.)

why are multi-vitamins so enormous?

Seriously. They can put a monkey in space but they can’t manufacture a multi-vitamin that is smaller than an infant’s fist? (I know they put that monkey in space a really long time ago, but I’m not as updated on scientific breakthroughs as I probably should be, even though my husband has a subscription to Wired.)

She’s five. But do you see what I’m talking about?

I can’t swallow pills.

Not entirely accurate—I can swallow them eventually. Here’s how I do it: Put pill in mouth. Take sip of water. Decide it is too much water. Spit some into sink. Decide it’s not enough water—take a micro-sip. Breathe as I try to psyche myself up to swallow pill. Cringe as it begins to dissolve in my mouth. Try like hell to swallow it, repeatedly holding up index finger—just hold on—at anyone who attempts to speak to me. (Quite often the phone rings right about now.) Finally manage to swallow the chalky, bitter, vitamin-y sludge. Swig down giant gulp of water. Breathe heavily as though I’ve just run a 5k. I do all this in the kitchen. (I’m never kidding when I talk about all the time I spend in here.)

This is more than you wanted to know about me, yes?

I’m getting to a point—I mean it.

So, I have been back-sliding lately. I do really well for short periods of time keeping everything in perspective, but then I always seem to slide back into worrying about all of it. All of the stuff I am trying to keep going. (Please assure me that I’m not alone in this.) I need to write more. I need to get that freelance career really rolling rather than limping along. I need to figure out once-a-month cooking. I need to read all those parenting books. I need to make sure I am doing enough with the kids. We are “unschoolers” which means we homeschool without a curriculum. The concept being that the kids are allowed the freedom to pursue their interests and play and create as much as they want, having faith that they are learning. The end result is days that are filled with activity that does not necessarily look anything like “learning.” And as the parent, I’m supposed to be totally cool with that, because I have faith that kids learn on their own time-table and this will all be for their benefit in the end. I don’t know how many of you can relate to this precisely, but I think you can probably find something comparable.

But life has a tenacious way of interjecting itself into my plans. (I’ll bet you can say the same...) I generally plan activities for the kids 3 months at a time (this is the print-out I use): projects and science experiments, cooking together, outings. Because even though we don’t use a curriculum, I want to provide an enriched environment conducive to learning. But it seems like half the time my stinkin’ plans fall apart. The house needs to be cleaned or someone gets sick or unexpected stuff comes up or breakfast and getting dressed seem to take all morning or they just aren’t all that interested in what I am attempting to do. And then—only to make life that much more interesting—the pot boils over on the just-cleaned stovetop. Right? It’s challenging to meet the deadlines and keep up on reading the books that will make it all easier, make it all make sense, make it all work once and for all.

That’s just about the exact moment I feel like I am failing. Again.

But in spite of it all, things are getting accomplished. Why do I always focus on what’s not getting done?

I have this vision of the perfect life I could be leading wherein all elements are just so—if I could only plan and execute it. But the truth is that even if my life had only one aspect—instead of many—I guarantee that one thing would not be perfect.

So I ask: are the kids happy? Are they laughing (a lot)? Are they well-fed? Is the house basically sanitized? Do we have peace? Am I slowly but surely moving my career forward? Do I have clean underwear most days?

YES!

It’s like swallowing that enormous pill. It might take a few false starts and a lot of effort, but in the end it will always get (imperfectly) done. And on the good days, I know that this is enough.

lasagna is too math-y

Making lasagna is hard. Or it might be that I am too dumb to make lasagna. Every time—every time—I boil the wrong amount of noodles. In this instance, I am not exaggerating at all. EVERY SINGLE TIME. 8x8, 9x13—doesn’t matter. I will not do it right.

See what goes on? Odd noodle cutting and arranging.

Then the layering part always messes with my head. This, this, this, repeat. I always—always—screw it up. Maybe it’s the “repeat” directive. Why can’t they just write it all out again? We live in the digital age—how much effort would it take to copy and paste? It’s not as though some poor monk in a hair-shirt has to write it out longhand with quill and ink by candlelight. The problem with lasagna is that it steers a little too closely to mathishness. And I do not do math—proud hater since 3rd grade.

I can’t even write out a lasagna recipe for someone. I make a few really good lasagnas (such as roasted butternut squash lasagna) and when people request the recipe, I sort of gloss over the how many noodles to boil part and the how the hell you layer it part. I just leave it up to them, as if to indicate even a monkey could figure out those parts—I won’t bore you with the details. But truthfully, I’m simply incapable of figuring it out to tell them.

I had a really good idea about lasagna recently—I call it the “whatever’s beginning to rot in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator lasagna.” Dice up whatever that might be (I happened to have lots of peppers, eggplant and zucchini) and throw in some diced onion, toss it all with olive oil, salt and pepper and roast until tender and browned. Pour in some sauce (homemade or jarred) and use that as the filling with the usual stuff, like ricotta, mozzarella and parmesan. Boil some noodles (you know how many, right?) and layer it all up (or have a monkey do it). If you have a ton of this veggie filling after you roast it all up, dump half into a zippy bag and freeze. Then some night when you totally don’t feel like cooking, you have the fixin’s for whatever’s beginning to rot in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator lasagna! Brilliant!

Is that not the most unappealing food photo you’ve ever seen?
Even with the bag folded over ever-so-jauntily.

But enough about math and monkeys and disgusting looking baggies of food.

How is NaNoWriMo going? Very well, thanks for asking! I am right on target. This is my 4th year and I am almost never ahead with my word count. I am the sort of person who possesses the best intentions in terms of getting ahead of the game and then consistently working right up against deadlines and only to the extent that I must. So, I write almost exactly 1,667 words every NaNo day. What is the novel about, you ask? A large cast of women characters—archetypes of sorts—who experience the gamut of female experience. It’s sort of a group interrelated short stories, but I think it will be more complex than that in the end. Intrigued? (You know you are!)

Well, you’ll have to sit tight on this one. First drafts are almost always some degree of crap or another. But I think I am getting better at novel-writing and this one won’t require 43 years of editing. At any rate, it’s easier than lasagna. Which is really hard.

indie pubbed book review—Multiple Exposure by Shana Thornton

I am excited to present my first installment in an ongoing series of independently published literary novel reviews! Enjoy!

Multiple Exposure (Thorncraft Publishing, 2012)—Shana Thornton’s debut novel—is the deeply nuanced story and timely examination of the ways in which we process and integrate violence and its ensuing fear in our contemporary culture.

Ellen Masters’ past is overlaid with her present. Her consciousness confounded further by images of the indigenous tribes who once populated the Southern town of her childhood. Hers is a rich past—a Century Farm family of plum brandy distillers, a childhood marked by loss and abandonment, a personal history steeped in the woods near her home, the parallels to her own life she draws with those of the tribes—and what unfolds is an exploration of family history which sustains, defines and roots us. Ellen is a University professor and her husband, David, enlisted in the Army, is deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan. His frequent deployments prove to make connection between he and Ellen difficult, and Ellen spirals through fear and paranoia in their separation. Ellen hikes and runs the lengths of her extensive property and the land which contains Cumberland Cave, an ancient piece of stone near the property Ellen inherited from her grandmother—her constant running and hiking a seeking of answers of the self and the world that contains her. When three University students are murdered at the Cave, Ellen is certain that she is somehow connected, her fears blossoming to greater and greater proportions. She delves deeply into her past and her own mind as well as the ideas of violence, all the while attempting to connect with David via email, sketchy cell phone calls and interactions on Skype.

Ellen’s story culminates in a poignant ending, rife with beauty and metaphor.

In a singularly distinctive voice, Thornton raises questions that carry weight, all the while immersing the reader in lush language, emotion and visceral imagery. Through the intertwined narratives—Ellen's past and family, her marriage, murder and war—Multiple Exposure at its center examines violence. It is an exploration of war—our implication, our connection, our responsibility, the voyeurism provided by media and the consequential numbness of our culture to brutality and exploitation—and our response to it, the murders at home juxtaposed highlighting the reach and scope and seeming impossibility of escaping from violence.

Thornton expresses challenging points of view and gives shape to difficult images—that which we imagine in order to survive, as our worst fears take shape, and the ways by which we survive and heal.

A clip of Shana Thorton reading from Multiple Exposure. Beautiful prose!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MAWzx1AyeaY

full-body YES!

I wasn’t going to do NaNoWriMo this year. I’ve have repeated this avowal all year long because I knew I wanted to be working on this blog and freelance projects and editing already-written novels and my other commitments. And showering. That being said, I just signed up again. Like, moments ago. (I figure I’ll cut back on showering. And definitely shaving. I mean, what are pants for anyhow? Right? Right? Are you with me?)

So, I’m gonna do it for the 4th year in a row. Why? I am nuts.

Speaking of which, it’s Halloween this week and we have watched It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown about 47 times in the last few weeks. I adore Peanuts holiday shows. Probably too much. (And yet in my heart I know there is no too much when it comes to Peanuts holiday shows.)

(Our jack-o-lantern and his yucky black moldy stuff.)

Happy Halloween! Now back to the topic.

What is the topic? Finding life balance. And I am about to tell you exactly what that is: a big freakin’ joke. I’m just kidding.

(No, I’m not.)

I threw an enormous fit recently. Luckily the kids were at my parents’ house and not present to hear the litany of swears and witness the throwing of objects. Here’s what happened: the thingy on the toilet that makes water not spray all over the bathroom blew and the toilet began spraying water all over the bathroom. (It was clean water, so there’s that for a small blessings and all that crap...) To me it was more than water spraying all over the bathroom—it was another mess to clean up, another thing to fix, another thing keeping me from writing.

(This freakin’ thing. Please disregard the ugly ‘80s tile we have yet to sledgehammer.)

I have maintained a mantra over the last couple of years: “I can’t get all this done!”

And alternatively: “There is no way to get all this done.”

With the addendum: “I’m so tired.”

Well, recently I realized something: I can’t get all this done. There is no way to get all this done. Also, I’m so tired. It occurred to me that if there is no way to get all this done and that very fact has been amply confirmed, why do I keep trying? The very problem is in the statement itself.

“The world as we have created it is a process of our thinking. It cannot be changed without changing our thinking.” Albert Eistein

My sister has a friend who recently experienced the death of a close friend. And it made her reconsider her priorities. She said to my sister, “Unless it’s a full-body yes, then it’s a no.” Now that is a mantra by which to live.

I have applied some of that sentiment to my life in trying to approach balance. As it appears “there is no way to get all this done,” and there is nothing I can or am willing to cut entirely, the logical thing to do was identify and pare back each component and do some realistic goal setting. Err on the side of small, well-spaced objectives and if more gets accomplished, call it gravy. (Warning: this rarely happens.)

And I gave a lot of thought to media, which spins completely out-of-control really quickly. The inbox to my Gmail account was one of the things that felt unmanageable to me. And if that’s not a luxury problem, I don’t know what is. But first-world guilt aside, I did rein it in and I will share my tactics with you. I think it’s important to seriously regulate your information upload. Don’t subscribe to every blog (but do subscribe to this one), RSS feed, Facebook page—don’t live in fear of missing something “crucial.” Seek info when you need it. It’s called the Google. Use it. I went all brutal on my blog subscriptions and unsubscribed like crazy, using the full-body yes method. Where I could, I switched to Facebook or Twitter feeds. I am not a fan of RSS, but if you happen to be, that’s another way to go. With the info coming via these streams, you can so much more easily pick and choose. Now my email inbox is pretty much exclusively business. I l also try to designate a finite amount of time each day to view my media streams. The bottom line: if it doesn’t add value to my life, I cut it.

I try to apply this full-body yes sentiment to the little and the big things in life. It’s a no-fail in-your-bones kind of thing. It’s an approach toward balance.

So maybe I am nuts to do NaNo, but when I questioned it, it was a full-body yes. I’m gonna trust it.

the mosquito hours and a personal misfortune

Want to know about the novel I’m working on?

(You do.)

Before I tell you, though, I must share with you my small tragedy: this very afternoon, my beloved Starbucks reusable cold cup fell to the tile floor and cracked in half. The special bubble top is intact, so huzzah! for tiny blessings. The cup is still usable... sort of. I said lots of bad words so it was a good thing the kids were watching TV and are 100% incapable of tearing their attention away from Wubzy or the Kratts or whomever to hear things like their mother saying lots of bad words because she broke her beloved Starbucks reusable cold cup. Or respond to fire or tornado or nuclear war.

Anyway, my novel...

I actually have 4 novels going. 4. I’m not sure if this is normal or weird. Probably weird. Problem is that I never think anything is done. Or I’m not sure it’s done. All my novels are absolutely brilliant and utterly perfect—until I write them. Then they sort of suck. In my totally unbiased opinion. But 4 novels—well, that would be impressive if I weren't totally unimpressed.

Why don’t I just publish something, you wonder? There’s really no non-crazy answer.

Anyway, the novel about which I wanted to tell you... I mean, about which you demanded me to tell you. In 2009, I began The Mosquito Hours for NaNoWriMo. All I had when I started was a title and I have no idea how or when I came up with it. It refers to the time of day when mosquitoes are most active. And I thought it would be a good time to throw a family women of different generations together in an small screen house and see what they had to say to each other. There is house foreclosure, a practicing Wiccan, numerous sets of twins (fraternal and identical—not the same thing in the least), a character called Pickle, Medieval role-playing, secret diaries, a character called Guinevere, an RV from the ‘70s, a coronation, a stone house that survived a hurricane. Among other things. Intrigued?

(You are.)

Now the current draft rests in the capable hands of several beta readers, and I eagerly await their feedback. Why am I telling you all this? Sometimes the best way to get a thing done is to tell everyone and if nothing else can quell your fears and actually get it done and out there, then the pure horror of the shame of inaction might.

(Thank you.)

from my kitchen counter

Today I am cooking for my Memèré, who is 88 years old. 2012 has been a rather rough year for her and she can’t cook for herself anymore. For a while, she hadn’t been eating well, but the appetite has returned to my tiny little grandmother (4’10”, about 100lbs), whose ability to knock back a plate of food has always amused me. My Mom cooks for her now, but I know it’s a lot to manage. I live about an hour and a half from Memèré, so quick-dropping off a plate of food is not possible. I am instead cooking and freezing portions in little containers for her. Right now, American Chop Suey, which I really hate, but she loves. I’ve already got butternut soup, creamy chicken and vegetables, sweet corn risotto and good old chicken soup bundled up for her.

I know I’m tethered to this kitchen, but I rather like it in here. I create, I nurture. I sew curtains out of pretty tea towels. I watch the sun set and the moon rise out of the big window over the sink. I do projects with my kids and wash dishes emptied of food I’ve fed them.

According to Salary.com, a stay-at-home mom would earn $112,962 annually based on an average of the salaries of the typical work she does everyday. $112,962—of course, that is if she were paid. She also works an average of about 95 hours a week. After sleeping, what remains is about 17 free hours a week.

17, people.

No wonder early Feminists initiated the drive to get the hell out of the kitchen. As most of us battle-worn victims of the Mommy Wars can attest, I think the ghost of the oppressive kitchen still haunts. As a stay-at-home mom, I sometimes feel misunderstood—probably as much as the moms who choose to work feel misunderstood sometimes.

Women have made strides with validation in the workforce, but I’m not sure the same legitimatization has been extended to women who work in the home. I am hoping someday for a more inclusive definition of “Feminist,” because I am one.

“Changing the status of mothers, by gaining real recognition for their work, is the great unfinished business of the women’s movement.” Ann Crittendon The Price of Motherhood: Why The Most Important Job In The World Is The Least Valued

I spend 85% of my time in the kitchen. My sister, Rebecca, came up with the idea for the name of this blog. She, too, is a stay-at-home mom—entrenched in the business of butt-wiping, snack dispensing and laundry—with a simultaneous vocation outside the realm of hearth and home. In A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf said in order to write, a woman needs a room of her own. I don’t have a room in the sense Woolf intended, but I do have my kitchen. And I would like to reclaim the kitchen as a feminist stronghold. No longer shall the kitchen remain the metaphor of the downtrodden and subjugated woman—as a symbol diametrically opposed to liberation. (Woolf also said a woman needs money—but one thing at a time. I got the room at least.)

This is what I have to offer from my kitchen counter—the simple but important and heavily nuanced work of life. And the passion of creation. Cooking up some love for my Memèré. Mindfully setting the rhythm of our home and daily life for my family.

how to eat an elephant

“When will life get easy?”

One of my friends recently emailed me this inquiry. What she meant was less busy. And the answer to her question is never. NEVER. Coincidentally the same week, my sister sent me a card with a well-coifed, apron-festooned mother on the front. She holds a neatly-folded stack of towels. She calls to her children:

KIDS... I HAVE FRESH TOWELS FOR YOU TO LEAVE ROTTING ON THE FLOOR... come and get ‘em!

Inside it says:

Don’t you just love that 12 seconds when all the laundry is done?

Seriously, I don’t think it’s even 12 seconds. But I’m not here to complain about the laundry—it is my personal reminder of the impermanence in life. You do the laundry, you cook, you take care of everyone, you do the dishes, you try like crazy to get some writing done, and then when you’re all done, you do the laundry. See? The laundry will never be done.

I am a novelist. Well, when I finish a novel I suppose I will be a novelist. (I’m gonna say I’m a novelist.) I am a novelist. I also do some freelance technical writing and blogging. I am a Senior Editor for Her Circle Ezine. I do lots of laundry.

I am interrupted 8,000,000 times a day, and while I am, admittedly, prone to exaggeration, I am certain that this is a fairly accurate number. Interruptions such as the request, “Mama, get my water!” when the demanding child is sitting on the couch and simply doesn’t want to lean forward to grasp the water bottle that sits on the tray on the ottoman right in front of her. (I did not make that up. It literally just happened.) The fights, the wounds, the butts to wipe. Then the planned activities—the books to read, the Lego to build, the craft projects to do, the nature walks, the trips to the playground.

This is my inaugural post and I am not using it to complain about my life—rather to sketch it out a little and articulate all the reasons why I don’t have time to blog or get my novel(s) done. Or shower. Why all this is so hard. Why I am so freakin’ tired. Why it has taken me so long to really get my writing life going.

And why I am not going to let any of that stop me anymore.

Because the real truth, which has nothing to do with all these excuses—which are totally not excuses—is that I am simply, completely afraid.

I have been trying to figure out the very most-perfect focus to have here, the very most-perfect things about which to write and achieve it all with the most-perfect timing to ensure literary success. And if all that didn’t happen, if I didn’t figure all that out exactly most-perfectly, I would TOTALLY SCREW EVERYTHING UP and become an UTTER FAILURE. Because, you see, there is one perfect, entirely elusive, precisely right way to do this.

(No, there’s not.)

“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says I’ll try again tomorrow.” Mary Anne Radmacher

So, I’m just gonna do it. Here it is.

I will write about my family, being a mom, my work, cooking, trying to juggle everything, writing, matcha green tea lattés. I am just gonna take a breath and then that proverbial leap.

Because there is no perfect time—there is now.

There will never be enough time to get it all done. Life will never get easy.

So, where do you start? You just start anywhere. One bite at a time.

This is my leap.

(I really hope I’m not totally screwing this up.)