Because I Said So

I'm a Quitter, Baby

I'm bowing out of NaNo this year. With a nursing baby at home (who isn't always sleeping through the night), it's just too difficult. The evening hours are the most dependable; they're also when I'm falling into bed, having only enough energy to do a little reading before exhaustion warshes over me, darker than a cow's tukus on a moonless night.

Also, we're going on vacation in ten days hence and I don't want to feel like I have to be pounding out my word count when I really want to be with my family, going on hikes and hanging out on the patio and getting sushi from Sushi Kee - Big and Tasty. Who would have thought one could get decent sushi in the desert?

But you can.

During the week of Nov. 23, you can find me there -- stuffing caterpillar rolls into my gaping maw and pointedly not typing away on my laptop.

The Last Hundred Pages

I'm plugging away at War and Peace, and I've got about 300 pages left. The last section is my favorite part of the book, and I have slowed down my reading so that I can savor it. The part where Pierre is being marched around Moscow with the other Russian prisoners is profoundly moving to me. And it's coming up soon...

Years ago, when I worked as a word processor at a law firm (I was one of the roomful of monkeys you hear about, but none of us turned out Shakespeare -- just a lot of dry legal briefs, and something interesting every once in a great while), I read War and Peace for the first time. And my co-worker, S., disdained my love for it -- said it was "too obvious" -- that the meaning was all in the surface. I've lost touch with S. over the years, and I miss him, but I'm sure he is doing well. I'm sure he is out there somewhere reading The Recognitions and enjoying himself immensely. And I enjoy that kind of thing, too, sometimes. But truly, W&P speaks to me in a way that the more intellectual, head-scratching stuff doesn't. I think that's why I was never much one for literary theory. I just can't enjoy that level of intellectualizing.

Have I convinced anyone to read W&P yet? I feel like I should be out there handing out tracts about it, like the Jehovah's Witness woman who came to the back door yesterday, wanting to talk to me about hell. So she gave me a copy of The Watchtower, and I loaded a copy of War and Peace into a wagon, and she trundled down the driveway, bearing the burden of great literature in her wake.

That Time of Year

No, not election time. (What, is there an election this year?)

It's almost time for NaNoWriMo. Participants pledge to write a 50,000-word novel during the month of November. I've tried it a few times in the past, and succeeded once. Last year, I didn't even try. This year, I'm giving it a shot.

Gotta get back into the game sometime, my friends, and what better way that to set an almost impossibly high goal -- given that I have a needy 5-year old and an infant at home?

Stay tuned -- maybe I'll post some of my bilious crap for all to enjoy.

Baggy Monsters

Excuse the sporadic posting. It's a reflection of where my daily life is at right now. I never know if I will have the necessary chunk of time to post something worthy of you, dear reader.

A general update seems necessary.

Frieda is doing well. Lately her vocalizations range from those audible only to dolphins to others low and growling like nightmare monsters. She is definitely testing her vocal boundaries. Her sleep schedule, such as it is, consists of a good-sized morning nap followed by a couple catnaps in the afternoon. In the evening she flails against sleep, flinging her arms out as if fending off blows: the kid hates to go down for the night.

Henry is also doing well. He has adjusted to his new school and teachers and happily gets on the bus each morning. He still likes his string but lately it seems easier to distract him with other activities. Dare I hope that this phase is waning?

In my life as an individual person whose apron strings can embrace more than child-raising, cooking, and cleaning, I am re-reading "War and Peace." Henry James famously called it a "big, baggy monster." He meant it as a criticism, but I love big, fat, sprawling novels -- also known as "chunksters." I've read a couple novels of Mr. James', and I have to say that I'll take Tolstoy's thousand-plus page opus over one of James' finely-written, compact novels any day.

Indeed, they are so finely written that I have a hard time figuring out exactly what is going on within them. I do, though, get an enormous sense of accomplishment upon finishing one, rather like I felt after my 28-hour tooth repair session at the dentist last year.

My progress on W&P, though, is bound to be slow this time around. I get about 15 minutes of reading in before I pass out at night. At this rate, I'll finish it sometime next year.

During the day, especially during nursing sessions, I watch TV. Since Frieda was born, I've become a captive audience. I'm therefore able to say with hard-earned wisdom that nearly any show beginning with a number (particularly followed by the word "most") is bound to be crap, e.g. "100 Most Embarrassing Hollywood Divorce Hottie Swimsuits." Sometimes strangely compelling crap, but crap nonetheless.

Of course, viewing one of these takes me away from other highly educational shows such as "Split Ends" (in which hairdressers trade salons for a week -- hilarity ensues) or "Nanny 911."

How can you, who read W&P with some regularity, also enjoy "Nanny 911"? you ask.

You might say my tastes are like that big, baggy monster: sprawling and chaotic, consuming everything in its path, reality shows and literary classics of the last century alike, and regurgitating it all for the edification of my readers.

Haiku for May 19

little bird, peck your
way out of this weary shell
mama is waiting

Book Binge

I've been reading a lot lately, and not updating my list on the left. I read very few books in June and the first part of July, but in the last few weeks I've been whipping through 'em. I have a notebook in which I keep a list of what I read, and what I want to read, and of books I check out from the library but don't get to (but want to read in the future).

I wish I could say that I write down my thoughts of what I read, a kind of critique, but I don't. I should. I'd like to. Maybe I will! But it's not too likely.

So here's what I've read, with only brief comments.

Population: 485 -- Michael Perry
Truck: A Love Story -- Michael Perry

Both non-fiction, memoir-type books by Wisconsin-native Perry. The first is about his hometown and his work there as a paramedic (and writer). The second is about a truck, yes, but also about romance, marriage, community, writing, and gardening.

Mr. Perry will be in Smallville next week for a reading, but I'll miss him -- I'll be in Wisconsin. Maybe I'll wave to him as we pass each other on I-94. I liked both of these a lot. Great writing about small town and rural communities without the usual idealization ("the real America!") or patronizing tone. (I could write a tome on how irritated I get by the "it-won't-play-in-middle-America" idea, and the belief of some coastal types that we're all ignorant rednecks. Only some of us are ignorant rednecks.)

Waiting for Daisy - Peggy Orenstein

A woman's journal through infertility hell. Happy ending, though -- she eventually had a daughter. I'm sure a lot of women with similar issues can relate to this. But I found Orenstein to be a bit irritating, and her comment that she didn't want to adopt in the US because she might end up with a child with disabilities rubbed me the wrong way. (Hey, Peggy! It can happen the biological route as well. And it's not the tragedy you seem to think it is.)

The United States of Arugula - David Kamp

A history of the gourmet and organic food movements in the US. Really fascinating, and something that's been on my mind a lot lately. I like to cook, but I'm not a gourmet, and oftentimes the food I see in, for example, "Food & Wine" has about as much to do with my kitchen as runway fashions have to do with what I put on in the morning. Someday I'll write a longer entry re. my thoughts and criticisms of the "buy organic/buy local" idea. I liked this book a lot. And it lead me to read...

My Life in France -- Julia Child

Julia's memoir of her time in France with her diplomat-husband back in the 1940's and 1950's. I love Julia. She was witty and profane and must have been a stitch to be around. Lots of background on how she learned to cook and how her famous cookbook (Mastering the Art of French Cooking) came to be.

The Stand -- Stephen King

Whoa, where did this come from? It's summer, and I wanted a good read. I read this years ago when it first came out. This is an updated version, with some of the original cuts restored. I didn't really notice these too much -- it had been too long since my first reading of it. King updated the time period to be more present-day (rather than 1980's) and some of it didn't quite make sense. (A character born in 1967 remembers the Watts Riots of 1965.) But it's still a good read.

The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million -- Daniel Mendelsohn

Another nonfiction book: the author's search for six relatives killed in the Holocaust, with parallels to the Old Testament. Literate and sad. Obviously not a "beach read." Wait until November.

Another future entry: the list of books that I've read about the Holocaust. There are so many excellent works to chose from.

Gilead -- Marilynn Robinson

This won the Pulitzer Prize, and I understand why. It's told from the point-of-view of an elderly minister in the form of a letter to his very young son. A quote from the Amazon description: "Robinson takes the story away from being simply the reminiscences of one man and moves it into the realm of a meditation on fathers and children, particularly sons, on faith, and on the imperfectability of man."

It's profound, but its profundity seemed to come so gradually, so subtly, that it didn't feel like a "difficult" read. Still, I'm going to re-read it. It's a work that would be even better, I think, read slowly and more closely. I loved her book Housekeeping as well, though these are two very different books. She's an amazing writer.

Waiting: the True Confessions of a Waitress -- Debra Ginsberg

A memoir of Ginsberg's years as a waitress. Anyone who has worked in a restaurant can relate to this. (My years at Perkins still haunt me.) Not merely restaurant stories, but Ginsberg's take on how our culture views food, restaurants, and waitresses and what a sexually-charged atmosphere restaurants can be. It's strangely true! The only people gettin' more than restaurant workers have to be theater people.

Ginsberg has also written a book about her autistic son, Raising Blaze: Bringing Up an Extraordinary Son in an Ordinary World. (The book came out before this diagnosis was given. From what I've read, it's her account of dealing with the school system and advocating for her "different" son.) This is on my "to read" list.

A Cure for Gravity: A Musical Pilgrimage-- Joe Jackson

A memoir by the composer/singer about his childhood, adolescence, and years at the Royal Academy of Music in London. I've always been a fan of Jackson's, and it doesn't surprise me that he is as good a writer as he is a musician. (His first love, in fact, was writing -- comic books in particular.)

Little Children -- Tom Perrotta

I saw the movie last week. There was some voice-over narration in the movie, a sure sign that it came from a novel. Two days after I saw it, I found the book in a Goodwill. Typically, the novel has more character development and a different ending than the movie. But Perrotta worked on the script, so that change must have been approved. I liked both movie and book. They both had a rather uncomfortable undercurrent of creepiness to them, with a layer of satire on top. Perrotta also wrote Election (which was made into a movie with Reese Witherspoon a few years ago).

I'm going on vacation next week, and I splurged and bought a brand new hardcover book (unusual for me): The Diana Chronicles by Tina Brown. In my mind there is no better vacation reading than celebrity biographies. (And true crime. And horror.) The hard part is waiting until I'm actually on vacation. The book sits on my desk like a big ol' bowl of potato chips, salty and oily, waiting to be devoured.

Though I used Amazon links for all of the above (I like to read the excerpts and reviews), my favorite internet bookstore is Abebooks -- a network of independent bookstores across the English-speaking world. It's a great place for bargains, as well as new, used, out-of-print, rare, and children's books.

Summer in the Coop

Henry started his new, full-time school schedule on Monday. Despite that, there is lot going on right now -- we're having our basement finished, and there are workmen tramping in and out, and other contractors to meet with and two medical appointments to attend to.

But after this week I'll be settled into the new schedule, with free time the likes of which I haven't had since the summer of 1986, when I first moved to Minnesota and couldn't find a job. That time was very productively filled with four episodes a day of Perry Mason that resonate to this day (a lingering crush on Paul, and our elder dog who bears the name of Della), lunch at a local Chinese restaurant with my friend J., and the requisite MSG-induced mid-afternoon nap. I remember well waking up to find the flower pattern of my aged mauve couch imprinted on my doughy face. Ah, youth!

This summer I will avoid cable reruns (for the most part), and instead establish a rigorous writing routine that covers all my genres: blogging, journaling (a word I hate, by the way), fiction, and poetry. I'm putting the touches on my new writing studio, a 70-year old chicken coop in our back yard. (Pics soon.) It's close enough to the house to allow an extension cord to reach my desk, and far enough away to disallow Internet access.

It's exciting and daunting at the same time. So much time! So many opportunities for failure!

See? I'm starting to choke already.

Oy.

Behinder and Behinder

I'm at only 31,551 words today. Only 18,000+ to go in two days. Guess what? It ain't gonna happen.

I have a couple hours this morning, then no free time until post-Henry bedtime tonight. Jon is out of town so I'm on my own for Henry and pet care. Ira the cat has gone almost entirely blind, and for the last few days has been unable to accurately target his litter box. Thus, I spent the 6AM hour this morning (my before-Henry-awakes writing time) cleaning up cat piss.

Bet Hemingway never had to do that. I'm sure one of his several wives took care of it. Why can't I have someone around here who is in awe of my genius, who will shield me from the demands of childcare, housework, and pet maintenance? My precious, typing hands should not have to be besmirched by dirty dishwater and Mr. Clean.

In the parlance of our times, I must "suck it up" and return to my NaNo efforts -- though they are likely for naught.

UTI Thanksgiving

We were in Arizona last week for the holiday with my sister Liz's family. With three kids, ages 6 (M.), 4 (K.), and 3 (Henry), it was a bit chaotic. Liz and I joke that we'll remember each holiday together by the illness that occurred. This year the unfortunate victim was K., and we'll always remember it as the Urinary Tract Infection Thanksgiving. I wonder how many pilgrims ended up in the urgent care?

I'm way behind in NaNo, and if I'm going to make it I'll have to write about 5400 words a day for the next four days. That's not impossible. But I'm ambivalent about pushing myself with everything that's going on. Then again, that may merely be an excuse to indulge myself in my usual lazy and torpid habits where writing is concerned.

Last night I spent about a half an hour rearranging the utensils in the kitchen drawers. Time well spent? Hm. It does give me that I'm-controlling-my-environment-so-things-must-be-OK feeling. The same feeling I get when I rearrange the furniture, something I do when I'm feeling very good or very bad. The trick is to redirect that neurotic domestic energy into writing out those 5400 words.

Can our heroine achieve her goal, or will she be hopelessly distracted by the filthy thingie at the base of the refrigerator that always ends up clogged with pet hair?

Will she set herself down at her desk with steely determination, or will she decide she simply must polish the badly tarnished silver pie server?

Shall she once again dedicate herself to fulfilling and challenging intellectual work, or will she crawl beneath her desk to tidy up the tangled-snake mass of computer, printer, speaker, and lamp cables?

Will she please stop blogging and get down with her NaNo count?

OK, OK, geeze. I'm going, I'm going.

Off the Wagon

This afternoon Jon took Henry to the health club to go swimming so that I could sit on the couch and drink Diet Coke and eat leftover Halloween Kit-Kats and write a bunch of crap. Thus, I accomplished my word count goal (and then some -- over 3000 words today). On Friday I went to my studio and got in about an hour and a half of very productive writing time. I love those times when the entire world seems to recede, and I fall into an almost trance-like state. It doesn't happen often, but I have a feeling that if I wrote more often (such as every day) those times would become more frequent.

Jon said today that I took on two big projects this month, doing both NaNo and NaBlo (hm, did I detect a note of criticism in his observation? why, yes I did), but I honestly feel that this is the way I should be living: dedicating a chunk of time each day to writing. Except that the laundry doesn't get done, and the house is a mess, and I haven't been cooking so we've been eating a lot of take-out.

Also, the careful reader will note that I mentioned Diet Coke in the above paragraph. Yes, I fell off the wagon and have been imbibing caffeine again. Including (gasp!) coffee. I've missed it so much! And it goes so well with homemade blueberry muffins. And Kit-Kats. And crusts of dry bread. And smelts. Anything, really.

But it has got to stop or I will once again experience those stabbing pains in the sides of my breasts, like someone is going at them with a hacksaw. An unpleasant sensation, I assure you, and not worth the fleeting pleasure of Kava and something-laden-with-sugar for breakfast every morning.