Ok, ok, it is time to reflect and get motivated. A new year is on the doorstep.
Are we to sit here and let it enter at its own will or are we gonna get up, throw the door open wide and give it some guidance on where to go?
Yes Amy, you and I need to get motivated! We need to take a page from our mentor, Duane (can you believe I just wrote that?). But he guides us well.
So I THROW down the gauntlet of commitment --as a decisive act (which apparently I can't spell easily on not enough sleep, but that is not the point). We shall command our talents and our time schedules; we shall accelerate confidently over the speed bumps of writer's block and children yelling; we shall boldly seek to visit places the Star Trek crew whizzed by in their first season on the way to outer galaxies because, let's face it, we have to start somewhere....or get somewhere. And you Duane, are along for the ride--like it or not!
Whose with me?
Monday, December 31, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
EMO MOM
Emo is my new favorite word. For those of you not as hip in the teen vernacular as I, emo is short for emotional. In its broadest sense, it refers to kids who cut themselves, wear dark eyeliner, get stoned, dress a certain way. There are emo kids, emo bands, emo clothes. For my purposes, I just like to think of emo as being overly emotional.
When my teenage son has a fit about one thing or another, usually because I buy orange juice with pulp, Cheese Nips instead of Cheez-Its, or some other unforgivable transgression, I now tell him to stop being so emo. Of course, that makes him more emo--I’m not using the word appropriately, I’m an idiot, etc.
This past year catapulted me into the realm of emo. Of course, absent the cutting, Hot Topic clothes, Fall Out Boy. I got divorced, sold my house, and moved into a rental. My dog died and I couldn’t leave my house for a week. I was attacked by a dog and a month later scratched my cornea. I ran for public office and was by far the frontrunner then lost. My teen son called me a crazy bitch. My ex husband found his soul mate on match.com and now wants to marry her. I really have no measurable life aside from volunteer work I do with an ocd intensity. My anxiety is often mistaken for high energy
Marriage wasn’t all bad—except for the pesky husband part. And the extended abstinence—well, at least on my part. But I had a nice house, no real monetary concerns, two (relatively) nice boys, golden retriever, SUV, authentic Louis Vuitton “handbag.” Even now, after a protracted and vituperative divorce, I am financially sound or—to paraphrase my ex husband—taking all his money.
I live in an affluent area with a relatively low divorce rate. The same percentage of people hate each other, but there are major financial motives to stay together: huge mortgages, multiple cars, the ability to have the working dad/stay at home mom lifestyle. The golden (platinum) handcuffs. My town is a community where divorced people are not exactly shunned, but don’t quite fit in.
Fortunately, I’m so accustomed to being alone so it’s no shock to me. Going places alone doesn’t make me emo at all. I am always the random guest—invited for Thanksgiving and Christmas, hitching rides to school events with friends and their husbands, all that sort of thing. I’m fortunate to have many caring friends who are my family.
Nothing made me more emo than telling the kids about the impending divorce. I had to persuade my mother to come from Richmond. (The prior time she came, it was when my dog was put to sleep so now my kids are beginning to view her visits with some trepidation.)
Anyway, I had a Percocet left over from my $30,000 worth of dental work (ex’s calculation) so I took that prior to the big revelation. I was woozy and totally emo so my husband had to do the dirty work.
In his usual sensitive and caring manner it was thus that my children were told: “Your mom and I are splitting up and I’m moving out of the house.” A deafening silence ensued—or maybe I just blacked out.
Of course, being bright children , neither was surprised, although my younger son, 10, did shed a few tears. After the requisite shrink-approved reassurances—that the kids had nothing to worry about, that we’d stay in the house (that promise lasted a few weeks anyway), and a bunch of other bullshit, husband left to watch TV.
My older son’s questions went in this order. Will I have to leave Prep (his private school)? Will we have to move? And, will we have to go back to dial-up Internet? (This question was most plaintively asked).
My favorite was when they asked me if I was going to start going out clubbing. As if!!! Hadn’t I suffered enough? They later informed me it was ok for Jeff to go clubbing but not for me. Which is a good thing considering he was off clubbing throughout our marriage.
So, after eighteen years, he moves out. This brings about something any divorced custodial parent dreads:
Night Out with Divorced Dad
Granted, I don’t have little children who cling to me and wail as their father drags them out the door. But don’t underestimate the tenacity of older children. Following is an example of a typical child transfer.
Dad calls asking Mom to have the kids ready by 7:30. The call often comes in around 6:45.
Mom obediently asks the kids to get ready—Daddy is coming at 7:30.
Kids sit on Xbox, computer or TV, ignoring Mom as usual.
Dad arrives at 7:20—ten minutes early.
Dad enthusiastically announces his arrival--sporting an expectant smile, “Hey boys, I’m here.”
Announcement is met with same stony silence as Mom’s repetitive requests for kids to get ready.
Teen boy, “Why is he here early?”
Mom, “Just get ready.”
Dad, “Get off Xbox, Son.”
Teen, “Just a sec. It’s early—mom said we were leaving at 7:30.” (Mom is surprised kids listen after all.)
Dad to younger boy, “Turn off the show and let’s go.”
Boy, “My show’s not over.”
Mom, “Come on guys, just get going.”
Silence save for the rapid fire gunning in Xbox and the giggly sounds of Spongebob.
Dad, pacing and increasingly agitated, to Mom “I told you to have them ready when I got here.”
Mom, “Well, they don’t listen to me.”
Dad in accelerating volume, “Boys, come on. “
Teen, “Just a freaking sec.”
Dad, “Just a sec! That’s all you say. Now get off that goddamned Xbox or you’ll be grounded for life.
Teen hears that about a dozen times a day so it has no meaning.
Dad to Boy: “Go put on shoes.” Boy goes in search of shoes.
Dad, “Now get off that f-ing Xbox or I’ll take the damn thing out and run over it with my car.”
Teen hears this at least several times per week so doesn’t have much impact.
Mom walks up and unplugs Xbox
Previously mesmerized Teen springs to life, “What the hell? I was right in the middle of a battle. I hate you. You’re such a total bitch!”
Dad to Mom, “You shouldn’t let him talk that way.”
Mom to Dad, “Like I want him to talk that way you idiot.”
Dad to Boy, “You still don’t have your shoes.”
Boy, eyes on Spongebob which he’s turned back on, “Can’t find them.”
Mom, “You just had them on ten minutes ago.”
Teen to Dad, “Why do you have to come over. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Dad, “F this, don’t even know why I come here.” Exits then re-enters, no expectant smile this time.
Boy is still barefoot.
Dad, “Where are your f-ing shoes?” Opens closet. “No wonder—you can’t find them, you can’t find anything in this house.”
Mom, “Just shut up. It is better than when you were here with all your junk.”
Dad to Teen: “If you don’t get your ass in the car right now you’ll be sorry.” Grabs Xbox. “I’m taking this goddamned thing with me. Now come on.”
Mom scurries to help Boy find a matching pair of shoes. Finally puts on sandals in mid December.
Boy goes out the door.
Teen stands up sulking, “I hate you.” Walks toward door and mutters under breath, “asshole.”
Dad, fuming and storming in entryway, “I heard that. How can your mother let you talk to me that way? Now get your goddamned ass in the car.”
Teen skulks toward door, “You both suck.” Door slams.
Emo Mom takes a Valium and sits down to watch anything that happens to be on TV.
When my teenage son has a fit about one thing or another, usually because I buy orange juice with pulp, Cheese Nips instead of Cheez-Its, or some other unforgivable transgression, I now tell him to stop being so emo. Of course, that makes him more emo--I’m not using the word appropriately, I’m an idiot, etc.
This past year catapulted me into the realm of emo. Of course, absent the cutting, Hot Topic clothes, Fall Out Boy. I got divorced, sold my house, and moved into a rental. My dog died and I couldn’t leave my house for a week. I was attacked by a dog and a month later scratched my cornea. I ran for public office and was by far the frontrunner then lost. My teen son called me a crazy bitch. My ex husband found his soul mate on match.com and now wants to marry her. I really have no measurable life aside from volunteer work I do with an ocd intensity. My anxiety is often mistaken for high energy
Marriage wasn’t all bad—except for the pesky husband part. And the extended abstinence—well, at least on my part. But I had a nice house, no real monetary concerns, two (relatively) nice boys, golden retriever, SUV, authentic Louis Vuitton “handbag.” Even now, after a protracted and vituperative divorce, I am financially sound or—to paraphrase my ex husband—taking all his money.
I live in an affluent area with a relatively low divorce rate. The same percentage of people hate each other, but there are major financial motives to stay together: huge mortgages, multiple cars, the ability to have the working dad/stay at home mom lifestyle. The golden (platinum) handcuffs. My town is a community where divorced people are not exactly shunned, but don’t quite fit in.
Fortunately, I’m so accustomed to being alone so it’s no shock to me. Going places alone doesn’t make me emo at all. I am always the random guest—invited for Thanksgiving and Christmas, hitching rides to school events with friends and their husbands, all that sort of thing. I’m fortunate to have many caring friends who are my family.
Nothing made me more emo than telling the kids about the impending divorce. I had to persuade my mother to come from Richmond. (The prior time she came, it was when my dog was put to sleep so now my kids are beginning to view her visits with some trepidation.)
Anyway, I had a Percocet left over from my $30,000 worth of dental work (ex’s calculation) so I took that prior to the big revelation. I was woozy and totally emo so my husband had to do the dirty work.
In his usual sensitive and caring manner it was thus that my children were told: “Your mom and I are splitting up and I’m moving out of the house.” A deafening silence ensued—or maybe I just blacked out.
Of course, being bright children , neither was surprised, although my younger son, 10, did shed a few tears. After the requisite shrink-approved reassurances—that the kids had nothing to worry about, that we’d stay in the house (that promise lasted a few weeks anyway), and a bunch of other bullshit, husband left to watch TV.
My older son’s questions went in this order. Will I have to leave Prep (his private school)? Will we have to move? And, will we have to go back to dial-up Internet? (This question was most plaintively asked).
My favorite was when they asked me if I was going to start going out clubbing. As if!!! Hadn’t I suffered enough? They later informed me it was ok for Jeff to go clubbing but not for me. Which is a good thing considering he was off clubbing throughout our marriage.
So, after eighteen years, he moves out. This brings about something any divorced custodial parent dreads:
Night Out with Divorced Dad
Granted, I don’t have little children who cling to me and wail as their father drags them out the door. But don’t underestimate the tenacity of older children. Following is an example of a typical child transfer.
Dad calls asking Mom to have the kids ready by 7:30. The call often comes in around 6:45.
Mom obediently asks the kids to get ready—Daddy is coming at 7:30.
Kids sit on Xbox, computer or TV, ignoring Mom as usual.
Dad arrives at 7:20—ten minutes early.
Dad enthusiastically announces his arrival--sporting an expectant smile, “Hey boys, I’m here.”
Announcement is met with same stony silence as Mom’s repetitive requests for kids to get ready.
Teen boy, “Why is he here early?”
Mom, “Just get ready.”
Dad, “Get off Xbox, Son.”
Teen, “Just a sec. It’s early—mom said we were leaving at 7:30.” (Mom is surprised kids listen after all.)
Dad to younger boy, “Turn off the show and let’s go.”
Boy, “My show’s not over.”
Mom, “Come on guys, just get going.”
Silence save for the rapid fire gunning in Xbox and the giggly sounds of Spongebob.
Dad, pacing and increasingly agitated, to Mom “I told you to have them ready when I got here.”
Mom, “Well, they don’t listen to me.”
Dad in accelerating volume, “Boys, come on. “
Teen, “Just a freaking sec.”
Dad, “Just a sec! That’s all you say. Now get off that goddamned Xbox or you’ll be grounded for life.
Teen hears that about a dozen times a day so it has no meaning.
Dad to Boy: “Go put on shoes.” Boy goes in search of shoes.
Dad, “Now get off that f-ing Xbox or I’ll take the damn thing out and run over it with my car.”
Teen hears this at least several times per week so doesn’t have much impact.
Mom walks up and unplugs Xbox
Previously mesmerized Teen springs to life, “What the hell? I was right in the middle of a battle. I hate you. You’re such a total bitch!”
Dad to Mom, “You shouldn’t let him talk that way.”
Mom to Dad, “Like I want him to talk that way you idiot.”
Dad to Boy, “You still don’t have your shoes.”
Boy, eyes on Spongebob which he’s turned back on, “Can’t find them.”
Mom, “You just had them on ten minutes ago.”
Teen to Dad, “Why do you have to come over. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Dad, “F this, don’t even know why I come here.” Exits then re-enters, no expectant smile this time.
Boy is still barefoot.
Dad, “Where are your f-ing shoes?” Opens closet. “No wonder—you can’t find them, you can’t find anything in this house.”
Mom, “Just shut up. It is better than when you were here with all your junk.”
Dad to Teen: “If you don’t get your ass in the car right now you’ll be sorry.” Grabs Xbox. “I’m taking this goddamned thing with me. Now come on.”
Mom scurries to help Boy find a matching pair of shoes. Finally puts on sandals in mid December.
Boy goes out the door.
Teen stands up sulking, “I hate you.” Walks toward door and mutters under breath, “asshole.”
Dad, fuming and storming in entryway, “I heard that. How can your mother let you talk to me that way? Now get your goddamned ass in the car.”
Teen skulks toward door, “You both suck.” Door slams.
Emo Mom takes a Valium and sits down to watch anything that happens to be on TV.
The Writer's irony of Christmas cards
Why are Christmas cards (or even Holiday cards for that matter) just so darn irksome to get done? As a writer, I love the chance to spin a yarn (or even put the spin on my family's otherwise averagely boring life) for the sake of some card reading yuks. As a student of human nature, I LOVE seeing whose cards arrive first; who even bothers to add an element of personal touch to an otherwise "automated card" (an "XO" on a personalized card accompanied by pre-printed address and return labels for instance) and ESPECIALLY the humor and insights embedded in even the most serious and trophy-studded "Holiday Letters" (e.g. "This year was an exceptional one for Jimmy's businesses as he became #1 salesperson (again!) and was promoted to VP!! We are SO proud of Susie for garnering the lead in the Nutcracker. After her broken ankle at the championship soccer game this fall we thought she might NEVER play again! And little Bobby continues to be a delight, excelling in math and Latin-taking high school courses even as he enters 4th grade (a half year early!). I have just redecorated the house in this season's colors and the guest room is ready should anyone want to come visit us at our Alta retreat! :o) ") GAG!
So with all this good fodder, why is it so hard to actually get the darn things in the mail? From my perspective, I want to use this time for a personal (albeit one sided) connection with these friends--some of whom I have not connected with since last year this time (give or take a month or two!!). And yes, that is a whole 'nother form of friendship and holiday dysfunction, rolled in one, but no time to discuss that now!
Do I expect too much as a writer from this annual holiday outreach? Am I looking for reader feedback? Am I looking for human interaction? Is it not enough for me to sit at the table and think good thoughts towards my friends and not glean a reaction? Ahhh, the trauma of it all.
And now, back to card writing, before January 1st comes.
So with all this good fodder, why is it so hard to actually get the darn things in the mail? From my perspective, I want to use this time for a personal (albeit one sided) connection with these friends--some of whom I have not connected with since last year this time (give or take a month or two!!). And yes, that is a whole 'nother form of friendship and holiday dysfunction, rolled in one, but no time to discuss that now!
Do I expect too much as a writer from this annual holiday outreach? Am I looking for reader feedback? Am I looking for human interaction? Is it not enough for me to sit at the table and think good thoughts towards my friends and not glean a reaction? Ahhh, the trauma of it all.
And now, back to card writing, before January 1st comes.
Monday, December 10, 2007
MY OBSTRUCTION TO PRODUCTION
I have no shortage of things about which to write. My problem is trying to focus and create some cohesive pieces and somehow market them. While I want to put things together and create a novel--memoir disguised as fiction. What I learned at our writer's seminar is I need to do some preliminary work--work on my platform if you will so I can build the type of credibility that will make someone less likely to toss my query or manuscript into the garbage.
So instead of thinking large, I'm trying to think smaller, more focused. This makes the task more manageable. For example, it's less daunting to consider writing a short story for submission to a contest. Even if it doesn't win, at least something will be produced and can possibly be fodder for something greater. In addition to entering contests, completed short pieces can be submitted to magazines, etc. Again, I have tons of things to write, have no problem sitting down and pounding them out, but to what end? Catharsis? Yes!!!! Nothing was more cathartic than my I Hate Jeff poem. It is still legendary as I impulsively sent it to everyone I know--well everyone I know who doesn't know Jeff. I think and am told I have a distinctive voice: I have a lot of life experience from which to pull, I have a clear and long memory of life events (even though I lose my keys daily), but what I lack is focus and an ability to create and follow some sort of plan to pull it all together. As a creative person, my big stumbling block is being able to outline, plan, schedule, etc. For heaven's sake, I don't even have a calendar--I rely solely on memory and the goodwill of my friends who know I have no calendar and call and remind me of things.
That said, I am going to overcome my obstacles and not only write something of substance, but follow through on researching contests and finding out how to submit to magazines, journals, etc. Well, going to the gym first but will do it when I return. After checking email, surfing the net, and playing Solitaire of course.
So instead of thinking large, I'm trying to think smaller, more focused. This makes the task more manageable. For example, it's less daunting to consider writing a short story for submission to a contest. Even if it doesn't win, at least something will be produced and can possibly be fodder for something greater. In addition to entering contests, completed short pieces can be submitted to magazines, etc. Again, I have tons of things to write, have no problem sitting down and pounding them out, but to what end? Catharsis? Yes!!!! Nothing was more cathartic than my I Hate Jeff poem. It is still legendary as I impulsively sent it to everyone I know--well everyone I know who doesn't know Jeff. I think and am told I have a distinctive voice: I have a lot of life experience from which to pull, I have a clear and long memory of life events (even though I lose my keys daily), but what I lack is focus and an ability to create and follow some sort of plan to pull it all together. As a creative person, my big stumbling block is being able to outline, plan, schedule, etc. For heaven's sake, I don't even have a calendar--I rely solely on memory and the goodwill of my friends who know I have no calendar and call and remind me of things.
That said, I am going to overcome my obstacles and not only write something of substance, but follow through on researching contests and finding out how to submit to magazines, journals, etc. Well, going to the gym first but will do it when I return. After checking email, surfing the net, and playing Solitaire of course.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
MAYBE KAREN'S MUST TOOK OFF WITH MY HOLIDAY SPIRIT
I just got my first two Christmas cards yesterday. Just another reminder of what a holiday loser I am. I haven't even taken my holiday card pictures, can't even find my camera. My kids won't cooperate and it was a cloudy day. Happy-looking familes were out today putting up their holiday decorations. My house sits unadorned, inside and out.
The Christmas tree I bought last year--prestrung with hundreds of lights--sits somewhere in the eaves of the rental house where I'm living. The house is a total disaster and the tree, bought for the huge home I recently vacated, won't even fit anywhere. Which means I have to go buy a new one and somehow haul it home and string the freaking lights myself.
This is my first Christmas as a single mom. I mean, theoretically, I was always a single mom, but now it's legal. Getting divorced wasn't so bad--the year-plus of financial wrangling, dealing with egomaniacal lawyers (including my ex husband), fighting over dining room furniture and dishwashers, trying to protect the children from all of it is over. But the holidays are now somewhat confused.
Oh, the ex is in love again. Match.com exquisite exotic beauty who loves beaches and sunsets, caviar and champagne, Venice during Carnivale (chick better not be honing in on my alimony!!!) For Thanksgiving I get invited to a friend's large family celebration--happy families with little children.
Ex is with the new love and misses his time with the children because her mother hurt her knee. Then he and newb girl planned to spend the weekend in Vermont. Now they're spending a week in California while I worry about Christmas cards, trees, stringing lights. My children want Rock Band. Get a text message saying the happy couple has found the elusive Rock Band so now what do I do? Are they old enough that I can just write each one a check and leave it at that?
My own woes aside, the whole holiday fiasco has just become another major stressor in the lives of just about everyone. Year after year, relentless, inescapable, it comes. With its demands, its expectations, its eventual disappointments. I can decry it, protest it, lament about it, hide from it, yet it comes nonetheless. Happy people, Christmas carols, parties, presents, lights, fancy clothes, I mean, how depressing.
So where is my spirit? Where is the meaning? Where do I find this? Is it with Karen's muse? Is it in the heart of my children and for some reason, just beyond my view? Is it nowhere? Is it everywhere? Does anyone care?
The Christmas tree I bought last year--prestrung with hundreds of lights--sits somewhere in the eaves of the rental house where I'm living. The house is a total disaster and the tree, bought for the huge home I recently vacated, won't even fit anywhere. Which means I have to go buy a new one and somehow haul it home and string the freaking lights myself.
This is my first Christmas as a single mom. I mean, theoretically, I was always a single mom, but now it's legal. Getting divorced wasn't so bad--the year-plus of financial wrangling, dealing with egomaniacal lawyers (including my ex husband), fighting over dining room furniture and dishwashers, trying to protect the children from all of it is over. But the holidays are now somewhat confused.
Oh, the ex is in love again. Match.com exquisite exotic beauty who loves beaches and sunsets, caviar and champagne, Venice during Carnivale (chick better not be honing in on my alimony!!!) For Thanksgiving I get invited to a friend's large family celebration--happy families with little children.
Ex is with the new love and misses his time with the children because her mother hurt her knee. Then he and newb girl planned to spend the weekend in Vermont. Now they're spending a week in California while I worry about Christmas cards, trees, stringing lights. My children want Rock Band. Get a text message saying the happy couple has found the elusive Rock Band so now what do I do? Are they old enough that I can just write each one a check and leave it at that?
My own woes aside, the whole holiday fiasco has just become another major stressor in the lives of just about everyone. Year after year, relentless, inescapable, it comes. With its demands, its expectations, its eventual disappointments. I can decry it, protest it, lament about it, hide from it, yet it comes nonetheless. Happy people, Christmas carols, parties, presents, lights, fancy clothes, I mean, how depressing.
So where is my spirit? Where is the meaning? Where do I find this? Is it with Karen's muse? Is it in the heart of my children and for some reason, just beyond my view? Is it nowhere? Is it everywhere? Does anyone care?
a muse comes a calling
My desire to write, my need to write often doesn't align with my need to produce writing. I can traipse thru the day and find 100 things to write about or write down, but Heaven help me when I am actually on a deadline. Where is my muse? Is she out having a pot of tea with friends? Pounding a few down at the local pub? Running down the beach with my dog Rosco? (wait--is this me I am talking about or the muse?!) Anyway, I suspect--actually, I KNOW I am in good company on this topic...there are plenty of other wandering muses, slightly out of cell range when called by their scribes. Still I would love the code to crack the writer's block that sits with me at deadline time. The power of writing through the pain is not always as time efficient as I would like it to be!! Any thoughts?
Saturday, December 8, 2007
the first step
Here we go, into the great abyss. The writer's mind. Or ambition. Maybe despair. Or ego. Or perhaps alter-ego. All chest-pounding, excuse mongering, self-loathing candidates need not apply. (But feel free to linger by to keep us in line!).
This is a chance to guide our dreams, slap each other around a bit and hopefully, find publishing and discipline at the end of our rainbow.
So jump in whilest the three of us of look for the wizard. Learn some stuff. And make some friends along the way.
until next time...
karen reporting live from the newsdesk, with amy and duane on location at Borders.
This is a chance to guide our dreams, slap each other around a bit and hopefully, find publishing and discipline at the end of our rainbow.
So jump in whilest the three of us of look for the wizard. Learn some stuff. And make some friends along the way.
until next time...
karen reporting live from the newsdesk, with amy and duane on location at Borders.
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