Chalkboards

I have always loved chalkboards. I love the feel of the chalk in my hand, the sound of chalk tapping against the chalkboard as letters, words, sentences appear on the black surface. I love the ease with which an eraser can wipe a chalkboard clean.

Perhaps I should’ve been a teacher.

My parents probably don’t remember my desire for my very own chalkboard. I doubt I asked very often, but it was there, that wish for one of my very own.

In California, I was friends with a guy named Dan. He was a very tall guy and he had three sisters – or maybe it was four – but all of the kids had names that began with the letter D. His childhood home had a pool and gorgeous views of Los Angeles. He lived in the guesthouse until he married a reporter, whose name escapes me right now, and they moved to an apartment in the Hollywood Hills.

But the reason I mention Dan and his family is because in the kitchen of his mother’s house, they had one narrow wall that from floor to ceiling was a chalkboard. And growing up, they all used it. His mother would write her grocery list on it; his dad would write info pertaining to his work on it; he and his sisters would draw on it or leave notes for each other or take phone messages… An entire chalkboard wall! I was completely fascinated.

Fast forward to me living in Wilmington, NC and working as a technical writer. I somehow managed to score a chalkboard from an old storeroom for my office. No one in the company understood my desire. Who uses chalkboards anymore?

I admit I rarely used it, but I loved it. And then when the company downsized, closing their Wilmington office and moving all work to their home base in Charlotte, my boss told me to take what I wanted – within reason of course, not the computers, printers, copiers. The Charlotte office had all they needed and so whatever the company couldn’t sell and the employees didn’t want, would be put in the dumpster.

The only thing I wanted was that chalkboard. (That and a couple of clipboards as I also have an odd, though lesser, love for them.)

Do you share my love of chalkboards? Or is there something you love that perplexes those who know you best? I’d love to hear about it!

The Mighty Mississippi

Yesterday I took a road trip. Drove from Birmingham, Alabama to Vicksburg, Mississippi just to see the Mississippi River.

I think it was about 9 1/2 hours of total driving and I wasn’t alone. I had my three kids with me (ages 6, 4 and 2) and my in-laws.

To be honest, it wasn’t my idea. My in-laws wanted to go, to drive over the mighty Mississippi, a goal off their bucket list, although they never referred to it that way.

I’ve driven cross-country seven times so I’ve done this before. And actually crossing the Mississippi is one of my favorite parts of the trip. It’s strange, I suppose, but I love how the state line is in the middle of the bridge. The last time I crossed the Mississippi River I was with my father. He was helping me move from California to North Carolina. We were in a big rental truck, towing my car and it was not an easy trip. My apartment was empty, the truck was packed and as we had a quick lunch at In-N-Out Burger on Van Nuys Boulevard before hitting the road, I was queasy, uncertain if I was making the right decision. The further from town we got, the grumpier I became. And when we crossed the state line of California into Arizona, I knew I was making a terrible decision. I loved California so why in the world was I leaving it? And I also knew there was no way I could tell my father what I was feeling, no way I could suggest we stop, turn around, head back.

Eventually I napped and when I awoke, I consoled myself with thoughts of being on a road trip with my dad, seeing fun and interesting things, starting a new adventure. I waited for the Mississippi, waited for the sign in the middle of the bridge announcing a new state. Shouldn’t we be coming to it by now? Finally, I had to ask. And sure enough I’d missed it!

If I’d only mentioned to my father the bridge we’d cross, the sign I’d like to see, he would’ve woken me up, made sure I didn’t miss it. But I didn’t mention it. I was too busy being self-indulgent, wallowing in my unhappiness, which was all my own doing. I’d inconvenienced my father, needing his help getting back to the East Coast. And like a good Dad, he was helping me the best he could while staying out of range of my stormy mood, probably relieved when I napped so he could enjoy the ride.

So I was back to being grumpy, back to stewing on my rash decision to move to North Carolina. It wasn’t until we were about 20 miles outside of Wilmington, NC that I finally felt good about my move. It would be okay. I had made a good decision and I would be fine. Besides, I could always move again. I was getting pretty good at it.

And although it was a very tough first year there in the Old North State and I was the poorest I’d ever been, helped by my $2,000 truck rental that quickly escalated into a $20,000 credit card debt, it ended up being a good thing. I married the guy I’d moved there for, which brings me back to my crazy road trip with three small children and my in-laws.

Soon after leaving Birmingham, the landscape opened up. We’d left the town with buildings and billboards, with traffic and stoplights, and it was just the road ahead.  Trees and tall grass followed alongside the stretch of asphalt in varying shades of gray and the blue sky above was indicative of a sunshine-filled day. I could feel my soul start to breathe. Oh, I’d missed this. It was a little different from my previous state-line crossing trips. The soundtrack had changed to Elmo Goes Potty and I Stink and such. There were more potty breaks, demands for snacks and drinks, questions about where we were. But still, I was on the road and free to think and dream and compose in my head.

There was a moment when I thought what if? What if I kept going? Where could I potentially end up if I didn’t turn around once I’d crossed the Mississippi? (This is actually the kind of thought that prompted the novel I’ve been working on, although it is nowhere near being ready.) And then the moment passed and the thought receded. It wasn’t an idea that formed because of a wish to escape my life, just an idea born from an adventurous spirit. I’m happy with my life, with my husband and my children. Wouldn’t want life to be any other way.

Turns out the bridge that crosses from Vicksburg, Mississippi to Louisiana is not the bridge I took every time I drove across the Mississippi. There was no sign in the middle of the bridge indicating we’d crossed state lines. I suppose that must’ve been in Arkansas? I probably took I-40, not I-20, but then again, maybe it was a different bridge with a different river altogether. I can’t promise my memory is accurate. But I wasn’t disappointed. This trip reminded me of something: the open road is my muse.

Maybe I should’ve been a truck driver.

Sonnet vs. Sestina

I use to write poetry, years ago. Until I had a teacher who told me I was definitely more of a prose writer than poet. And as I also wrote short stories, essays, novels I was okay with her pronouncement. I guess in my youth I’d been toying with which to be. Poet? Novelist? I didn’t think I could be both.

A few years later I took a poetry class. Not because I had changed my plan to be a novelist. I just needed the credits and the class fit into my schedule. And maybe I could improve my skills. In that class I was introduced to a broader range of poets and poetry forms. The sestina is the form that I remember best. And the form I most enjoyed writing. It was like a puzzle, trying to tell a story within precise rules.

I’m currently reading Twyla Tharp’s The Creative Habit: Learn it and Use it for Life and I came across a short section where she discusses creating in the wrong structure and she compares sonnets and sestinas:

It’s amazing that such a goofily willful form [the sestina] survives, but some contemporary poets are intrigued by all that self-guiding structure…Unlike the testy sestina, the sonnet’s length and rhymes make it pleasing to the ear, and provide room for linguistic and thematic invention…The difference between the sonnet and the sestina is the difference between going fishing with a fishing net or in a diving bell: Both devices are built for the water, but the diving bell is hard, inviolate, confining, and inviting only to extremely curious fish; the net is flexible, porous, and expansive — perfectly designed to haul ’em in.

It sounds to me like she doesn’t appreciate the sestina at all! But then I’ve never tried to write a sonnet so perhaps I’m missing out. What do you think? Do sonnets make you soar while sestinas trap you with their rules?

Check out my attempt at writing a sestina here. I was inspired by a postage stamp-sized ad I read in the paper years ago. For those of you who are accomplished poets, I hope you’ll forgive me for attempting what you do so skillfully! And feel free to share your sonnets and sestinas in the comments or with a link. I’d love to read them!

My Love of Books or Sure Signs of My Insanity

Everyone who knows anything about me is aware of my love of books. In fact, I’m a little fanatical about it. I’ve mentioned how going to the library as a kid brought me such joy, the slickness of the plastic covering as I ran my hands over the title of the books I’d chosen, the sound of the plastic crinkling as I opened the book to the first page. Okay, perhaps, I didn’t go into those details; I didn’t want you to think I’m crazy…

Dear Readers, I was a book hoarder even as a child.

When I was six, we went to California to visit my great-great-grandmother (maybe she was just one great) and other relatives and in the airport there was a man selling books. He had a shaved head, was barefoot and wore an orange toga-like garment. And I begged my father to buy me one of the man’s books. My father couldn’t believe that I wanted one, but I was so adamant that I convinced him. It was a small paperback book with a silver cover. And on the cover there was a child dressed in white with a yellow halo or sun behind the child’s head. I don’t remember the title, but the topic was reincarnation, which at age six I certainly knew nothing about. It ended up being over my head (even years later), but I tried my hardest to read that book cover to cover.

When I was maybe ten or so, my mother had a yard sale. We were living in the green house behind the shop and so she had to schlep all of the items from our house closer to Rt. 113 to generate activity from shoppers. There were two things that still stand out to me after all these years about that yard sale:

  1. This is totally off-topic, but my mother sold a purse of hers that I loved, although I have no recollection now of even what color it was, but which my younger brother had thrown up in — oh, I can still see him leaning forward from the back seat to vomit into her purse which happened to be open and sitting in between the two front seats.  (Now I’m making a mental note to always zip my bags closed, aren’t you?) And just so you know, the purse cleaned up to be as good as new, but she just couldn’t shake the memory of it and that’s why she ultimately sold it.
  2. And she sold my books to a non-English speaking woman for her young child for like a $1 or something. Obviously she was desperate for the woman to take all my books.

I remember being upset about the loss of those books. Perhaps they were below my reading level, but that didn’t mean I loved them any less! Which is why my mother explained who she sold them to and for how little. She thought it would help another child develop a love of reading. She hoped it would help a mother learn English as she read to her child. She believed that selling my old books would create room for new books. So how could I complain after hearing such kind and generous reasons? Although it has occurred to me that she might have made up this Spanish-speaking mother, wanting to keep as little as possible from the yard sale.

And since I’m being honest, I might as well confess that my fanaticism even causes me to hesitate when a friend asks to borrow a book. I want to loan them my book, but what if they bend the pages or mark it up or get it wet or…A friend of mine accidentally dropped a book of mine in the swimming pool once and I will admit that I may have overreacted. I still have that waterlogged book, the pages no longer lying perfectly flat, the cover slightly marred and I can’t shake that memory whenever I glance upon the title on my shelves.

So I have trouble loaning out books, but I also have trouble borrowing books. Once I’ve read it, I like to  write my name in it and put it on the shelf.  And in case you are wondering, yes, my books are in alphabetical order by author.

Some of you are rushing to print this post out right now so you can provide proof when having me committed. And that’s okay, but I’d have to bring my books.

My husband is on me every time we move to give up my books. (He is the reason I no longer have that slim paperback about reincarnation I mentioned earlier and I just want to point out that if I still had that book, I could’ve inserted a photo of the cover into this post, which really would’ve added, don’t you think? But alas, it is gone and I must move on…) In fact, I’ve often wondered if he hasn’t secretly “lost” a box of my books between here and there. There are moments when I think, Don’t I have more books than this? There seem to be fewer…or it seems I should have more…

And whenever there is a potential gift-receiving occasion (my birthday, Christmas, etc.) I always have books on my wish list. Always. But this year I have decided to not ask for books – although let me assure you I will not refuse any books should anyone be so inclined to give me books! Instead, of expanding my library with new books, I’m going to reread the books in my library.

Of course I’ve reread some of my favorites from time to time, but I’m going to start at the beginning with Dorothy Allison and work my way spine by spine, finishing with Xiaoa Xiao.

I’m excited! (And fairly certain most of you are admiring my husband for having remained married to me this long despite my…peccadilloes.) Now, if only I could find more hours in the day to allow for such leisurely, yet purposeful reading.

P.S. After having written this post, I have probably added twenty books to my wish list. What was I thinking, saying I wouldn’t buy any books until I’ve reread the ones I own? Will I be able to keep to my goal? Or will I succumb to temptation and buy more books? And what about e-readers? Subscribe to my blog so you don’t miss a detail!

Moving Trucks

I hadn’t realized until this weekend how I feel about moving trucks. Our next-door neighbors sold their house and the new neighbors are moving in. So for two days moving trucks have been parked on our street and men have been loading boxes onto hand carts and pushing them down the truck ramp, along the sidewalk and through the front door.

This morning I was outside unloading the groceries when the rumble of a tractor trailer cab disrupted the quiet of our street. The movers had arrived to continue unloading the trailer. And that’s when I realized moving trucks make me nostalgic. And a little…possessive as if moving trucks are our thing, for only us to utilize in the transportation of all our worldly goods.

Moving is stressful, especially so when pregnant, when pregnant with a toddler underfoot, when pregnant with a toddler and preschooler in tow and with husband already ensconced in temporary housing in our new city. But moving is also exciting, a chance to reinvent ourselves, meet new people, see new things, explore new areas…

So I will continue to spy on the neighbors and their moving men and I will continue to imagine the chaos within the neighbor’s house as boxes are unpacked and used packing supplies are discarded. I will not, however, ask to walk into the back of the truck and hang out for old times’ sake. Even if it is tempting.

“It wasn’t the first time…”

Complete the following story in 33 words:

‘It wasn’t the first time.’

(The five words are not to be included in your 33 words)

It wasn’t the first time she’d fired a gun, but she’d never killed anyone before. She clenched her hands to stop the shaking. She wasn’t sorry. Young girls weren’t meant for buying and selling. She wasn’t anyone’s property.

You can find more information about this Trifecta writing challenge here.

A Bounty of Books from the Library

One of my favorite places to go when I was a kid was to the library. I loved browsing the library shelves, selecting old favorites and new titles. I remember watching the librarian stamping the books, a staccato rhythm as she stamped the inkpad and then the card in the back of the book, back and forth, until all of my chosen books were marked with the return date. I even liked seeing the dates that had been marked from previous stamps, imagining who had checked them out before me, wondering how they felt about the book I was about to read. And then our library trip was over and as we headed home, I would hold them in my lap, oblivious to the world around me as I marveled at their covers, debating which book I would read first.

I can’t remember if the library imposed a number of books you were allowed to check out, or if my mother did…or maybe there was no limit, but I know that I never got to bring home as many books as we brought home a few weeks ago…

Our take-home number of books: 54!

We had three bags full, and all for the kids, none for me. (I prefer to purchase, not borrow, books for myself.) But the kids were excited about their bounty and as soon as we got home, we laid out a blanket on our front lawn and set to reading a few of them.

Just like I used to do when I was their age.

Camp NaNoWriMo

Remember going to camp as a kid? Leaving your parents and siblings, heading off to a place filled with new people and new experiences? The campfire songs, the friendships formed, the homesickness, the potential exposure to poison ivy,…I must admit, I preferred the camps not geared towards exploring nature. My ideal camps were the ones considered by many I’m sure as geeky, the camps where I got to spend my days not canoeing or hiking or basket-weaving, but writing. Poetry or prose, back then it didn’t matter. I just loved the time allowed to study the turn of a phrase, the poetic cadence of a line, the descriptive power of a paragraph. And so I’m [mentally] packing my bags now for Camp NaNoWriMo!

But what you ask is Camp NaNoWriMo and is NaNoWriMo even a word? First, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month and is held annually in November. This is a description taken from their website for those of you uninitiated into this challenge:

National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing on November 1. The goal is to write a 50,000 word, (approximately 175 page) novel by 11:59:59, November 30.

Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.

Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It’s all about quantity, not quality. This approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.

Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that’s a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

I participated in NaNoWriMo several years ago, before I had children, but on my own terms. I’m not sure why they chose November as the month to perform this challenge, but with Thanksgiving and travelling to see family or having family come to us, November was not a good choice for me. Plus, why not pick a month with 31 days? Seems smarter to take advantage of that extra day, don’t you think? So I chose to do it in March. And it worked out perfectly.

And now they have two summer “camp” sessions: one in June and one in August.

I love signing up for crazy challenges like this. I mean, who writes a book in a month? Technically, 50,000 words is a bit short for a novel, but with a good rewrite it can certainly have potential.

Breaking it down, 50,000 words in 30 days comes out to about 6 pages a day. And when the muse is willing, six pages can be cake. Rich, velvety, calorie-laden chocolate cake. With lots of smooth, decadent icing. And ice cream because I just adore ice cream and know of no reason to have cake without also having ice cream. But when the muse is stubborn and hiding in the deepest, darkest, most obscure places, well, six pages can be sheer torture!

This time I have no idea what I’m going to work on, which could prove troublesome for my word count. And we’ve got guests coming for a visit so that could mess me up a bit. Plus this new blog needs careful nurturing. You, my dear, kind readers, could forget all about me in that time and I’m just getting to know you! But no matter these obstacles. I’m going to shoot for 50,000 words and hope to reach…75,000! Might as well make it challenging!

Anyone want to join me on this crazy journey? Camp starts June 1st!

The Courage to be Fearless

Recently my mother said something that caused me to stop and reflect on who I’ve become. We were talking about when I was young (before marriage and children) and she commented on how I was fearless. I wasn’t the one to dip my toe into the water and think about what I was jumping into. Instead, I got a running start and just jumped, learning how deep the pool was only after I was in it.

When you are young, you think you are invincible. Nothing can happen to you. You’ll live forever. When I was young I had the courage to be fearless.

When had that changed?

I suppose it was after grad school that the fear slowly started to creep in. I was living in southern California, surrounded by people with dreams. Not that Californians have cornered the market on dreams, by any means. But these were big crazy dreams, dreams of fame and fortune, of becoming movie stars, rock stars, overnight sensations. Dreams harder to fulfill, some would say they were long shots, which is what I imagine some of the people from my childhood thought of my aspirations to be a writer. And I began to wonder what if? I didn’t graduate with a book deal in hand. What if I never got a book deal? What if I spent my whole life pursuing something that I wasn’t any good at? What if I would always be a failure at the one thing I loved to do?

Cheryl, my best friend since practically birth, had gotten married and every time I saw her husband Vince, he would ask about my writing. I know he was being kind, trying to show interest in his wife’s friend, and maybe he was even a little curious about my writing dreams, him being an accountant and all. But I began to dread seeing him. And when he would ask, I would feel the blush forming on my cheeks and mumble something before quickly changing the subject. Eventually he stopped asking and I was relieved.

Some years later I got married. My husband, as he climbed the corporate ladder, would tell those that asked about me that I was a writer. “Don’t tell them that!” I would say, flinching at the very idea that even more people would be aware of my failure.

The funny thing is I don’t really have anything to base this idea of failure on. I don’t have thousands of rejection slips because I don’t send anything out. I don’t try because the fear of failure has stitched itself into my skin like an invisible tattoo, taken over my shadow to ensure we are never separated, whispered secretly, seductively in my ear.

But today I am digging my dusty Doc Maartens out of the back of my closet and crushing that fear into dust with my boot heel. And I’m starting to feel more like my old self again. My vivid, complicated, detailed dreams are back. The running dialogue in my head as I live my life has returned, the writer me is writing and rewriting the everyday me as if I am a character in a book. And it feels really good.

I have the courage to be fearless.

Will you follow along? When my confidence wavers, when I start to mumble, will you remind me fear is a four-letter word?