It was 9 in the morning when I dropped my daughter off at my mother's house. Shea was up and going, talking all the way to her "Noni's" house. When we got there, mom was up and about and we chatted for a while before I left. One of the last things my mother told me was to make sure and check the mail.
I forgot.
I forgot until midnight that night. I went out to the mailbox in the middle of the night and fumbled around in the dark for the few scant pieces of paper I found there. In the midst of the coupons, fliers, and junk mail, there was a red envelope addressed to "Daddy" with gold foil stickers. In the bottom left corner of the envelope was a hand drawn picture of a girl with long hair. It was obviously Shea as drawn by Shea. On the back of the envelope there was "I (Heart) U" written in a shaky hand.
It took everything I had not to rip open the envelope right then and there, but I waited. I wanted to open the envelope with Shea, who had obviously taken some time to put this together for me. I set the envelope under my keys so I wouldn't forget to open it with her first thing in the morning.
I almost forgot this morning. Good thing I set it under my keys. As soon as I saw the envelope, I dashed upstairs to where Shea was watching a DVD. I held up the envelope for her to see, but she was zoned out on the cartoons. I paused the DVD while holding up the envelope. The moment she saw it she smiled and said, "Open it!"
I lay back down on the bed next to Shea. She reached up, grabbed my earlobe, looked at me, and smiled with her sippy cup still in her mouth. I ripped open the envelope and looked inside. The envelope was filled with different colored paper clips-pink, green, etc. "They're for you."
"For me? How come?" I asked.
"For your papers," she said.
"Thank you, Shea."
It was sweet. I've never been so pleased to get paper clips in my life. It wasn't the gift that was important. It was that my mother and daughter took some time to send me a special surprise. They thought of me. And, after a rough day the day before, it made all the difference.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
12 = 0?!
I've been holding myself to the challenge. While I haven't worked much every day, I've worked every day so far. In fact, today saw me take one of the freewrites I did with my summer fiction class, and transform it in a way that was really helpful to a chapter I'd been struggling with. So, I saved my new writing under the "Novel in Progress" file.
When I was looking at all the previous files that were in there, I became a bit disconcerted about my organization. I had many files, many I knew to be duplicates, so I decided to reorganize my "Novel in Progress" file. Guess what?
I have twelve sub-folders in my "Novel in Progress" file. Do you know what that means? It means I possibly have 12 chapters of my novel partially written. Do you know what else that means? It means that I have 12 fragments (or I should say "categories of fragments) of writing that I don't know what I'm doing with yet. Does 12 = 0?
No, it doesn't. It means that I've already begun to do some decent work on this thing. Will I one day know how to put some of this shit together? I hope so! In the meantime, it isn't my job to worry about big picture. My job right now is to listen to John. And to Willy. And to Katie. And to Sarah. And to Aunt Carol. When they are whole enough, when they are realized enough, they'll tell me what they are trying to say.
In the meantime? Holy shit, I've got twelve.
When I was looking at all the previous files that were in there, I became a bit disconcerted about my organization. I had many files, many I knew to be duplicates, so I decided to reorganize my "Novel in Progress" file. Guess what?
I have twelve sub-folders in my "Novel in Progress" file. Do you know what that means? It means I possibly have 12 chapters of my novel partially written. Do you know what else that means? It means that I have 12 fragments (or I should say "categories of fragments) of writing that I don't know what I'm doing with yet. Does 12 = 0?
No, it doesn't. It means that I've already begun to do some decent work on this thing. Will I one day know how to put some of this shit together? I hope so! In the meantime, it isn't my job to worry about big picture. My job right now is to listen to John. And to Willy. And to Katie. And to Sarah. And to Aunt Carol. When they are whole enough, when they are realized enough, they'll tell me what they are trying to say.
In the meantime? Holy shit, I've got twelve.
Friday, August 26, 2011
The Challenge
I've been thinking about challenging myself for a while now. I've gotten a little complacent with my writing practice. So, I've decided to commit. I've decided to ask myself for the things I want. I've decided to write every day. Now, I've done this before, or attempted it at least, and I've never been able to sustain it for long but I have hope this time around.
So, here is the basis of the challenge. I need to write every day for fifteen minutes. That's it. Fifteen minutes. I know that if I sit down for fifteen minutes and write then I will oftentimes find myself writing for an hour, but the first fifteen minutes are the big hurdle.
The reason for the challenge is I taught a fiction workshop this summer and I was writing almost daily with my students and at home. It felt great. I've felt better about my writing practice than I have in the last three years. So, I want to keep it going. I don't want to falter. Here are the steps I've taken to ensure that I keep on my regimen.
* I've set two alarms in my phone that will go off at 9 am and 10 pm reminding me to write every day.
* I've changed the background on all of my computers to display a picture with the text "Write Every Day!!!" written across the front of it.
* I've scheduled two events in Google Calendar that say "Write Every Day" which will come out at 9 am and 10 pm. These reminders will land in my email each time.
I'm serious about this. I need to practice. I need to create. And unless I get my butt in the writing chair, this will never happen.
Here's to sustained motivation and practice!
So, here is the basis of the challenge. I need to write every day for fifteen minutes. That's it. Fifteen minutes. I know that if I sit down for fifteen minutes and write then I will oftentimes find myself writing for an hour, but the first fifteen minutes are the big hurdle.
The reason for the challenge is I taught a fiction workshop this summer and I was writing almost daily with my students and at home. It felt great. I've felt better about my writing practice than I have in the last three years. So, I want to keep it going. I don't want to falter. Here are the steps I've taken to ensure that I keep on my regimen.
* I've set two alarms in my phone that will go off at 9 am and 10 pm reminding me to write every day.
* I've changed the background on all of my computers to display a picture with the text "Write Every Day!!!" written across the front of it.
* I've scheduled two events in Google Calendar that say "Write Every Day" which will come out at 9 am and 10 pm. These reminders will land in my email each time.
I'm serious about this. I need to practice. I need to create. And unless I get my butt in the writing chair, this will never happen.
Here's to sustained motivation and practice!
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Dear Zachary
I stayed up later than I should tonight as I've been sick lately, but I couldn't help myself. I was doing some light grading when I decided I would start a documentary from my Netflix queue. I've had "Dear Zachary" in my queue for a long time now and I finally decided to watch it.
It is one of the hardest and most beautiful things I have ever had the pleasure to witness. It is a true crime documentary about a murder; it's a tribute to the victim's life, loves, and family; it is the story of a custody battle; it is a devastating look at what happens to those who are left behind; it is a condemnation of a broken legal system; finally, it is the story of progress and change that only seems to happen out the back side of tragedy.
I wept. I wept openly. I'm writing about my weeping. It has affected me this much. You can find more information about it here.
It has brought me here to the keyboard in the wee hours of the night with an ache to say something, but I know I will find little comfort in my own abilities tonight. Sometimes, I can't write past this kind of pain. There are moments in life when art reflects our pain back to us. It isn't because the subject matter is the same as our pain. It isn't because I identify with this person or that person in the movie. It is because something happened in the creative process that transcended the individual and became the communal. It shared. It touched. And I am sitting here alone in the dark now surrounded by the idea that I am small. That we all are.
The funny thing about all of this is how grateful I am to be reminded. There are times where I feel large in the confines of my life, but that is because I live a small life. When the roads of my daily travels are worn and the limits of my daily tasks are repetitive, it is easy to believe that I have a semblance of control, but I don't.
The world outside looks a little scary tonight, a little uncertain, but my heart is racing good and strong and I know I'm alive. It's like how Shea must feel a lot of the time when we take her to new places. She doesn't have much frame of reference for new things and all kinds of things must get her blood pumping, but she laughs, and she smiles, and every now and again she even lets loose that high pitched scream that is the perfect mix of terror and delight.
It is one of the hardest and most beautiful things I have ever had the pleasure to witness. It is a true crime documentary about a murder; it's a tribute to the victim's life, loves, and family; it is the story of a custody battle; it is a devastating look at what happens to those who are left behind; it is a condemnation of a broken legal system; finally, it is the story of progress and change that only seems to happen out the back side of tragedy.
I wept. I wept openly. I'm writing about my weeping. It has affected me this much. You can find more information about it here.
It has brought me here to the keyboard in the wee hours of the night with an ache to say something, but I know I will find little comfort in my own abilities tonight. Sometimes, I can't write past this kind of pain. There are moments in life when art reflects our pain back to us. It isn't because the subject matter is the same as our pain. It isn't because I identify with this person or that person in the movie. It is because something happened in the creative process that transcended the individual and became the communal. It shared. It touched. And I am sitting here alone in the dark now surrounded by the idea that I am small. That we all are.
The funny thing about all of this is how grateful I am to be reminded. There are times where I feel large in the confines of my life, but that is because I live a small life. When the roads of my daily travels are worn and the limits of my daily tasks are repetitive, it is easy to believe that I have a semblance of control, but I don't.
The world outside looks a little scary tonight, a little uncertain, but my heart is racing good and strong and I know I'm alive. It's like how Shea must feel a lot of the time when we take her to new places. She doesn't have much frame of reference for new things and all kinds of things must get her blood pumping, but she laughs, and she smiles, and every now and again she even lets loose that high pitched scream that is the perfect mix of terror and delight.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
An Object at Rest
I have strep throat. I have strep throat and I've been required to stay home and rest for the last two days. It's been a LONG time since that has happened. I've been dedicated to work, to family, to everything else I've chosen to prioritize.
It's been nice.
If you take away the body aches and my throat feeling like acid, it's been really nice. I've watched like four films. Small ones. Independent films. I haven't read a single student paper and I haven't served a single person a drink. I've had some quiet times in the evening with my family, but otherwise I've been alone.
I used to laze away weekends watching movies. I used to laze about and read, write, and do nothing. I almost can't tell you the last time I did nothing. I'm feeling better. The aches are gone, the throat is still scratchy, but my head feels clear. Sometimes you have to love being forced to stop.
It's been nice.
If you take away the body aches and my throat feeling like acid, it's been really nice. I've watched like four films. Small ones. Independent films. I haven't read a single student paper and I haven't served a single person a drink. I've had some quiet times in the evening with my family, but otherwise I've been alone.
I used to laze away weekends watching movies. I used to laze about and read, write, and do nothing. I almost can't tell you the last time I did nothing. I'm feeling better. The aches are gone, the throat is still scratchy, but my head feels clear. Sometimes you have to love being forced to stop.
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