My Very First "Con"

Convention that is, or was it a conference.  Still not clear on that, but I was there at AnthoCon 2012 (you can add the synthesizer echo in your head).  Overall I'm glad I went.  I'm also glad I didn't spend money on it, or at least not really.

Last March I won tickets at my school's silent auction.  I was the only bid.  So for $40 I won four tickets.  I didn't really know what they were tickets for, neither did other bidders I think, but as a teacher we make sure all items get bids.  Eight months later I still didn't know what I was in for and the website wasn't very helpful in telling me what I wanted to know.  In my typical style I didn't google what 'speculative fiction' was until last night and it turns out I've read a ton in that genre.  

The conference, or maybe convention, was interesting.  It was encouraging and depressing at the same time.  Encouraging because I see that I have time.  If I am diligent and write like crazy now, some day when my life doesn’t include toddlers and grad classes I can put in the time and effort to getting published.  The authors on the New Writers Panel had been writing “their whole lives” but had only been published in the last 5 years.  They were all at least 10 years older than me.  Okay, so I have time.  But, there are already so many authors and only more to come.  And the future is ebooks (bleh) and no one will want to put my book on a bookshelf.  It’s depressing because it’s all been said before and if I wait, anything I had to say will be said by the time I’m ready to seek out publishing.  

So really the question becomes ‘why do I write?’  There’s a big part of me that writes for recognition (I think that is true of many writers, and really of everybody in whatever field they are in - why do athletes want to go pro?  Why do crafters start blogs?)  But I know I write for me.  I write because there are words in my head and I can’t retain them.  If I don’t write them down I will loose them.  I write because to keep it all inside would make me crazy.  Though from the outside I might already look like I’m crazy because I talk to myself so much (gotta get those words out).  

I went into the conference claiming I knew nothing about speculative fiction.  Seeing the blood-spattered gothic book covers and plethora of black clothing seemed to confirm my view.  But really speculative fiction was largely what I read growing up.  Besides the more recent pop-hits Twilight and Hunger Games, there’s Frank Peretti and George McDonald, not to mention Lewis and Tolkien.  Madeleine L’Engle for crying out loud - one of my favorite authors of all time.  Fairy tales, all books by Robin McKinley, old English lore - King Arthur, Merlin - all fall under the vast umbrella of speculative fiction.  AnthoCon leaned heavily towards the horror/thriller genre with a little bit of paranormal romance (I don’t want to ever go there), but according to one of the founders they are hoping for it to expand, for the other genres of speculative fiction to be included soon.  

The most important piece of advice from the whole weekend: if I put it on my blog it is self-published and a publisher won’t want it.  

I can hear that nap time is over, which means so is my time to write....at least for now.

Being A Real Writer

A writing mentor gave me a book last Sunday.  She said its a book she's found helpful in her writing and wanted to pass on a copy to me.  Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg.  I've been in a writing funk for a while (hence no posts), and this was exactly what I needed.   I was at class all day today and, for some wonderful reason, had brought the book with me.  I read a bit at lunch.  Here are my thoughts after the first chapter:

This woman knows me.  Did she sneak into my head?  Thoughts I’ve never acknowledge, possibly didn’t know I had and she is writing about it.  Every sentence is ‘yes’ or ‘oh dear, so true’.  Even the title: Freeing the Writer Within.  My writer is trapped, shackled by dirty dishes, spit-flecked mirrors and a whiney dog.

How many times have I stood in a stationary store, handling the journals and notebooks?  Paging through, feeling the cover, feeling the weight of the page, does it fit right, does it feel right.  Switching pens, fancy, plain, blue ink, black ink, not a fan of rainbow ink.  Heavy pens, light pens, fat pens, thin pens.  I’ve written on steno notebooks, blank-sheeted sketch pads, wishing for an old-fashioned typewriter rather than a computer because that would make me feel more like a writer.  I would be a real writer if I could use a typewriter.  Spending tons of money finding an old typewriter, keeping it working, searching the internet for supplies.  Would Pete be able to fix it if it broke?  Dealing with correction tape and white out instead of a delete key.  That would make me a real writer.

When I write on the computer I feel I should be writing with pen and paper.  That’s how to really write.  Goldberg even says this: Handwriting is more connected to the movement of the heart.  See, I should write longhand.  It’s more creative.  I need more journals.  Journals that are all the same, lined up on the shelf years from now with the dates on the spine.  A collection of my ideas.  My life’s work.  My masterpiece of ...  Of what?  What do I really write?  No one would read that.  Well, my biographer will have to wade through all the random thoughts to find the nuggets of actual writing.  But how will they do that if I type everything.  I have to write with pen and paper.  That would make me a real writer.

And then there’s the business of where to write.  Do real writers write in cafes with endless supplies of caffeinated beverages?  Do real writers cloister themselves away in attics?  I need an attic.  I can’t be a real writer unless I climb a rickety staircase to the top of a house.  I must not be a real writer, I live in a ranch.

I didn’t want to call the third bedroom the office.  What a boring name.  Yes it has books, a desk, computer, printer, etc.  But I wanted to call it the ‘den’.  It’s a better name.  A name that brings to mind coziness.  A writerly name.  I can write in a place called the ‘den’.  I can’t write in a place called the ‘office’.  Maybe I should be calling it the ‘studio’.  Do writers have studios?  A studio means creativity and inspiration.  A room called a studio doesn't have to be at the top of a flight of stairs.  (Although, you could say our den is at the top of the basement stairs.)  I sew in that room too.  Maybe I should call it my studio.  That would make me a real writer.

Nature Pee

       I drove to a flat stretch of road to do my run today.  From where I live I have to run hills no matter what, and they are killing my ability to finish a 3 mile run.  So today I drove.  I got Cora strapped in with a snack and a drink.  Phone, check.  Keys, check.  Off we went.  I think I took two steps before I realized I had to pee.  If I was at home, it would have been no big deal, just turn around and unlock the door.  But out here, where was I going to pee?

       I wouldn’t consider myself a girly girl, but I like the conveniences of modern life.  Running water and indoor plumbing are wonderful things.  Peeing in the woods is not something I remember doing as a child.  We went on enough hikes as a family, I’m sure I did at some point.  But I remember holding it, waiting until we got to the parking lot and using an outhouse or holding it even longer until we got to the nearest McDonald’s.  I was never a good squatter.  The thought of getting pee on my shoes or legs grossed me out.  And what do you wipe with?  And where do you put it?  It’s ok, I’ll just hold it.

       While spending a year doing voluntary work in England I went on a mission trip to Ukraine.  We landed in the modern airport and took a normal bus to the modern train station in the capital of Kiev.  A number of girls had to go to the bathroom so of course we went as a group.  The innocuous looking white stall doors held a surprise - squatters, also called Turkish toilets.  I locked myself in and closed my eyes, please God, help me do this (not my usual prayer).  The stall proved helpful, something to hang on to, and I managed to do my business.  Throughout that trip it was a mix of Western toilets and Turkish squatters.

       A few years later, on a trip to France with my sister, I encountered another squatter, this time in a bistro in Paris.  I took a deep breath, I’ve done this before, and did what I had to do.  When I returned to the table my sister said she needed the toilet.  I let her know it was a squat toilet and she immediately said she was fine.

       Despite two trips to Morocco where they primarily have squat toilets I still would not consider myself very good.  But today I did it.  I nature peed.  It wasn’t easy finding the right spot with a stroller, the woods had to be thin enough to get the stroller off the road, but thick enough hide me, but I managed to find a good spot.  I nearly turned around and went home when I realized I had to pee, but I’m glad I didn’t because I had a great run.  I will be doing that run again soon, though making sure I pee before I go next time.

New School Year

The pencils are sharpened and the materials in place.  This year I'm still technically an intern (hopefully earning my Montessori Credentials by the spring) and my head teacher has assigned Practical Life and Sensorial as my responsibility.  Since I am a forgetful person, I am taking pictures of the shelves each time I put work on them.  These will go in my albums as a reference for when I have my own classroom someday and can't remember what to put on the shelves in September.  It's not a requirement of the albums (they've already been graded) but I think having a full year's sequence including holiday ideas will be really helpful.
Here are the shelves I put together for the first day of school:

Practical Life

Care of Environment and Care of Self

Sensorial Shelf 1

Sensorial Shelf 2

School starts next Wednesday and we have seven new 3 year olds starting this year.  Maybe I should take pictures of what the shelves look like after the first day - that way I remember that part of September too.

FireBird

I wrote this early one morning after a dream.  I'm not sure yet if this is it, or if there's more before or after.

I fly, dance, spin.  Twist, jump, hang suspended in the air for what seems like minutes before tucking and rolling back to the stone.  Trying to pass the time.

Asoph has told me to wait.  He gave me the names of those I should wait with.  His instructions do not make sense.  The rest of the city was told to go to the palace docks.  There they would be processed and board the ship.  The evacuation plans have been in place for years.  We learn them the first year of school and every year after that there are reminders and drills.

After having the procedure drilled into me for ten years, it is difficult to blatantly abandon it.  But I must trust him, I have trusted him with everything so far, including my life, this is not that much of a stretch.  

There are twelve of us waiting.  We cannot jump too soon, he told us to wait for the signal.  

.    .    .

There is a lot of shouting as the ship passes the balcony.  The youngest jump first, into the waiting arms of those already on board the ship.  The gap widens.  Sheer walls leading to jagged rocks and hideous surf are the answer to a missed jump.  There are two of us left.  

“You go”, I tell him.

“No, I’ll get you across.”

“You wont make it.”

Split second.

He jumps.

The ship is pulling away.

There is only one way.

Asoph is standing on the stern of the ship, robes flapping in the hot wind coming off the city.  I retreat from the edge, ten feet then twenty feet, then I begin to dance.  Everything inside me is screaming to run, forget all this.  But I know I must.  I will not make it if I don’t do it all.  So I dance, spinning, twisting, leaping across the space I created, moving towards the ship.  One final leap lands me on the stone orb of the railing.  As I balance before leaping out into the air, my mind makes the realization that the ship is no longer where it was when I started, it is further, much further.  The gap has widened, doubled maybe.  The thoughts whip through my mind, but I cannot hesitate.  I jump anyway.  

I fly, twist, find an air currant and propel myself towards the boat.  It is still too far.  The panic begins to rise.  I need an updraft.  I twist to find it.  There’s nothing.  I am no longer flying, I am falling.  

I feel his words rather than hear them.  His voice inside my head rather than being heard outside.  Then the explosions begin.  Thats the power I need, if only the force will hit before, well, before I fall too far.

I twist and flip one more time, sideways, searching for an air current to bear me up.  There’s a tiny one, I gained maybe a foot.  Another one?  Can I find one more?  I’ll take whatever I can get.  The rumbling hits my ears at the same moment the updraft hits my body.  That’s it, what I need.  I twist into it and propel my self upward and forward.  It’s not enough, there needs to be more.  

The city is exploding, the ship needs to move away from the collapsing walls and boulders that are becoming shrapnel.  One more updraft.  I feel the weightlessness of free-fall again.  I’m not going to make it.  I’m still above the side of the ship.  I can still see him, our eyes lock as I begin to fall.  I am not even trying any more.  I can’t.  I know the ship needs to go, I am holding them back.  He stretches out his hand to me, I stretch mine to him, a silent wave, salute, to the man who drew me out of the shadows and gave me wings.

I feel the heat behind me.  The fire must have reached the balcony.  The explosion took out all sound.  In the silence my body took over, the heat on my back was too intense, but with it came power, wind.  I felt it and made one final attempt to fly into the current.  The firey air propelled me forward.  My fingers grasp solid material.  My last coherent thought is to hang on, don’t let go.  My ears are still silent, I feel a hand grasp my arm, then my eyes close and I give in to the firery heat behind me.

I Remember: Grandma

My grandma looks like the Queen of England.  Short white hair, thick framed glasses.  

I remember her sternness, her attention to propriety and politeness.  

Drink all the milk in your cereal bowl, there are starving children in Africa.  

I remember her generosity.  I stayed with Grandma and Grandpa ‘B’ (as opposed to Grandma and Grandpa ‘C’) for a week the summer I was 10.  A week with grandma and grandpa.  I remember dinner on TV trays in the den watching Jeopardy.  I remember Grandma putting my suitcase in Uncle David’s old room.  The room where everything matched.  The bedding matched the curtains, which matched the arm chair (an arm chair in a bedroom!), which matched the pads of paper on the twin built-in desks flanking the window.  That was Alissa and my favorite spot.  We wished we had a room like that at our house.  A room so big it contained twin beds, twin dressers, twin desks and still had room for an arm chair.  And everything matched.  

I liked the room, but I didn’t want to stay there.  I remember screwing up my courage.  Can I stay in Aunt Anne’s room?  Aunt Anne’s room was blue and white and full of light.  There was a trunk full of dolls I knew I couldn’t touch.  There was a desk and a chair and a big white bed.  Grandma said I could sleep there instead.

I remember she asked me if I’d had a “BM” and I said no because I didn’t know what it meant.  She called my mom to inform her I wasn’t well, Mom told her I probably didn’t know what BM meant.  

I remember her sitting next to me on the bed, holding a gold locket with two pictures inside - herself and my Uncle David.  This is for you, she told me; it was given to me by my mother (in-law?).  The locket was slightly larger than a quarter.  The engraved heart and scrollwork drew me in, my ten-year-old self loved hearts.  This is for you, she said.

Grandma informed me we were going shopping when she found out that not only did I not bring a bathrobe, but I did not own one.  I don’t remember what department store we went to, it seemed fancy to me.  We rarely shopped at department stores at home.  The clothes were new, and beautiful.  We didn’t find a suitable bathrobe (I would get a blue, zip-up one for Christmas the following year), but while walking through the racks of beautiful clothes, I couldn’t resist touching.  (I do it now when I shop, fingering the cloth, tracing embroidery, even on a garment I don’t like.)  Grandma stopped.  Do you like that skirt? she asked.  Oh boy, did I like it?  How could I not have liked it.  It was a twirly skirt.  I could tell on the hanger.  The kind if you twirled around it would spin in a circle until you stopped.  Tiered fabric of black and white check and pink roses alternated.  It was so ‘90s.  It was so beautiful.  Do you like the skirt? she asked again.  Yes, I managed, it’s pretty.  Okay, we’ll get it.

Just like that.  She picked it up.  We’ll need a shirt too, what about this one?

She picked up a white peasant shirt with an elastic neck and blousey 3/4 sleeves.  Oh my.  My ten-year-old heart melted.

Yes.  My grandma was very generous.

Finding My Fabulous

On Wednesday I had gum surgery.  It was my fourth, but I have found an excellent periodontist so it wasn’t too bad.  The best part about Wednesday was after the surgery.  Yes, I had the novocan/swollen lip/drooling feeling, but I was alone.  Cora was at Grandma’s and down for a nap.  Which meant I had a few hours to myself.  The periodontist is in Kittery so what better to do than go shopping at the outlets.  Before I got to the outlets however I decided to stop in at a cute looking thrift called The Fabulous Find, and boy was it!  It’s become my fabulous find of the week!

It’s a small store, but full of cute second-hand items.  My buy of the day?  J.Crew ‘Matchstick’ jeans for $4.99.  Followed up with a pinstriped button down and a tank-top.  Total for the three items: $16.25.  What I liked best about The Fabulous Find was their philosophy.  After they pay rent and their two paid employees the rest of the profits go to local charities.  They have a long list of charities in Dover, Kittery, Eliot, Berwick (and others) that they have written significant checks to.  What a great way to help the community.  If you live in the seacoast/southern Maine area, take your donations to The Fabulous Find.

So I skipped the outlets and stopped in another thrift shop Full Circle in Eliot.  This one wasn’t as good; a little dingy, a little dirty and yet I still managed to find something to buy.  A couple of books, wood blocks for Cora and a milk white bowl.  Total: $11.03.

I like these thrift shops.  Lately I’ve been disappointed with places like Savers.  I feel like prices have been going up and are ridiculous for second-hand clothes.  Who wants to pay $11 or more for Target brand jeans?  Not me.  I bet I could find new jeans on sale for the same price.  

For me, it’s sayonara Savers and hello Fabulous.