watching pointless television . . .

. . . and pondering the book. Baby is down for a nap and I could be writing, but the time is not yet right. I dislike this part of the writing process. The thinking part. In some ways it feels a bit like cheating or procrastination. But it is so close, with the research coming to an end, that I should not even worry. The writing part will come soon enough. Until then, I have the holidays to keep me busy! And then the move to Asheville . . . busy, busy, busy.

always a matter. . .

. . . of time. And money. And the economy, and other schedules, and priorities.

The story is parked for the moment. In my head, where it is sitting like a ripe tomato. I am so afraid it may tumble from the vine and rot away somewhere in a tuft of overgrown grass. Ugh.

cool weather is . . .

. . . here, finally! We have a fire in the fire place and apple crisp in the kitchen. It is incredibly sad to say good bye to summer, but nice to enjoy the fall. I love sweater weather.

The writing is now at the plotting, planning, research phase, which I am enjoying immensely. Naturally, there are not enough hours in the day.

Soon, I will be moving again . . . this time hopping cities, landing in Asheville. It will be a great place to raise the baby, write, and do all those other lovely things life has in store. Definitely in a benign mood!

it's the thought . . .

. . . that counts, right? Because I was just about to post, but I hear stirrings in the nursery. (Does anyone say nursery anymore?)

Anyway, the baby's up. But the important writing is done. Until next time. . .

ahhhhhh. . .

. . . decisions are being made, website design is going on, and today was the first day I haven't done any major writing. A break was definitely needed there. Back onto it tomorrow.

I'm a huge Top Chef fan and yay for the new season in Las Vegas. It is rocking so far. Also watching Hell's Kitchen now, and I must say that Gordon Ramsay should take a note from Tom Colicchio about keeping his cool. I'd be far more afraid of Colicchio's displeasure than the constant bufooning of Ramsay. (Okay, it shows I'm more of a Top Chef fan, but in our house we watch both.)

First day of fall and I was delighted to see the rain, but disappointed with the humidity. Oh well. You can't have it all.

And the best news of all: Gemma is cutting her first tooth! Very exciting. She's being super good about it. Babies are wonderful things.

keeping in mind. . .

. . . the meaning of rough draft. It's meant to be rough. Rough to write, rough to read. When things get sticky, I change gears and think about the website I want to develop. If anyone knows of any really great writer websites out there, let me know.

Summer is slowly exiting. I love fall. I love winter. I'm definitely a sweater type of person.

the writing is. . .

. . . going well!

So well, I barely have time to grocery shop or do anything else.

In support of my writing, I got a surprise from My Significant Other. A brand new MacBook Pro. A Mac! I have been wanting one of these since forever, and it really is just an amazing computer. It arrived this morning and I wished instantly for a nanny so I could start playing on it right away. Gemma wasn't up for that though, so I had to wait. Dying for Justin to get home so he can see what he got me.

Sometimes things just fall into place and go the right way. Today is one of those days.

Even the weather is cooperating.

the baby is. . .

. . . napping for a few minutes and I am catching up online. Back to reading other blogs I enjoy and checking out websites, gearing up for submissions again. My significant other is already prepping for Halloween. It is funny to think that in a few years Gemma will be old enough to understand and enjoy dressing up and doing all the trick or treating. It was never really my holiday. I do recall though that one year I got to dress up as a call girl. I had no idea what that meant and I am sure my teacher was horrified when I told her what I was (honestly, I could have said gypsy and the outfit would have passed either way). Yay memories! Christmas is much more up my alley with the decorations and songs and merriment. This one will be good, of course, but the next one, when Gemma is closer to being two, will be the one to end all. Paper to rip, gingerbread to make, and songs to sing.

Yesterday I finished up a short story that has been in my head for at least two years. I don't know why it has taken me so long to commit it to paper, but the general concept has been lurking about and I finally worked out the particulars and luckily an ending presented itself. Not sure I will keep it upon revision, but it is there for now.

This puts me ever closer to the bigger picture, the larger project. It is so nice to finally be able to write again, even if only twenty minutes at a time and with innumerable interruptions.

no matter how. . .

. . . much I fight it, things really do come in balance. Since only the lovely side of this matters in the long run, I am excited to announce that my little story "The Triplets" has been given second place in the open fiction contest by Prick of the Spindle. I love these folks, and they obviously have wonderful taste, so you should stop by and peruse the site. Thank you Spindle folk!

Yesterday we took the dogs to a dog wash event that was collecting funds for rescue. Bean was a terribly good sport, in his element with all those hands on him and treats to be had. He even likes the water. Poor Sam on the other hand was experiencing the same event as a molestation of his person. All I know is that meant one less chore for me, and the smell of wet dog in the car on the way home.

Cooler weather coming this week. I can't wait! Open windows! Fresh air! It's about time.

all things that . . .

. . . can be good about summer: going to the beach in lovely 80 degree weather; baking fresh honey wheat bread from scratch; going out of town; reading a biography on Virginia Woolf; visiting a favorite grocery store not in Wilmington that has gorgeous heirloom tomatoes. All of these, I have done in the past week. Including the collecting of shells and sand for Baby Gemma. Someday, she will have these mementos and wonder why on earth her mother saved them for thirty years.

Woolf has long been one of my favorite writers and I am convinced that if she were alive today she would enjoy blogging. She'd have a voice beyond the demanding ones of her intimate group. She'd probably get herself in a bit of trouble, but she'd be championed into something beyond the strong personalities that Bloomsbury afforded her. I also think that my other favorite writer, Flannery O'Connor, would blog. I've thought a lot about this lately. Many not-yet-known writers blog, but I'm hard pressed to think of any well known writers who do. Maintaining a website is different - something I think writers who are getting recognition finally for their work start to transition toward with an element of blogging involved. I'm not sure what is behind my own urge to blog except that I enjoy it and it gives me a space to write. I am, of course, hawking my book about (although not strenuously by any means as the demands of motherhood are more vocal than the demands of the book), but I feel in a year that I will be in the website mode. . . as things change and progress and I am able to be more serious in this internet endeavor. It also begs a lot about the privacy/public question. . . the internet being this vast and forever thing.

If only Woolf and O'Connor had websites where I could ask their opinions on the matter.

everyday feels like . . .

. . . a completely new beginning. What will we be doing today? Will the baby be interested in an outing? Will I get any writing done? Will Wilmington stop being so humid? I can think of three life-changing events I am working on right now and I am equally excited about all of them and I also wish at the same time that I had a little less to deal with at one time. But then it occurs to me that this is actual life!

Right now it is storming here and the windows are coated with rain. Amazingly enough, the dogs are rather chill about the thunder, although Sam's usual MO is to freak out. Last night we watched Marley and Me, and it made me absolutely appreciate every dog I have ever had, even when I've had seven at one time. There is no way on earth any of my dogs were as destructive or disobedient as Marley. Kathleen Turner as the dog obedience instructor cracked me up! I saw that whole episode coming from a mile away.

Julie & Julia is out and I confess I want to see it. Meryl Streep is a favorite of mine, and Amy Adams has proven to be extremely talented in every movie I have seen her in. As for books, yes I am reading! Finding time somewhere (stealing fifteen minutes from sleep, in the bathtub, during baby naps when I should be folding laundry). My ultimate recommendation is for The Elegance of the Hedgehog. I didn't want to finish it. Ever. The voice of the main character is so entrancing, so likeable in her attempts at mediocrity. Another stellar read is Middlesex. I've been wanting to read it having been a huge fan of Orlando by Virginia Woolf. The main character in this is also fascinating. Both books propel you to want to know what is going to happen next, which is something I have been thinking about in literary fiction lately. How does great literature assume that same plot-driven feel of, say, a thriller, and remain essentially a character derived novel? Hmmm. More thoughts on this later.

slowly, like the . . .

. . . last drop in a bottle, the writing is coming along for a project I've been thinking of for months. Perhaps longer. Time seems muddled when you hit thirty. It no longer runs linearly, but categorically. Anyway, the project has a name, is somewhere around 40% written, and contains a general concept of flow. I'm very excited about it. The neatest thing about writing is when you crest that hill from a mere inkling of thought to a viable entity. However, I am also sadly burdened with a terrible lack of commitment to finishing my fiction (doesn't everyone have three dozen starts for three dozen different novels?).

Loving the warm weather too. It seems to encourage writing with the windows open and the fans blowing.

Time to work on a table of contents. . .

parenting by poetry . . .

. . . is something I plan on doing. (Although this does sound like it would require some memorization on my part, and let's face it - you can only quote the red wheelbarrow to your child a few times before the mystique wears off.)

However, this handy little tome may provide other options: Shut Up You're Fine: Instructive Poetry for Very, Very Bad Children. I was delighted to find this title, and even more delighted to find the poems were, well, instructional (read: hysterical). Pick it up.

perfect . . .

packing has begun . . .

. . . in preparation for the move to the new house. This is very exciting. Mostly exciting in the way of dashing from room to room to deal with the baby's needs and the pets' needs while attempting to toss things in boxes in some sort of coherent fashion whereby aforementioned things do not break.

On another note: I have been reading the word "lighted" an awful lot lately. This word irritates me. As far as I know, the correct use of the word in the context I read it in, is "lit." As in, she lit the cigarette. She lighted the cigarette? Hmmmm. It sounds wrong. It sounds as though somewhere the grammar was lost. Not that I am an expert. But if anyone knows the correct way to use the past tense of light, please enlighten me. (Then would I be enlit?)

Two new links to report on, by fellow MFAers who are super talented and have books either on the shelf, or forthcoming. It is very encouraging to see folks from workshop publishing in the big po-world.

i have been . . .

. . . working on fiction. Short stories. By working on, I mean I have been writing voraciously inside my head and have yet to transfer that onto the page. There is a mental block with fiction writing for me that stems from my long affair with disliking revising my work. I would have to say that the one thing I pulled from my MFA experience is the embracing of revision. Poems no longer scare me. I can write a shitty poem and feel confident that I will be able to go back and make it less shitty. And then again. And again. Sometimes I even go back a version or two. Whatever. The point being, revision is that epoch of a piece of writing that pushes it over the edge. This can take time. I don't always see the revisions at first. I have a poem that I am in love with (always a dangerous prospect) and it has only seen one begrudging revision, and even that felt somehow dirty and cheap. (Why? Why did I force that one? The thesis, of course.)

With fiction, however, the concept of revising a story blocks me. Perhaps it is because there are so many more words, and the threads of events feel so much denser; mess with one early on and you pretty much kill where the story landed the first time. Perhaps this is really just me experiencing my usual procrastination. I don't know. What I do know is that inside my head, these stories are alive and vibrant, the characters vying for attention, the conversations taking off, the points of view establishing themselves, the tone and the pacing are practically dancing. . . and all I need to do is sit down and write them out.

where have you . . .

. . . been and where are you going?

I have been around. Around. Doing things. Finishing the thesis. Growing life. (No, really. Growing life.) Giving birth. Being a mommy.

Yes, that's right.

And now?

And now I am back in the swing of all things blog. Which means baby pictures. And writing tirades. And sending out the book. All in all, things are just pretty fantastic at the moment. (I'm waiting for Sam the cat to poop outside the litter box so I can yell at Bean and Sam the dog for eating it. I didn't say life is perfect.)

More posts to come!