March 1, 2013
The Other Woman
I wasn’t worried when she appeared in my husband’s life or that they had to spend some time together—for work. I didn’t realize how serious it was between them until my husband announced she would be joining us on a trip.
“Are you serious?” I asked. I think I was giving him that squinty look. You know, the one that creases your forehead and narrows your eyes. The look you give a person when you’re thinking REALLY? Then I said, “We’re only going to the store. We know how to get there.”
But when we climbed into the car, she was there between us in the front seat. My husband’s GPS. ”Her name is Lwaxana,” my husband told me as he handed her to me. Lwaxana? I can’t even pronounce it, but it rolls off his tongue like melted butter. He even had reason for giving her that particular name. That’s when I realized I had some competition. That smooth talking machine was vying for my position as navigator and who knew what else.
Lwaxana and Deanna Troi.
“I know how to get where we’re going,” I said, looking at her slim, black case with distaste. He ignored me and left her on the console. After a few months, I gave in and used her for longer trips. I’d grudgingly hold her and relay her directions to my husband; her voice is too quiet to hear over the noise of the road. “I’d rather use a print-off from Mapquest,” I’d mutter to her. She didn’t fool me; I knew she was expendable. And she knew that I knew it.
I’m a great navigator. I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but after years of living in New York and Ohio, and after our many road trips, I know how to read a map. I have a good internal compass, too. Granted, I screw up occasionally. “The Alibi is on Rochester between Wattles and Long Lake,” I’ll tell my husband confidently when he asks. But after circling the same stretch of a mile for the fifth time, we realize that I’m three miles off, and we’re a half-hour late to meet friends for dinner; I’m remorseful and apologetic. Lwaxana has yet to apologize for her screw ups. And she has made a few.
When we leave to attend a function on Belle Isle in Detroit, my husband hands me Lwaxana before backing out of our driveway. “Start out going south on John R,” she says in her confident, silky voice.
“I’m taking Fifteen Mile,” my husband says.
“She doesn’t like it when you mess her up and she has to recalculate,” I tell him. “She may not say it, but I know she’s waiting to taser me because you’re not listening to her.”
“She doesn’t mind if I change routes.” He defends her. But he’s wrong. She’s a woman and I know she’s planning her revenge on me. I’m not stupid; I read The Help.
Sharpening their tools.
“I think I’m going to write a blog post about her,” I inform him. “Your other woman.”
“That’s a great idea,” he says and offers to come up with a list of our similarities and differences.
Go right ahead, I think. And when you’re sleeping on the couch, we’ll see if Lwaxana can keep you warm.
We continue our ride downtown. Thank God it’s mostly expressway driving, so Lwaxana remains silent for most of the drive. Maybe she’s using this time to plan how she’s going to taser me the next time Dave doesn’t follow her directions.
By the time we reach Detroit, it’s snowing so hard we see five cars that have spun out and a semi-truck has jack-knifed. Finally, we cross the bridge to the unfamiliar terrain of Belle Isle. Now the snow’s so thick we literally can’t see more than five feet ahead of us. And I say for the first time, “I’m actually glad we have this thing.” I point to Lwaxana because I’m not about to say her name. We follow her directions through the blinding snow and end up at… gates that are chained shut. Obviously the wrong place.
I wouldn’t let her steer my starship.
After a half-hour, we find our destination with no help from Lwaxana. She does nothing to correct the directions and doesn’t apologize for steering us wrong in the first place.
Later that evening my husband hands me some papers. “Here’s some information on Lwaxana Troi for your blog post,” he says. “I’m working on the list of similarities and differences.”
Dave’s List:
How Dawne and Lwaxana are alike
- I look to both of them for guidance
- I don’t always take their advice
- They both speak softly into my ear
How Dawne and Lwaxana are different
- Dawne always laughs at my jokes
- Lwaxana never gets angry when I ignore her
- Dawne is taller
I guess he doesn’t have to sleep on the couch.
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December 3, 2012
Scrooge, A Grinch And A Girl
Our family has a Christmas tradition. I felt I had to impose it the year after we watched Highlander on Christmas Eve and there was talk of making it an annual tradition. Highlander our Christmas movie? Over my dead body. Obviously it was a situation headed out of control, so I stepped in a did what moms are supposed to do: took control.
I’m happy to say now our Christmas family movie is Scrooge, the musical starring Albert Finney. My family has come to terms with this tradition (although every year, someone fondly recalls the Christmas we watched Highlander). I think they’re even beginning to look forward to Scrooge. I heard S² humming “Thank you very much” yesterday.
Scrooge has always had a special place in my heart, the Grinch, too. As I lay in bed a few nights ago, pondering metaphysics, God, and man I naturally began to think of those two great characters of classic literature.
Yes, they each have an experience that shatters their existence and makes them realize they can never go back to life as it used to be. But the fact that they don’t want that life back is what makes them so interesting. Unfortunately, my late night ponderings don’t stop there. I begin to wonder what happens to the Grinch and Scrooge after Christmas.
Perhaps the Grinch moves to a small Scandanavian-style chalet at the edge of Whoville. Cindy Lou Who stops by for a visit. She and Max romp around filling the air with giggles and whatever noise dogs make when they’re having fun. The Grinch’s big baby blue eyes crinkle as he smiles. The next day after Cindy Lou has been there for an hour, the Grinch finds himself on the front porch with his Grinch fingers nervously drumming. By the end of the month, he is hiding under his bed, leaving Cindy Lou and the other little Whos pounding mercilessly on his front door. His wide blue eyes are getting squintier and squintier. But the Grinch doesn’t want to go back to his old ways.
As for Scrooge, he spends Christmas partying at his nephew’s home. The next day, unused to such frolicking, he sleeps in for the first time in decades. He drags himself from bed just in time for dinner and heads over to the Cratchit’s to check on Tiny Tim and inveigle a dinner invitation. The Cratchit’s are overjoyed to see him. At first his free and liberally shared advice are welcome, but when he tries to improve upon Mrs. Cratchit’s plum pudding things get a little tense.
Scrooge can really party.
Okay, I know you’re wondering where I get the chutzpah to speculate on the behavior of such beloved characters. And yet I feel qualified to such speculation because Scrooge, the Grinch and I have a lot in common. We each tend (to put it mildly) towards grinchiness but we each desire to change. This desire is precipitated by events that affected each one of us so deeply we realize we can’t continue living as we did.
The event that changed my life happened over seventeen years ago, but it has influenced my life every day since. In itself, it is about the most mundane and unmemorable thing you could imagine. We were driving in our van (on Nineteen Mile Road, two-thirds of the way between Dequindre and Ryan Road, for the Michiganders among you). Suddenly my mind was filled with a sudden blinding revelation: God. This is very difficult to write because there are absolutely no words to describe it—a feeling, an intuition, an awareness, understanding, pure unadulterated joy. Nope. None of these come close. I’m not asking you to understand or even believe me. Quite frankly, it’s not something you can experience just from reading my words (even if I could find some). What’s important here is the fact that this experience was so true and real to me that it changed my life.
I knew God was real. How cool (again, words can’t quite do it, so cool will have to do.) And I decided that I was going to change; I was going to always be good. Not because God demanded it, or because I wanted His approval, but because I loved Him and I wanted to be good for Him. And for myself. I hadn’t realized how unhappy I was until I was surprised by joy.
I floated on a cloud for a few days. But reality (the reality of myself) set in when I had to drive somewhere. I tried SO hard to be good and kind to the other drivers. But there were so many “idiots” on the road, my resolve crumbled. In fact, not only did I revert to my old self, I was worse than I usually was. What the heck was wrong with me? I did not want to behave this way.
But I learned, as I’m sure the Grinch and Scrooge would have if they were real, that a lifetime is a hard habit to break and bad is so much easier than good. But bad habits, even a lifetime of them, can be broken no matter how long it takes. For me, it’s possible with God’s help.
It would be possible for the Grinch and Scrooge, too. I think the Grinch would have moved to a secluded cabin in the woods, visiting the Who’s every week for some good times and a dinner of roast beast. Eventually, he’d begin inviting the Who’s to his cabin for a day of cross-country skiing and an evening of s’mores and cocoa in front of a blazing fire. As for Scrooge, he could have become a very successful business consultant (they weren’t called that back then) and philanthropist. Maybe he’d fall for a jolly widow and they’d live happily ever after.
As for me, I try to take one day at a time. As long as I don’t have to watch Highlander on Christmas…
Highlander, the perfect Christmas movie?
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November 22, 2012
Black Friday Blues
Black Friday comes but once a year
It sets the world upon its ear.
Sane people leave their home before
The dawning sun has yet drawn near.Thanksgiving’s but a passing chore
A sacrifice to gods of more.
Windshields cleared of winter’s frost
We must be early to the store.Employees tired and acting sauced
Cranky at the sleep they’ve lost,
Dream of running from their post
To flee from shoppers that accost.Snaking lines from coast to coast
The winner buying up the most
The savings clearly worth the woe
Thanksgiving giving up the ghost.Black Friday is Thanksgiving’s foe,
And so their armies each shall grow.
Visions of peace then let us show:
Both sides under the mistletoe
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May 29, 2012
Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum
I choose books by their covers, wine by its label, and movies by their trailers. And I thought I didn’t care what other people thought of my choices. Until I had an encounter with O. W. Toad.
She doesn’t look like a toad.
I wasn’t always that way. When I was younger, I knew that knowledge was the key (to what I wasn’t sure), and that I was ignorant about many things. I relied on the well-informed and scholarly to choose things that would help me attain knowledge.
I also knew with a certainty that belied my youth, that classical literature was the foundation of knowledge. During high school my brother developed a consuming passion for literature. He devoured it like potato chips. He became my literary mentor. I borrowed his books– Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Tolstoy, Dostoeveky. But I couldn’t devour them. I nibbled at them like they were steamed broccoli. I didn’t enjoy it and if I got any benefits, I wasn’t aware of them (I felt the same about broccoli).
Movies weren’t foundational to knowledge, but they could be building blocks. So I looked to the experts, the movie critics, to guide me into knowledge-acquiring-movie-Nirvana. The critics led me to Pulp Fiction. AAAAHHHH. I wanted to bleach my brain after that. Then their wisdom led me to Sideways. And I wanted to hunt down the critics that had “widely acclaimed” it and demand reparation for the two hours of my life that had been wasted. And while they were at it, they could reimburse me for the movie rental.
In the end, I owe those critics (well, let’s just call it even) because I begin to choose movies without reading reviews first. Move over Quentin Tarantino, I’ve realized I’m not meant to be knowledgeable. Enter Miss Congeniality and Legally Blonde. I don’t care what the critics say.
Literature followed a different path. I just stopped reading for myself; I read to my kids. But when I started grown-up reading again I browsed the bookstore shelves with the anticipation of a teenager with a shiny new driver’s license, getting into a car alone for the first time.
“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go…”
― Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
I didn’t look at the best-seller list or book reviews. I chose the books that called to me. And I began to acquire knowledge. Not the kind I’d thought was necessary. The kind that taught me about other people, living in their own bubbles, trying to give me a glimpse of themselves. Both of us, reader and writer, connecting somewhere in our guts.
After reading lots of contemporary fiction, deciding to read classic literature again was like summoning up the courage to tip-toe into the cold lake water at the beach. I was fearful that if someone didn’t explain it, or tell me what to think, it would be lost on me. In fact, I was so focused on the mechanics I almost gave up. My brother told me to chill and just read it. So I did.
And I still do. And for the five hundred salient points that sail right over my head, I’m smart enough to get three or four. And that gives me plenty of stuff to ponder.
Which finally brings me to the point of this post— Margaret Atwood (also known as O. W. Toad).
I’d been hearing her name often so I decided to read The Handmaid’s Tale. It was not what I was expecting, and it was not like anything I’ve ever read. As I read, I was vaguely aware of a running commentary in the space between my conscious and sub-conscious minds. It went something like this: “What are her views on this (whatever cultural issue)? Is she trashing my views? Is she anti-Christian? Does she…..?” For the first few chapters I waited for a bogeyman to jump out at me and attack. But he never did. And I became engrossed in the tale and the place in Atwood’s gut that had given birth to it. It was an amazing place.
When I finished it, I gave it four stars in my Goodreads/Facebook account before indulging in my usual obsessive information glut (this explains my in-depth knowledge of things like Temple of the Dog, the life of Ernest Hemingway, and the in’s and out’s of NASCAR racing).
Is this where we live now?
I saw things like “anti-Christian” and “mocking traditional values”, and my heart did a little jumpy thing and a thought went through my mind, like a wisp of smoke, incoherent, just a dread— “Maybe I’m not supposed to like Margaret Atwood’s writing. Maybe I should delete my high rating so they won’t know.”
And I wondered if this place is unique to me or do we all live here? In this place where we believe that someone “from the other side” doesn’t have anything relevant to say, and isn’t worth listening to. So we don’t.
Then I shook my head and the smoke cleared. I did not delete my rating and I won’t delete my opinion. I can’t live in that place. If I did, I’d have to love Pulp Fiction.
Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum
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April 29, 2012
It’s Pronounced Macki-NAW… I Don’t Care If It Has A “C.”
I read this recently:
“Today, as I was walking into the office in the cold and snow, I heard someone behind me laugh and say ‘Another beautiful Michigan morning’.
People in Michigan seem to delight in claiming that they have the coldest, crappiest, most unpredictable weather. I have never in my life known an area more perversely proud of its climate, and everyone is absolutely certain that this is unique to Michigan.
There are tons of Michigan weather jokes, for instance:
Q: How many seasons does Michigan have?
A: Two – winter and constructionBut I grew up in upstate NY, which, as far as I can tell, has exactly the same climate as SE Michigan except we got more lake-effect snow.
And I lived for a time in The Netherlands, where I swear there are 15 different meteorological terms for “mostly cloudy with rain”. If the Dutch talk about weather, I think their complaints are well-deserved.
Why the heck do people from Michigan think they’re so unique, and can anyone tell me if this is a Michigan phenomenon or if every damn state thinks their climate is special????”
— progmom
Relax Progmom, I’m here to answer your questions.
In fact it’s become my mission, because if people like Progmom and Woody Hayes dislike Michigan then there are probably a few others annoyed by us as well. I feel it’s my duty as a Michigander to dispel ignorance about our mental state, thus enlightening the world.
Here is the Michigan Mentality:
Michiganders are perversely proud of everything about Michigan and we think everything about our state is damn special (Kwame Kilpatrick excepted).
Progmom says:
“People in Michigan seem to delight in claiming that they have the coldest, crappiest, most unpredictable weather. “
No, no, no. We know other places have colder, crappier, more unpredictable weather. We claim to have cold, crappy, hot, sunny, dry, humid, unpredictable weather all in the same day. That’s an important difference.
“I have never in my life known an area more perversely proud of its climate.”
Again, no, no, no. We are perversely proud of everything about Michigan, not just the climate. If I was to shrink Michiganders, I’d say that it could be a case of overcompensation. We feel we deserve more recognition than we get. For example, we don’t have the fame of California, but Real Steel was one of many movies made in Michigan. In fact, I think Hugh Jackman has become our adopted son. It’s amazing how many people here “met” him while Real Steel filmed. “Meeting” him includes: thinking you saw him in the vehicle next to you, knowing the waiter that served his bubble tea, being in the crowd watching a scene being filmed, etc.
Hugh Jackman in Detroit.
Hawaii may have the most famous islands, but we have Mackinac Island. Enough said.
San Francisco’s bridge may be well known, but we have the Mackinac Bridge. It’s bigger.
“Everyone is absolutely certain that this is unique to Michigan.”
There are those things that are totally unique to Michigan and we’re proud of them all, no matter how lame they are (Euchre). For example, our name for soda is POP. If you ask for a soda, we’ll look at you like you’re speaking a foreign language (you are) and bring you our version of soda– it has ice cream in it.
We’re very proud (whether we admit it or not) that we can use our hand as a map. There are those Michiganders that scorn the hand-map, but even they use it at one time or another. The proper way to use the Michigan hand-map is right hand, palm up, thumb slightly outstretched. If someone uses the back of their hand as a map of Michigan, they are not native Michiganders. And a word to Wisconsin— Really your hand-map is kind of pathetic. Just stop.
Wisconsin and Michigan. Notice the actual shapes of the states.
Michigan hand-map. Straight-forward
Wisconsin hand-map. It's not even close.
Also, we love the fact that Mackinac is pronounced Mackinaw. We love it even more when someone mispronounces it; that makes us feel intelligent.
And my favorite unique thing about Michigan is Mark “The Bird” Fidrych, a 1976 Detroit Tigers pitching phenomenon. I’ll resist the temptation to write everything about him that I’d like. Here’s the gist of it:
- Fidrych made the Tigers as a non-roster invitee out of the 1976 spring training. His first start was in mid-May. He only made that start because the scheduled starting pitcher had the flu. Fidrych responded by throwing six no-hit innings, ending the game with a 2-1 victory in which he gave up only two hits. He went on to win 19 games, led the league in ERA (2.34) and complete games (24), was the starting pitcher in that year’s All-Star Game, won the American League Rookie of the Year Award, and finished second in voting for the Cy Young Award.– From Wikipedia
- In the process Fidrych also captured the imagination of fans with his antics on the field. On June 28, 1976, he pitched against the New York Yankees in a nationally televised game on ABC; the Tigers won the game 5-1. After a game filled with “Bird” antics in which he and his team handily defeated the Yankees, Fidrych became a national celebrity. –From Wikipedia
“...can anyone tell me if this is a Michigan phenomenon or if every damn state thinks their climate is special????”
Again it’s not about climate. Everything about us is special including our very passionate rivalries, which instead of driving us apart bring us closer together in a weird Michigonian sort of way. Some of these rivalries include: Michigan State vs. University of Michgan, Yoopers vs. Trolls, Eminem vs. Kid Rock and Brandon Inge– Should he stay or should he go?
Alas, Progmom, I don’t think these explanations will suffice. It needs to be in your blood. I’ve lived in many other places, but my heart was always in Michigan.
“Si Quaeris Peninsulam Amoenam Circumspice”
“If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.”
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April 23, 2012
Dear John, I Still Miss You
Dear John,
Another year has passed. It’s been seven since I saw you last. I’ve been thinking a lot about you. When you died my biggest fear was that I’d forget something about you and our last day together; I wanted to remember every tiny detail always. The other fear that haunted me was that one day it would get easier and I wouldn’t miss you so much. So I’m grateful for the memories I have and I’m grateful for the bittersweet ache they leave in me.
I’ll be honest. I don’t dwell on you anymore. That makes it easier. For the first year, I hugged close everything that reminded me of you: photos, videos, memories and especially music. But I can’t hug those things anymore because they’re too sharp and they cut through the scar tissue that took so long to grow on my shattered heart. Sometimes when you flit across my memory I find myself shaking my head just as I did after you died, because I can’t comprehend that you are gone from here.
But I’ve decided this won’t be a day for sadness. I went to Mass this morning and I saw S² eyeing me with concern. I smiled at him and told him truthfully that I just had a tickle in my throat (Easter flowers and incense can do that). Now I sit in the fading sun and think of you.
We’ve always shared a passion for reading, writing and music. When you were a toddler, you’d put on a pair of star-shaped sunglasses, sit at a little piano shaped box and lip-sync to Elton John’s greatest hits. We called you “Elton Johnny”. It was the only time Mom and Dad listened to Elton John without complaint, so we had you do it often. When you were a little older, we played school. I swore for years I taught you to read, but after trying to teach my own children, I wonder…
Remember the summer you were turning sixteen? Dave had moved to Cleveland for his new job. You and Mom stayed in upstate New York to help me sell the house. We were really into Pink Floyd that year and we discovered Wish You Were Here. I have a hard time listening to it now. You brought books about the band, which I read when you were done. Then we’d talk about Syd Barrett and debate about Roger Waters and David Gilmour while we worked on my yard. You did a lot of yard work for me so I told you I take you out to dinner. You wanted steak and lobster. Funny thing for a fifteen-year-old to want for dinner, but typical for you.
Remember that same summer going to the mall parking lot late at night so you could practice driving a stick shift before getting your driver’s license? We saw a UFO hovering above the woods next to the mall. It was amazing, but we never told anyone about it because we knew no one would believe it.
This is it but we didn't take a picture.
We both love Chris Cornell’s voice. One Christmas I shared his version of Ave Maria with you, but I don’t think you heard it over the football game. Then you shared Audioslave with me. After you died, I got your CD and listened to it constantly. I can’t listen to Audioslave anymore. That annoys me frankly, because I really like them.
But I can listen to “United States of Whatever” by Liam Lynch. You turned my kids onto it. After they listened to it a million times a day, it grew on me. Do you remember when we found the video? Wow. Liam was not the cool Eminem-type I’d imagined. But we loved the video and watched it a million times too.
And tonight, as I looked up the video to add it as a link to this post you, my little, beloved brother John, gave me a gift. A video I’d never seen of Dave Grohl, drummer extraordinaire (and my favorite), playing/pounding his little heart out with Liam Lynch on United States of Whatever. And I’ll go to bed with a smile on my face, which is a gift I hadn’t expected on this of all nights.
Skip ahead sixty seconds. The quality improves greatly.
PS-Is it mandatory for great drummers to chew gum?
March 1, 2012
The One Less Traveled
I know a man. He would say he’s ordinary, but I know he’s extraordinary. He took the road less traveled, and for me, it has made all the difference. From him, I’ve learned the truth about love and sacrifice and humility.
I thought I learned all about those things growing up. I’d learned about love from soap operas and reality tv. I’d offered sacrifices to my brothers– “You drank out of my can of Pepsi? Well, I don’t want it anymore. Just keep it.” I’d experienced humility in gymnastics class when I took an unanticipated dive off the balance beam while uttering a few choice profanities. When I got married and had children and I learned more about love, but I still didn’t understand it.
Then I met a man. He has a friendly smile and a self-deprecating wit that can convulse a crowd with laughter while pointing out with laser-like precision, the folly and humanity of each of us, himself included. But he never leaves it there; he teaches us how to overcome those things if we desire. He treats every person with respect, no matter how stupid I think their question or remark is. He controls his snarkiness with a skill I can only marvel at (not being able to control my own).
He always makes time for me and anyone else that needs him, or wants him, or dislikes him enough to want to tell it to his face. People come to him to be unburdened and he welcomes them day and night. (He meets less often with happy, contented people; they don’t need him.) At his feet, we dump our sorrow and grief and anger and confusion and addiction and ignorance and hatred. When I’m with him, I know I’m the center of his attention, no matter how full his inbox is or how deep the garbage around him. And when I leave, my burden is always easier to bear.
He spends his days knee deep in the misery that pools around him. I glimpsed it once, before he knew I was there. He was slumped in his chair, his head in his hands, the burdens of other’s squarely on his shoulders. And when I sat across from him, I could see it in his eyes and feel it in the air. I knew he didn’t get enough sleep and went many times without a meal.
Many people love him, but aren’t interested in him or his life or what he goes through. And I wonder if he sometimes feels alone amidst the humanity pressing about him constantly. Sometimes, even though you know you’re not alone, loneliness wraps around you and through you like a shroud. And I know, although he hides it well, that he longs for a moment of solitude.
I witness others watching him the way I watched my brothers around my can of Pepsi, hoping to catch him stumbling or better yet, falling down. They’re so intent on him as he journeys down his narrow road, they fail to see how often they themselves trip over the debris littering their own wide road. He faces the animosity aimed at him from every direction with unflinching humility, but I wonder how it affects him when he tries to sleep at night.
I could not walk in his shoes; it’s hard enough walking in my own and they’re much smaller. But he treads with a joy and humor that belie the things he hears and witnesses day after day. I’ve heard people ask him if he regrets his life. A look of sincere astonishment crosses his face. Then he breaks into a smile that I’d call radiant if it didn’t sound so cheesy, and he says simply, genuinely, ”No. I love being a priest.”
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.Robert Frost
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January 10, 2012
A Homicidal Cheerleader
I thought my inner editor might be on strike after I wrote that she was a “monster” in my previous post. I knew she was still around when she let me know she was annoyed by my first choice of a title for this post.
“I’m not a ‘psychotic cheerleader’,” she told me.
OK, maybe calling her a psychotic cheerleader was a bit dramatic. Then I recalled the quote that has become the mantra of many writers:
“…kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.”
(Stephen King, Arthur Quiller-Couch, William Faulkner—take your pick)Kill your darlings
Of course, “your darlings” are those things you’ve written that you love or you are immensely proud of, but they’re unnecessary baggage weighing down the story you’re telling. And who gets to kill these darlings? The inner editor, of course. I realized that my inner editor wasn’t a psychotic cheerleader. She was a homicidal cheerleader. And the darlings she wanted to kill weren’t always mine.
I got my first inkling of her problem when I read Anita Grace Howard’s post about “silencing your internal editor”. I knew my editor had become my cheerleader; she was very proud of our efforts. I also knew that she’d become critical of other’s writing, the way a proud, doting mother is critical of other people’s children.
But it wasn’t until I read a children’s mystery novel with my daughter that I became aware of my editor’s homicidal tendencies. My editor was a seething after the first page. She tried to keep her mutterings to herself; we didn’t want to influence D³.
I knew my editor was out of control when she sliced and diced Hemingway. And her problem was affecting me. How would I ever enjoy reading again? How could I ever let anyone read anything I’ve written, knowing their editor was slicing and dicing me?
I read Anita’s post again and take heart, deciding to follow her advice and let myself “get lost in the story”. I just make sure my editor naps during reading time. Anita’s advice works, and I enjoy reading again. And my inner editor loses some of her edginess thanks to the extra sleep.
I think things are back to normal. My editor indulges in an occasional outburst when I read something written by someone else, but for the most part she’s very docile. That is, until I open a certain book and begin to read. Then my editor cannot be silenced. When the god-like, angelic, hunky antagonist speaks in a musical voice she loses her mind. I ought to close the book so I can chase down my inner editor and take the ax from her determined grip before she kills someone.
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November 26, 2011
Courting Temptation in the Realm of the Probable
Things happen that are outside the realm of probability (although not to me). Real people win the lottery, survive lightening strikes, write bestsellers and marry princes. Truth can be stranger than fiction, but fiction can’t be stranger than truth. There are few things more annoying than a movie with plot holes large enough to drive a garbage truck through or a book that’s so contrived and the ending so implausible you want to sue the author for wasting your time.
Capturing the essence and nuance of human nature without manipulating it is the foundation of a good story. All things may be possible but not all things are probable. I’ve been pondering this quite a bit, because I happened upon another short story contest (OK, I didn’t “happen upon it”. I looked for one). The idea my muse threw me has me pondering more than writing (at this rate I’ll miss the deadline). And the pondering has me wondering. I know it’s possible for a person to turn their life around. I’ve done it myself, and I’ve seen others do it; people overcoming addictions, inclinations and tendencies that had them by the throat and threatened to destroy them.
I know it’s always possible, but is it probable, particularly in the confines of fiction?
There was a man who loved the challenge of women. It was a heady game for him. His goal was the hook-up; her’s was a relationship. He always won and was always eager to find a new conquest. He didn’t realize the game had become dull and stale until he met someone who wouldn’t play it with him. To make a short story shorter, he fell in love with a young woman. And he could see with great clarity the peace and happiness a life and family with that woman would bring him. And he desired that more than he had ever desired anything before, even winning the game.
But the challenge and allure of women didn’t melt away just because he decided he didn’t want it anymore. It was part of him and the danger of temptation was always lurking in another woman’s eyes. There were occasions when he could overcome the temptation. But life is never that simple and the man found himself in a situation that overwhelmed him with desire to win another conquest. It’s possible that he resisted, but I can’t help wonder how probable it is.
What do you think? Because the real ending to the story hinges on the answer to that question.
November 20, 2011
Thanks For the Memories
Thanksgiving is the the quiet, pastoral younger sibling to that jubilant, festive darling, Christmas. There’s a calmness surrounding Thanksgiving, like a deep breath before the whirlwind of the approaching holiday. I look out my window at the bare tree branches and gray sky and snapshots of Thanksgivings past roll through my mind.
The smell of turkey baking, the Thanksgiving parade on the TV (whether anyone’s watching it or not) followed by the Lion’s game (we may actually watch it this year), and the sound of Christmas music (Thanksgiving is the first official day of listening to Christmas music here, although every year someone tries to cheat and listen to it earlier). These are the traditions that have woven the background of Thanksgiving celebrations since my childhood, but every year has a unique flavor all it’s own.
One of my earliest memories is the parade and castle at Hudon's.
When I was very young, we would spend Thanksgiving at my grandparent’s home. I can remember the heavy, unreadable stare of my grandpa during the meal. I didn’t realize it then, but the stare was one of amusement because my eating habits fascinated him. None of the food on my plate could touch, much less mix with any other food (making gravy verboten). I ate one thing at a time until it was finished, then I would turn my plate to the next item and eat that until it was gone. I continued in this way until the plate was empty or I came to something I wouldn’t eat. As our family grew, I was a relieved to add a child’s table in another room and be out of his range of vision.
Another snapshot takes place when I was in high school. Thanksgiving was celebrated at our house and we used the good china. I remembered that I just wanted to be alone, so I offered to do all the dishes myself (By hand. It was the good china after all). My family and our guests disappeared. The snapshot is yellowed and fuzzy, but I think I see a few tears trickling down the face of a teenager enjoying a solitary wallow in her angst. I know I broke one of the china coffee cups. My daughter inherited the china, and you can see the hairline crack on a cup handle that was glued back together.
What better way to begin Thanksgiving than an early morning walk with the one you love.
The next snapshot is taken a few years later in the first apartment my husband and I shared in upstate New York. He worked third shift so we were often up before dawn. I remember going out for a walk on a frosty Thanksgiving morning before the sun came up. We went back to the apartment and I prepared a magnificent Thanksgiving feast: a twenty pound turkey (literally), a gallon of mashed potatoes and three pumpkin pies. I was used to cooking for seven people and I couldn’t seem to make the adjustment to cooking for two. I couldn’t understand why the potatoes looked untouched at the end of the meal. I was sure my husband hadn’t eaten enough, and I kept asking him if he wanted more potatoes. He declined and pointed out that two people would not make much of a dent in a meal prepared for seven.
A feast for two, with enough leftovers to last until next Thanksgiving
The next snapshot is more of a feeling than an image. We moved to Ohio (both of our families lived in Michigan) and had the first grandchild on both sides. Suddenly holidays were not as enjoyable as they had been. There were more responsibilities and schedules to determine. Would we go back to Michigan or was someone planning to come to Ohio? What time would be spent with my family? What time spent with his? The list went on and on…
I finally told our families that Thanksgiving was our holiday. We were spending it alone at our own home. Nobody really minded; it made it easier for everyone else too. Once again I found the peace of Thanksgiving.
After we’d lived back in Michigan for a few years, I had my parent’s over for Thanksgiving, because they were in the midst of moving and didn’t have a refrigerator at the time. We were in the middle of the meal, and suddenly my dad said in astonishment, “Hey, Dawne. This stuffing is really good.” Who knew I had it in me?
