Meet the New Boss

After I lost Benji last Halloween, I made a decision to not get another dog for at least a year. I lasted 5 months.

I've been cyberstalking local rescues since November, looking for a place to volunteer. And, knowing that I did want another dog at some point, looking to see who tended to take in poodles and poodle mixes--my "people." It's been my experience that poodles and poodle mixes rarely end up in shelters and rescues. I figured when I was ready for a dog, it would take months to find one.

I was wrong.

Fable's picture from the rescue's Facebook page

I visited a local rescue's monthly open house, more to meet the people than look for a dog. But meet a dog, I did: a little black poodle mix named Fable.

Fable was scared out of his mind, sitting on his foster dad's lap shivering for all he was worth. I sat with Fable on my lap for a little while. It wasn't long before he rested his head on my shoulder and sighed with relief.

I'd been adopted.

I needed more time to warm to the idea. After wrangling with the idea for a few days, I submitted my adoption application on March 24th: Benji's birthday. My application was processed and approved within three days. On March 28th, I brought Fable home.

Bringing Fable (now Duncan) home, March 28, 2016

We don't know much about Fable's past. We estimate he's 7-8 years old. He was found near a hospital on a main road this winter, in -2 temps. If he hadn't been found, he would have frozen to death. He was wearing a coat, had been neutered, and had dental work done. Clearly, someone had cared for him. How he ended up on the street, we don't know. The rescue notified local shelters and posted his picture on lost dog boards and Facebook pages. After two months, no one had claimed him. The rescue gave him the name Fable (because he has a story to tell) and put him up for adoption. His foster mom thought no one would ever want him, because he was so quiet and withdrawn compared to her other dogs. She was prepared to keep him forever. Then I came along.

Duncan, as he has been renamed, has been with me about a month now. When I first got him, he didn't know how to walk on a leash. He wouldn't eat or drink if I was in the room. He flinched every time I touched him.

He's making progress, though. He loves walks (but is still skittish about putting on the harness.) He'll eat or drink in my presence (as long as I'm paying attention to something else.) He still flinches or tenses sometimes when I touch him, but not always. He'll sit near me on the sofa, but won't come up right next to me. He will let me sit next to him, though.

Duncan has yet to claim ownership of the house. I suspect he still doesn't think of it as home. He's still learning to trust me, and I'm still getting to know him. Every week, I see something new.

Duncan after his first grooming. Even the groomer was taken aback by the change.

He's not the cuddlebug that Benji was. He's quieter and more compliant than Benji was, too. (In the month he's been with me, I've only heard him bark once--in his sleep. Benji, by contrast, carried on entire conversations.) Duncan watches everything. I call him the neighborhood traffic cop. If we're walking and a car pulls into a driveway, Duncan stops, plants himself, and does not move until the person is out of the car and safely in the house. If a garage door opens or closes, Duncan stops, plants himself, and does not move until he sees who is coming or going. He spends hours each day watching the street, staring particularly intently at anyone who parallel parks in front of the house. I'll let you know if he starts issuing tickets.

It's going to take some time for us to bond, but I can't tell you how good it feels to be a dog mom once again.

Happy 17th Birthday, My Boy.

I miss you.

What I Mean When I Say, "I'm a Writer"

Back in December, I went on a do-it-myself writing retreat. I booked a room in a hotel a couple of towns over and holed up there for the weekend. I wrote as much that weekend as I usually write in a week. (Having a soak in a whirlpool tub dangled as a reward helped.) I realized on Sunday, as my weekend came to an end, that for the first time, I'd felt like a "real" writer. Not a dabbler or a hobbyist, but an actual, true, dyed-in-the-wool writer.

Since then, I've been thinking quite a bit about what it means to say, "I'm a writer." The simple answer, of course, is that I write, therefore I'm a writer. Except, things are never that simple, are they?

I make my living writing and editing educational materials. Does that make me a writer? Lately, the answer has felt more and more like, "No." The writing and editing I do for my "day job" doesn't feel like mine. I have no ownership of it. My name is not on it. I do not decide the parameters of each project, parameters that seem increasingly arbitrary with each new project. Those parameters--usually driven by the needs and requirements of the public education system--often leave little room for creativity and exploration. Some are downright soul-sucking. There are exceptions, of course, but those exceptions are heavily outweighed by the rules. There's no sense of fulfillment in the work. It's just a paycheck. A rather irregular, inconsistent paycheck, at that. More and more often, I have to take on greater amounts of work to make ends meet. I frequently find myself wondering how else I could earn a living.

So what writing does fulfill me? Two kinds: writing history and writing fiction.

I used to write semi-regularly for a now-defunct history magazine for kids. It paid a pittance, but I loved it. Since that magazine shut down, I have not been able to find a replacement. I would love to return to that kind of writing again.

Then there's writing fiction. Whether it's spinning a NYC Midnight flash fiction story in a weekend or plodding away piece by piece on my novel-in-progress, that's the writing that makes my heart sing. The writing that energizes and satisfies me. The writing I want to nurture and grow and develop. The writing I want to strengthen by attending conferences and participating in the larger writer community.

The writing that always has to take a backseat to the writing I need to do to support myself and all the myriad tasks and responsibilities I have as a single, self-supporting woman. I never have enough money or time to attend conferences or even participate in the blogging community. If I'm lucky, I might have an hour a night to devote to "my" writing. Most nights, I don't have that much. Hardly enough to produce the thousand or more words my writer friends seem to produce daily or find markets to submit my short stories or, should by some miracle I finish my novel, find an agent to represent me. Hardly enough to make me feel like anything other than a dabbler or a hobbyist. Hardly enough to give me hope that someday I might actually publish something with my name on it.

So how can I say I'm a writer when so little of what I produce is truly mine? When the writing I have to do robs me of the time and energy I need for the writing I want to do?

My Word

It's become a tradition for me that instead of making New Year's Resolutions (and breaking them), I choose a word to guide me through the year. Sometimes the word comes quickly; sometimes--like last year--it's a struggle to find.

I usually start my word search by making a list of goals for the year. Below is my list for 2016. See if you can detect a pattern.

• Go to the gym.
• Go for walks.
• Go volunteer.
• Go to ALL my doctors. (I somehow missed my eye exam in 2015. Oops!)
• Go on a writing retreat
• Go to writers' conference or workshop.
• Go to California
• Go to the United Kingdom.

Three guesses what my word for 2016 is.

Kind of a no-brainer, huh?

Photo by Eivaisla/iStock / Getty Images

New Year? But I'm Not Done With the Old One!

I woke up this morning and the calendar informed me it's a new year. My brain, on the other hand, tells me something entirely different. I still have too much unfinished business from 2015 for it to be 2016 already.

My word for 2015 was "Forward," and I did move forward--in ways both hopeful and not. My savings account has a few more pennies in it on January 1, 2016, than it did one year ago. The numbers the doctors use to measure my health are better now than they were a year ago. And I've had to adjust to life without my canine companion. 

But there are things I had planned to accomplish in 2015 that I haven't quite completed yet. For one, my Goodreads challenge. I started 2015 with the goal of reading 100 books over the course of the year. By June-ish, I realized that goal was entirely unrealistic and adjusted my target to 75 books. As of midnight, December 31, 2015, I had read 73 1/2 books---one and a half short of my goal.

My other goal was to finish the first draft of my new novel. As with my Goodreads challenge, I am thisclose to getting it done: only two chapters and a bit left to go.

I figure I need about a week to finish off those last two loose ends. We can postpone 2016 for a week, can't we?

All in favor, say "Aye!"