I know I'm preaching to the choir here, but I just had to post this. It's the coolest anti-hate ad I've ever seen.
Around the Block
I haven't been very consistent in the exercise department for the last three months. Or rather, I've been consistently NOT exercising for the last three months. Instead of walking three or four days a week, I've been walking only one day a week--or less. My excuses weren't very original (It's too cold; I have too much work; There's snow on the ground), but they worked.
This week I'm making an effort to change that, trying to get back on the horse...again. I've walked for three consecutive days now. My one concession to the cold is that I'm not walking my full route. Instead of walking down to the beach and back, I've only been around two blocks: mine and the next one over.
Out of curiosity, I used Google Maps to calculate the distance of each of my routes. The beach route turned out to be about what I expected--1.9 miles. (I'd estimated two.) I figured the walk around the blocks would be much shorter--half to three quarters of a mile. Oh, was I wrong! Turns out, my two-block walk is just over a mile. One-tenth over, to be exact.
In my defense, the walk around the blocks is far less strenuous than the walk to the beach, which is down one steep hill and up another. The block-walk, by contrast, is relatively level--just a slight decline away from the house and a slight incline on the way back. Guess that's why it seems like a piece of cake by comparison.
So what is the moral of this little story?
Do not trust me to estimate distance. Ever. When it comes to that particular skill, I am most obviously disabled.
This week I'm making an effort to change that, trying to get back on the horse...again. I've walked for three consecutive days now. My one concession to the cold is that I'm not walking my full route. Instead of walking down to the beach and back, I've only been around two blocks: mine and the next one over.
Out of curiosity, I used Google Maps to calculate the distance of each of my routes. The beach route turned out to be about what I expected--1.9 miles. (I'd estimated two.) I figured the walk around the blocks would be much shorter--half to three quarters of a mile. Oh, was I wrong! Turns out, my two-block walk is just over a mile. One-tenth over, to be exact.
In my defense, the walk around the blocks is far less strenuous than the walk to the beach, which is down one steep hill and up another. The block-walk, by contrast, is relatively level--just a slight decline away from the house and a slight incline on the way back. Guess that's why it seems like a piece of cake by comparison.
So what is the moral of this little story?
Do not trust me to estimate distance. Ever. When it comes to that particular skill, I am most obviously disabled.
Draft 2 Done
It's 4:30 in the afternoon on Monday, February 18, 2013, and I have just typed the last word of the second draft of my novel.
Time to celebrate!
Time to celebrate!
An Orchid By Any Other Name
in "self-image"
I can think of many ways to describe myself--some flattering, some not so much. Anyone looking through my diary would find that I've compared myself to an owl, an ostrich, a rhino, a whale, an elephant, and a koala at various times in my life. Never in a million years would I ever think to describe myself as a delicate flower. It seems, though, that's exactly what I am.
I'm reading the book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain. As an introvert, I found the premise of the book intriguing, and even though I'm not finished with it yet, I highly recommend it. In the book, Cain cites a variety of studies that provide insight into why some people are introverted and some people are extroverted.
One of these studies compared children to flowers, specifically to dandelions and orchids. Dandelion children thrive under any conditions. Orchid children are more sensitive to and affected by their environments.
Cain goes on to describe orchid children. They are more likely to be affected by bright lights, loud noises, emotional experiences, and/or new situations. They are more likely to react to life's challenges with depression, anxiety, or shyness. They display great empathy and caring. They are exceedingly cooperative. They are bothered by irresponsibility, cruelty, and injustice. They're successful at things they care about, but unlikely to be (or want to be) the center of attention.
The more I read about orchid children and "high reactive" types, the more I see myself. I remember being told that I was "too sensitive for my own good" and that I needed to develop thicker skin and not take things so personally. (As it turns out, introverts are more likely to have skin that is literally thinner than the skin of extroverts. Another gem I picked up from the book.) Yet that sensitivity is exactly what makes me an orchid. According to Cain, it's also part of what gives me my "quiet power."
The instant I read those pages, I felt a light bulb snap on. Me? A beautiful, delicate flower? A powerful, beautiful, delicate flower? Really? Amazing what that does for a person's self-image and self-worth. Truly amazing.
One of these studies compared children to flowers, specifically to dandelions and orchids. Dandelion children thrive under any conditions. Orchid children are more sensitive to and affected by their environments.
Cain goes on to describe orchid children. They are more likely to be affected by bright lights, loud noises, emotional experiences, and/or new situations. They are more likely to react to life's challenges with depression, anxiety, or shyness. They display great empathy and caring. They are exceedingly cooperative. They are bothered by irresponsibility, cruelty, and injustice. They're successful at things they care about, but unlikely to be (or want to be) the center of attention.
The more I read about orchid children and "high reactive" types, the more I see myself. I remember being told that I was "too sensitive for my own good" and that I needed to develop thicker skin and not take things so personally. (As it turns out, introverts are more likely to have skin that is literally thinner than the skin of extroverts. Another gem I picked up from the book.) Yet that sensitivity is exactly what makes me an orchid. According to Cain, it's also part of what gives me my "quiet power."
The instant I read those pages, I felt a light bulb snap on. Me? A beautiful, delicate flower? A powerful, beautiful, delicate flower? Really? Amazing what that does for a person's self-image and self-worth. Truly amazing.
Tis the Season
Thank goodness January is over--not because of the cold or the crazy roller-coaster weather, but because of the television ads. January being New Year's Resolution Season, the tv was riddled with ads that proclaim how easy it is to lose weight. All a person has to do is shake a powder, swallow a pill, eat a company's pre-prepared food, or use a Smartphone app and whammo! The weight miraculously disappears.
Bollocks. Weight loss isn't easy. If it were, I would have been at my healthiest weight a long time ago and I would have been able to stay there.
Nor is weight loss like the Biggest Loser, another January staple that irritates me. Weight loss isn't a game or a game show. It's serious stuff. It's also a very emotional journey--something the Biggest Loser ignores. No wonder so many of their contestants put back the weight they lose on the show. (I could probably write a whole long post about the Biggest Loser, now that I think about it.)
But now we're into February, which is much more in my wheelhouse. February is Food Season. Now, for tomorrow's Super Bowl, the television is full of ads for buckets of fried chicken, pizzas the size of Montana, and enough snack foods to feed Napoleon's army during its Russian campaign. This will be followed by the inevitable Valentine's Days ads for wining and dining and chocolates.
These I can handle. The fried chicken, pizzas, and snack food no longer look appealing to me. Should I ever crave them, I can make my own versions that are both healthier and tastier--and cheaper.
All of this is to say, I feel better about my efforts in February than I do in January.
January makes me feel frustrated. If weight loss is supposed to be so easy, why do I find it so hard? What's wrong with me that I struggle so much while these people on TV snap their fingers and drop the weight? (Yes, I know many of those people are paid actors and many of the claims are false. That doesn't stop my id from believing them.) Instead of being encouraging, I find the ads taunting.
February, on the other hand, makes me feel strong. Look at all the unhealthy choices I'm no longer tempted to make! Look at how much better my eating habits are! Every ad is a pat on my back.
Too bad February has only 28 days.
Bollocks. Weight loss isn't easy. If it were, I would have been at my healthiest weight a long time ago and I would have been able to stay there.
Nor is weight loss like the Biggest Loser, another January staple that irritates me. Weight loss isn't a game or a game show. It's serious stuff. It's also a very emotional journey--something the Biggest Loser ignores. No wonder so many of their contestants put back the weight they lose on the show. (I could probably write a whole long post about the Biggest Loser, now that I think about it.)
But now we're into February, which is much more in my wheelhouse. February is Food Season. Now, for tomorrow's Super Bowl, the television is full of ads for buckets of fried chicken, pizzas the size of Montana, and enough snack foods to feed Napoleon's army during its Russian campaign. This will be followed by the inevitable Valentine's Days ads for wining and dining and chocolates.
These I can handle. The fried chicken, pizzas, and snack food no longer look appealing to me. Should I ever crave them, I can make my own versions that are both healthier and tastier--and cheaper.
All of this is to say, I feel better about my efforts in February than I do in January.
January makes me feel frustrated. If weight loss is supposed to be so easy, why do I find it so hard? What's wrong with me that I struggle so much while these people on TV snap their fingers and drop the weight? (Yes, I know many of those people are paid actors and many of the claims are false. That doesn't stop my id from believing them.) Instead of being encouraging, I find the ads taunting.
February, on the other hand, makes me feel strong. Look at all the unhealthy choices I'm no longer tempted to make! Look at how much better my eating habits are! Every ad is a pat on my back.
Too bad February has only 28 days.
Springtime in January
in "fitness"
It's been an unseasonably warm week here in northern Illinois--20 to 30 degrees above normal. It's a good thing, too, because it's allowed me to walk outside again.
You see, I spent the first week of the New Year as a flu-ridden sofa blob, and I've decided to blame it entirely on the gym. The week of Christmas, with temperatures in the low 30s, I did all my exercise at the gym. By the end of the week, I was sick. See how conveniently that fits together?
This past weekend I miraculously regained by human form, and Monday I started back on my exercise routine. Sort of. It seems being a sofa blob sucks out a person's stamina. Monday I set out for my usual outdoor walk--and didn't even make it halfway before I was winded. Total walking time: 20 minutes.
So I tried again the next day and the next and the day after that. I'm up to 33 minutes now. My usual path takes me 37 minutes, so I'm almost back up to snuff.
According to the weatherman, by the time I've got my stamina back, the temperatures will have plunged back down into Chicago winter. Which will send me back to the gym. And here we go again...
You see, I spent the first week of the New Year as a flu-ridden sofa blob, and I've decided to blame it entirely on the gym. The week of Christmas, with temperatures in the low 30s, I did all my exercise at the gym. By the end of the week, I was sick. See how conveniently that fits together?
This past weekend I miraculously regained by human form, and Monday I started back on my exercise routine. Sort of. It seems being a sofa blob sucks out a person's stamina. Monday I set out for my usual outdoor walk--and didn't even make it halfway before I was winded. Total walking time: 20 minutes.
So I tried again the next day and the next and the day after that. I'm up to 33 minutes now. My usual path takes me 37 minutes, so I'm almost back up to snuff.
According to the weatherman, by the time I've got my stamina back, the temperatures will have plunged back down into Chicago winter. Which will send me back to the gym. And here we go again...
A New Word for a New Year
in "goals"
Last New Year's, I chose the word "enjoy" as my one-word New Year's Resolution. It worked exceedingly well, so I've decided to do it again. It's a new year today, so it's time for a new word.
My only criteria for this year's word was that it not repeat last year's. So I crossed enjoy off my list.
In looking at my list of choices for last year's word, I still don't like the word change, for the same reason I didn't like it last year.
But I decided that this year, I do want something goal-oriented. I've made changes in 2012--changes in eating habits, changes in exercise habits, changes in outlook--that I want to take root and blossom in 2013. For that reason, I considered the word blossom as my Word of the Year, but that doesn't sound like me to me. In my mind, it sounds too passive and too New Age-y.
Because I want to focus on those changes, the words accept and relax--two of last year's choices--don't seem very apt, either.
So I thought about those changes I'd like to take root this year and others I'd like to keep in motion. I thought about other things I'd like to accomplish in 2013, too--like finishing my novel's revisions and looking for a literary agent. I really feel like I'm on the cusp of something. (What that something is, I'm not entirely sure, but something is on the horizon.)
With that in mind, I decided to choose the word strive as my 2013 New Year's Word. I am going to strive to continue eating right. I am going to strive to continue exercising 5 days a week. I am going to strive to continue enjoying my life. I am going to strive to finish revisions on my novel. I am going to strive to find a literary agent. I am going to strive to continue building my savings account. I am going to strive to update this blog regularly throughout the year. I am going to strive to continue becoming the person I want to be.
Here's to 2013--a year of striving!
My only criteria for this year's word was that it not repeat last year's. So I crossed enjoy off my list.
In looking at my list of choices for last year's word, I still don't like the word change, for the same reason I didn't like it last year.
But I decided that this year, I do want something goal-oriented. I've made changes in 2012--changes in eating habits, changes in exercise habits, changes in outlook--that I want to take root and blossom in 2013. For that reason, I considered the word blossom as my Word of the Year, but that doesn't sound like me to me. In my mind, it sounds too passive and too New Age-y.
Because I want to focus on those changes, the words accept and relax--two of last year's choices--don't seem very apt, either.
So I thought about those changes I'd like to take root this year and others I'd like to keep in motion. I thought about other things I'd like to accomplish in 2013, too--like finishing my novel's revisions and looking for a literary agent. I really feel like I'm on the cusp of something. (What that something is, I'm not entirely sure, but something is on the horizon.)
With that in mind, I decided to choose the word strive as my 2013 New Year's Word. I am going to strive to continue eating right. I am going to strive to continue exercising 5 days a week. I am going to strive to continue enjoying my life. I am going to strive to finish revisions on my novel. I am going to strive to find a literary agent. I am going to strive to continue building my savings account. I am going to strive to update this blog regularly throughout the year. I am going to strive to continue becoming the person I want to be.
Here's to 2013--a year of striving!
An Enjoyable Year
in "goals"
I started this year not with a laundry list of New Year's Resolutions, but with a one-word New Year's motto instead. I hoped the motto I chose--Enjoy--would guide me through the year and shape my experiences. It did.
So what did I enjoy in 2012?
So what did I enjoy in 2012?
- I enjoyed watching a sick friend come back to life.
- I enjoyed visiting family and friends back East.
- I enjoyed getting letters and e-mails from far-away friends.
- I enjoyed lunches and dinners with local friends.
- I enjoyed reconnecting with long-lost friends in upstate New York and Colorado.
- I enjoyed having a short story published for the first time.
- I enjoyed finishing fifth in Writer's Digest's annual short story competition.
- I enjoyed starting a new short story for next year's Writer's Digest competition.
- I enjoyed watching my savings account grow (especially after watching it shrink over the previous two years.)
- I enjoyed discussing writing and life with my fellow Scribblers.
- I enjoyed the comraderie of the Schaumburg Scribes.
- I enjoyed attending A Weekend with Your Novel at UW Madison.
- I enjoyed working on revisions of my novel.
- I enjoyed taking up swimming again.
- I enjoyed walking outside in the crisp air of fall and winter.
- I enjoyed reading novels by two of my fellow writer's group members.
- I enjoyed sleeping in my brand new bed.
- I enjoyed shopping for linens for my brand new bed.
- I enjoyed reading a friend's art-inspired chapbook.
- I enjoyed learning how to crochet.
- I enjoyed seeing President Obama re-elected.
- I enjoyed discovering new books and authors through Goodreads and Twitter.
- I enjoyed being on Twitter--because they make me feel like I'm not working alone in a dark corner of my basement, when I really am working alone in a dark corner of my basement.
- I enjoyed going downtown to see "Sweet Bird of Youth."
- I enjoyed working on a new quilt.
- I enjoyed seeing "Les Miserables" on the big screen.
- I enjoyed fitting into some of my smaller-sized clothes.
- I enjoyed not having the pressure of New Year's resolutions to meet. : )
Just Another Month
I can't believe it's been a month since I last blogged. Apparently, time also flies when you don't look up from your computer. I wish I could say something extraordinary happened during the last month. But alas, it was four weeks of the same ol', same ol'.
I've spent the last month very work-focused--nose the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel, and all that. I've worked at least a part of every weekend since Thanksgiving--including Thanksgiving weekend. I hate that. I don't mind working a weekend every once in a while, but having to work weekends frequently and regularly messes with me in oh-so-many ways. (There's an Elizabeth Barrett Browning parody in there somewhere: "How do I mess with thee? Let me count the ways...")
The biggest struggle has been maintaining my exercise routine while keeping up with my workload. It's a struggle I haven't overcome with too much success. I've still found time to swim every week. That time is sacrosanct. Nothing comes between me and my swim time. But my walks became shorter and farther between. And we won't even talk about the Hanukkah cookies....
Thankfully, I have every reason to believe that my weekend-working days are behind me for a while, so I'm working on getting back into my 5-day/week exercise routine. This week, for example, is two days old and I've already fit in two days of exercise. Amazing how much better that makes me feel.
I've spent the last month very work-focused--nose the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel, and all that. I've worked at least a part of every weekend since Thanksgiving--including Thanksgiving weekend. I hate that. I don't mind working a weekend every once in a while, but having to work weekends frequently and regularly messes with me in oh-so-many ways. (There's an Elizabeth Barrett Browning parody in there somewhere: "How do I mess with thee? Let me count the ways...")
The biggest struggle has been maintaining my exercise routine while keeping up with my workload. It's a struggle I haven't overcome with too much success. I've still found time to swim every week. That time is sacrosanct. Nothing comes between me and my swim time. But my walks became shorter and farther between. And we won't even talk about the Hanukkah cookies....
Thankfully, I have every reason to believe that my weekend-working days are behind me for a while, so I'm working on getting back into my 5-day/week exercise routine. This week, for example, is two days old and I've already fit in two days of exercise. Amazing how much better that makes me feel.
Giving Thanks
in "thanks"
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, a list of what I'm thankful for this year (in no particular order):
- my old dog's cuddles and companionship
- the feedback--positive and constructive--I've gotten on my writing
- the Scribes and Scribblers, for their feedback and for sharing their own writings
- the support I've gotten from family and friends for my writing
- the comments I've gotten on this blog
- the companies that hired me this year--especially those who hired me more than once!
- having a pool to swim in
- crisp autumn air--perfect for walking!
- On Fiction Writing, for being the first to publish one of my works of fiction
- Writer's Digest judge Debby Mayne, for placing my story 5th in the Writer's Digest Annual Short Story Competition
- letters from far-away friends
- having a (too) comfortable new bed to sleep in
- finding the self-discipline to exercise regularly and lose weight
- my Twitter friends, who help me feel I'm not working all alone in my dark basement when I'm really working all alone in my dark basement
- Dogshaming, for making me laugh on a daily basis
- television shows like "Copper," "The Good Wife," and "Once Upon a Time," for entertaining me
Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner!
in "writing"
Okay, there's no chicken dinner (unless you're buying?), but I am a winner. My short story "Thicker Than Blood" placed 5th in its category in Writer's Digest 81st Annual Short Story Competition.
See? That's my name and my story's name on page 44 of the November/December issue of the magazine.
I entered the contest with no expectations. I only wanted the practice in sending out my work. That was back in May.
Then...SURPRISE! I found out that I'd won. I'm not someone who's given to dancing around a room, but when I got this news, I did indeed do a dance of joy.
Now I have a little bit of prize money, a little badge of honor, and a lot of pride.
I'd like to say a special thanks to one of my writer's groups, the Schaumburg Scribes. Their feedback helped me take the story where it needed to go, and that helped make the story a winner.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have prize money to spend and a 4th place story to write for next year's contest...
See? That's my name and my story's name on page 44 of the November/December issue of the magazine.
I entered the contest with no expectations. I only wanted the practice in sending out my work. That was back in May.
Then...SURPRISE! I found out that I'd won. I'm not someone who's given to dancing around a room, but when I got this news, I did indeed do a dance of joy.
Now I have a little bit of prize money, a little badge of honor, and a lot of pride.
I'd like to say a special thanks to one of my writer's groups, the Schaumburg Scribes. Their feedback helped me take the story where it needed to go, and that helped make the story a winner.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have prize money to spend and a 4th place story to write for next year's contest...
Thank God for Fridays!
I have rediscovered my love of Fridays.
It's not that Fridays mark the end of my work week. With what I do, that's often not the case. Sometimes my work week ends on Thursday; sometimes it ends on the following Monday.
No, what's renewed my love for Fridays has nothing to do with work. It has to do with exercise. (Strange, but true.) Fridays are my swim days, and I love to swim.
I've returned to swimming only recently, and it's one of the best things I could ever have done for myself. It's proven to be the nudge I need to get all my other weight loss efforts back on track--not just eating healthier, but also exercising more. In fact, since I started swimming, I've been exercising 5 days a week. I walk four days a week--at least two of those days outside--and swim on the 5th day. Swimming is my reward for the other exercise I do during the week.
Swimming's proved to be the thing I needed emotionally, too. See, walking--especially walking outside--invigorates me. It wakes up my mind and my senses. Swimming soothes me. It calms my mind. Thirty minutes of laps releases the pent up tension and stress of the week.
I'm not a particularly strong swimmer. It's been nine years since I saw with any regularity, and my stroke is a bit rusty. But I'm finding it's a bit like riding a bicycle--you never completely forget. But I don't think I ever loved it more.
It's not that Fridays mark the end of my work week. With what I do, that's often not the case. Sometimes my work week ends on Thursday; sometimes it ends on the following Monday.
No, what's renewed my love for Fridays has nothing to do with work. It has to do with exercise. (Strange, but true.) Fridays are my swim days, and I love to swim.
I've returned to swimming only recently, and it's one of the best things I could ever have done for myself. It's proven to be the nudge I need to get all my other weight loss efforts back on track--not just eating healthier, but also exercising more. In fact, since I started swimming, I've been exercising 5 days a week. I walk four days a week--at least two of those days outside--and swim on the 5th day. Swimming is my reward for the other exercise I do during the week.
Swimming's proved to be the thing I needed emotionally, too. See, walking--especially walking outside--invigorates me. It wakes up my mind and my senses. Swimming soothes me. It calms my mind. Thirty minutes of laps releases the pent up tension and stress of the week.
I'm not a particularly strong swimmer. It's been nine years since I saw with any regularity, and my stroke is a bit rusty. But I'm finding it's a bit like riding a bicycle--you never completely forget. But I don't think I ever loved it more.
A Nip in the Air, A Spring in my Step
Way back in March, I took a stab at walking the hills in Lake in the Hills instead of on a treadmill at the gym. I gave that up when
my allergies came out to play.
Now that fall is here, I decided to give it another shot,
and I am so glad I did. As in the spring, walking outside proved to be much
more invigorating than walking on a machine. The experience feeds almost all of
my senses:
Sight: leaves of various colors, energetic squirrels, an
occasional dog walking its human—walking through the neighborhood provides a
variety of sights to behold. Best of all, those sights change as I walk. Being
on a treadmill is like being the second dog on a sled team: the view doesn’t
change.
Smell: With the cooler weather, someone along my route
usually has their fireplace going and no smell is quite as satisfying in cool
weather as that of a wood-burning fireplace.
Sound: the wind rustling the leaves, the crunch of leaves
under my feet, the yapping dog on one block, the deep-throated bark of a big
dog on another, the howl of the bloodhound somewhere else, the squawk of geese
on the lake—plenty of sensory input for my ears.
Touch: the cool air feels great. It wakes me up. I love the
way it nips at my nose.
Motion: not only does walking the hills give me forward
motion, it gives me a greater range of motion than the treadmill. The treadmill
allows me to walk flat or incline. It doesn’t let me walk downhill (a decline.)
Walking the hills does. In that way, it feels like more of a workout—even
though it take me less time.
There’s a variety to walking the streets (if you’ll pardon
the expression) that the treadmill just can’t provide. I think that’s why I
like it so much, and why I’m going to keep walking outside as long as weather
permits (read: before the streets become sheets of ice).
"The Words"
in "writing"
Two weeks ago, I saw the film "The Words," and I haven't stopped thinking about it since. The movie is the story of three writers, played by Dennis Quaid, Bradley Cooper, and Jeremy Irons. If you've seen the trailer, then you know that the movie centers on Bradley Cooper's character (Rory Jansen) and how he published a story written by the Jeremy Irons character (The Old Man) as his own. The Dennis Quaid (Clay Hammond) storyline serves as a frame for the Cooper-Irons story.
What got me about the film was the way it depicted the life of a writer--especially the questions and doubts that writers grapple with. I especially liked that the film posed these questions without answering them. A clear answer would have been trite and moralizing. Instead, by leaving the questions open, it validates those doubts and teaches that every writer must find his or her own answer.
Is a writer really a writer if he or she is never published?
Rory Jansen writes his heart out, produces two novels, but is consistently rejected by publishers. Because he cannot get published, Rory struggles to see himself as a writer. Does that mean he's not a writer? I grappled with this question. I know other authors who struggle with it, too. Somewhere along the line, our brains equate writing with publishing. But they're not the same thing. Writing is the act of putting words on a page. Publishing is printing copies of those words and selling them to other people to read. In my mind, if you're putting words on a page, and you're doing so consistently, you're a writer. Not everyone agrees with me.
Who should a writer write for: him-/herself or the market?
Early in the film, Rory meets with an agent who tells him that he has talent but his work is not marketable. Because Rory's novels won't sell, the agent won't sign him. Rory leaves the meeting dejected and ready to give up. This forms the crux of why Rory steals the Old Man's story: he's desperate to be published, desperate enough to commit plagiarism.
Some writers--and I've known at least one--write what the market calls for. They study the market, see what's selling, and then craft a story to fit that niche. Other writers write whatever their Muse calls them to write, regardless of whether its marketable. There's no right or wrong here (unless desperation to be published drives you to plagiarism. Plagiarism is theft, and despite the lack of consequences in the film, it is very wrong.) Each writer must follow his or her own path. Mine, I suspect, falls somewhere in the middle.
Who owns a story?
Rory finds the Old Man's manuscript by accident. There's no name on the manuscript or the receptacle in which it is found. Rory is captivated the story the Old Man tells. His captivation, coupled with his desperation, lead him to publish the story under his own name.
But was the story Rory's to publish? Did it belong solely to the Old Man? Would Rory have acted differently if the Old Man had put his name on the manuscript?
Rory does try to right his wrong. He pushes the Old Man to let him put the man's name on the book. The Old Man refuses. Does that mean he gave up his claim to the story?
When we write a story based on real events, especially if those events happened to other people, do we own the story we're telling? Or does the story belong--in whole or in part--to those other people?
Fiction or reality?
The last line of the film, and the question it poses, belong to Clay Hammond. In talking with a devoted (unhealthily obsessed?) fan, Hammond challenges her to continue the story he told in his novel. She wants to know what happened next. He pushes her to tell him. Then she wants to know "what really happened." Hammond tells her that she has to make a choice: she must choose between fiction and reality.
And there's the rub.
As writers, we often seamlessly blend real elements with fictional ones. We blur the line between reality and make-believe. We put real people in fictional worlds; we put fictional people in real landscapes.
So what happens when a reader wants to a clearer definition of that line? Do we give it to them? Would knowing where that line is strengthen or weaken the reader's connection with the story? And whose job is it to make that choice: the writer's or the reader's? Yours or mine?
What got me about the film was the way it depicted the life of a writer--especially the questions and doubts that writers grapple with. I especially liked that the film posed these questions without answering them. A clear answer would have been trite and moralizing. Instead, by leaving the questions open, it validates those doubts and teaches that every writer must find his or her own answer.
Is a writer really a writer if he or she is never published?
Rory Jansen writes his heart out, produces two novels, but is consistently rejected by publishers. Because he cannot get published, Rory struggles to see himself as a writer. Does that mean he's not a writer? I grappled with this question. I know other authors who struggle with it, too. Somewhere along the line, our brains equate writing with publishing. But they're not the same thing. Writing is the act of putting words on a page. Publishing is printing copies of those words and selling them to other people to read. In my mind, if you're putting words on a page, and you're doing so consistently, you're a writer. Not everyone agrees with me.
Who should a writer write for: him-/herself or the market?
Early in the film, Rory meets with an agent who tells him that he has talent but his work is not marketable. Because Rory's novels won't sell, the agent won't sign him. Rory leaves the meeting dejected and ready to give up. This forms the crux of why Rory steals the Old Man's story: he's desperate to be published, desperate enough to commit plagiarism.
Some writers--and I've known at least one--write what the market calls for. They study the market, see what's selling, and then craft a story to fit that niche. Other writers write whatever their Muse calls them to write, regardless of whether its marketable. There's no right or wrong here (unless desperation to be published drives you to plagiarism. Plagiarism is theft, and despite the lack of consequences in the film, it is very wrong.) Each writer must follow his or her own path. Mine, I suspect, falls somewhere in the middle.
Who owns a story?
Rory finds the Old Man's manuscript by accident. There's no name on the manuscript or the receptacle in which it is found. Rory is captivated the story the Old Man tells. His captivation, coupled with his desperation, lead him to publish the story under his own name.
But was the story Rory's to publish? Did it belong solely to the Old Man? Would Rory have acted differently if the Old Man had put his name on the manuscript?
Rory does try to right his wrong. He pushes the Old Man to let him put the man's name on the book. The Old Man refuses. Does that mean he gave up his claim to the story?
When we write a story based on real events, especially if those events happened to other people, do we own the story we're telling? Or does the story belong--in whole or in part--to those other people?
Fiction or reality?
The last line of the film, and the question it poses, belong to Clay Hammond. In talking with a devoted (unhealthily obsessed?) fan, Hammond challenges her to continue the story he told in his novel. She wants to know what happened next. He pushes her to tell him. Then she wants to know "what really happened." Hammond tells her that she has to make a choice: she must choose between fiction and reality.
And there's the rub.
As writers, we often seamlessly blend real elements with fictional ones. We blur the line between reality and make-believe. We put real people in fictional worlds; we put fictional people in real landscapes.
So what happens when a reader wants to a clearer definition of that line? Do we give it to them? Would knowing where that line is strengthen or weaken the reader's connection with the story? And whose job is it to make that choice: the writer's or the reader's? Yours or mine?
Maximum Occupancy
in "self-image"
My brain is a crowded place.
According to Freud, my brain is home to three distinct personalities: the id, the ego, and the superego. A mental health professional once described them to me this way: the id is the petulant child (cue toddler screaming, "MINE! MINE! MINE!"); the ego is the teenager (think: THAT'S NOT FAIR!); the superego is the parent--the beleaguered being whose job it is to keep that screaming toddler and angry teenager in check. I hear every single one of those voices on an almost daily basis--although the teenager and toddler seem to have worn down the parent quite a bit.
There's another voice in my head, and it's the strongest one. It's also the most destructive. That's the voice of my negative critic, or NC. NC's favorite word is "but." As in "Sure, you can try to lose weight, but you know it won't last." Or "Go ahead and write that novel, but it won't be any good and no one will want to publish it." Basically, she's a bitch.
Somewhere inside, there's also a girl, about 12 years old, cowering in the face of NC. That's the girl whose voice I strain to hear. She's the one who dreams of being a published novelist. She's the one who wants to be physically fit enough to hike mountains or cross-country ski or do yoga without falling over. She's the one I'm trying to nurture and strengthen. She is what one might call my authentic self.
It gets tiring, listening to these voices jockey for control of my psyche. Like that little girl and the beleaguered superego, I get worn down. Sometimes, all I want is a little peace and quiet.
According to Freud, my brain is home to three distinct personalities: the id, the ego, and the superego. A mental health professional once described them to me this way: the id is the petulant child (cue toddler screaming, "MINE! MINE! MINE!"); the ego is the teenager (think: THAT'S NOT FAIR!); the superego is the parent--the beleaguered being whose job it is to keep that screaming toddler and angry teenager in check. I hear every single one of those voices on an almost daily basis--although the teenager and toddler seem to have worn down the parent quite a bit.
There's another voice in my head, and it's the strongest one. It's also the most destructive. That's the voice of my negative critic, or NC. NC's favorite word is "but." As in "Sure, you can try to lose weight, but you know it won't last." Or "Go ahead and write that novel, but it won't be any good and no one will want to publish it." Basically, she's a bitch.
Somewhere inside, there's also a girl, about 12 years old, cowering in the face of NC. That's the girl whose voice I strain to hear. She's the one who dreams of being a published novelist. She's the one who wants to be physically fit enough to hike mountains or cross-country ski or do yoga without falling over. She's the one I'm trying to nurture and strengthen. She is what one might call my authentic self.
It gets tiring, listening to these voices jockey for control of my psyche. Like that little girl and the beleaguered superego, I get worn down. Sometimes, all I want is a little peace and quiet.
Of Donuts and Tigers
A while back I saw a headline that has stuck with me. It read something like:
I think the headline was from an article in Psychology Today, but I haven't been able to find it to confirm. I do know that truer words have rarely been spoken.
My brain does, in fact, think a donut can save me from a tiger attack. Not literally, of course. But my brain is wired to accept the idea that food can solve my problems, whether it be a tiger attack or a panic attack. That's why in times of uncertainty, crisis, or strong emotion, I reach for food.
Science backs me up on this. Research at the National Institutes for Health found that eating sugary, fatty, or starchy foods (you know, the good stuff) actually decreases the amount of stress hormones in a person's body. Feel stress --> eat a cookie --> feel less stress. Sounds good, no?
The problem is, the effect is only temporary. Like anesthesia, it wears off. Then what? Eat another cookie? And when that cookie wears off? You see where this is headed. Any addict knows what I'm talking about. It's a dangerous cycle.
I don't know if I was born with my brain wired this way, or if the neural pathways formed in response to my behavior and environment. I suspect scientists can make arguments for both claims. I'm not sure it matters, though. The fact is, my brain is wired for unhealthy responses to certain stimuli and if I am going to reach a healthy weight and stay there, I have to train my brain to respond in healthier ways--to reach for a dumbbell instead of a donut, to reach for the dog's leash instead of linguini, to write my feelings instead of eat them.
Rewiring a brain is far more difficult and time-consuming than rewiring a house. It requires something I hate: hypervigilance. I'm great at it for a while--sometimes a day, sometimes a week, I think I even made it a month once. But then it gets tiresome. Being hypervigilant is exhausting.
Still, I know that it's worth it, so every time I fall off the horse of hypervigilance, I try to clamber back up. That way, if I ever should come face to face with a tiger, I'll have something better than a donut to save me.
Can a donut save you from a tiger attack? No, but your brain thinks it can!
I think the headline was from an article in Psychology Today, but I haven't been able to find it to confirm. I do know that truer words have rarely been spoken.
My brain does, in fact, think a donut can save me from a tiger attack. Not literally, of course. But my brain is wired to accept the idea that food can solve my problems, whether it be a tiger attack or a panic attack. That's why in times of uncertainty, crisis, or strong emotion, I reach for food.
Science backs me up on this. Research at the National Institutes for Health found that eating sugary, fatty, or starchy foods (you know, the good stuff) actually decreases the amount of stress hormones in a person's body. Feel stress --> eat a cookie --> feel less stress. Sounds good, no?
The problem is, the effect is only temporary. Like anesthesia, it wears off. Then what? Eat another cookie? And when that cookie wears off? You see where this is headed. Any addict knows what I'm talking about. It's a dangerous cycle.
I don't know if I was born with my brain wired this way, or if the neural pathways formed in response to my behavior and environment. I suspect scientists can make arguments for both claims. I'm not sure it matters, though. The fact is, my brain is wired for unhealthy responses to certain stimuli and if I am going to reach a healthy weight and stay there, I have to train my brain to respond in healthier ways--to reach for a dumbbell instead of a donut, to reach for the dog's leash instead of linguini, to write my feelings instead of eat them.
Rewiring a brain is far more difficult and time-consuming than rewiring a house. It requires something I hate: hypervigilance. I'm great at it for a while--sometimes a day, sometimes a week, I think I even made it a month once. But then it gets tiresome. Being hypervigilant is exhausting.
Still, I know that it's worth it, so every time I fall off the horse of hypervigilance, I try to clamber back up. That way, if I ever should come face to face with a tiger, I'll have something better than a donut to save me.
In My Next Life, I Want to be a Koala
I haven't made up my mind yet about the whole idea of reincarnation, but if it does exist, then I'd like to make a request. In my next life, please let me be a koala.
Why?
This photo pretty much says it all:
Koalas sleep an average of 18 hours a day. That's 75% of every day spent in Dreamland. Sounds like paradise. It might even make up for all days in this life that I had to wake up at or before 5 am to go to the day job, not to mention all the restless and sleepless nights I spend wrestling with my demons.
That's not all. Koalas spend their 6 waking hours a day eating and climbing trees. Spend all my waking hours eating and playing? Sign me up!
Those who work with koalas have also made a fascinating discovery in recent years: koalas are highly adaptable. As their environment has warmed, koalas have found ways to cool off--hanging out in human-built swimming pools and drinking from humans' water bottles were two popular examples. In other words, koalas deal with climate change far better than I do!
When confronted with a dangerous or scary situation, koalas don't flee or fight. They curl into a ball and wait for the danger to pass. Unfortunately, this behavior cost many koalas their lives when wildfires raged through the Australian bush, but I have to say, as coping behaviors go, it's one I find very attractive. Don't want to go to work? Curl in ball until the work day is over! It's the whole "if I ignore it, it will go away" defense mechanism in all its evolutionary perfection.
And, let's face it: koalas are cute and cuddly--two words that have never been used to describe me. I suppose there is a remote possibility that being cute and cuddly is an oppressive experience. All those people wanting to hug you and hold you. I suppose that could be completely horrible. But I'd like to give it a shot, just once, just to see what it's like.
Koalas are an endangered species. Scientists estimate there are only a few thousand left in existence. So, if I am reincarnated as a koala, then this adorable marsupial would have survived another generation or more. And that's no joking matter.
Koala information from National Geographic channel's "Koala Hospital."
Why?
This photo pretty much says it all:
 |
| Photo by Mike Richey |
Koalas sleep an average of 18 hours a day. That's 75% of every day spent in Dreamland. Sounds like paradise. It might even make up for all days in this life that I had to wake up at or before 5 am to go to the day job, not to mention all the restless and sleepless nights I spend wrestling with my demons.
That's not all. Koalas spend their 6 waking hours a day eating and climbing trees. Spend all my waking hours eating and playing? Sign me up!
Those who work with koalas have also made a fascinating discovery in recent years: koalas are highly adaptable. As their environment has warmed, koalas have found ways to cool off--hanging out in human-built swimming pools and drinking from humans' water bottles were two popular examples. In other words, koalas deal with climate change far better than I do!
When confronted with a dangerous or scary situation, koalas don't flee or fight. They curl into a ball and wait for the danger to pass. Unfortunately, this behavior cost many koalas their lives when wildfires raged through the Australian bush, but I have to say, as coping behaviors go, it's one I find very attractive. Don't want to go to work? Curl in ball until the work day is over! It's the whole "if I ignore it, it will go away" defense mechanism in all its evolutionary perfection.
And, let's face it: koalas are cute and cuddly--two words that have never been used to describe me. I suppose there is a remote possibility that being cute and cuddly is an oppressive experience. All those people wanting to hug you and hold you. I suppose that could be completely horrible. But I'd like to give it a shot, just once, just to see what it's like.
Koalas are an endangered species. Scientists estimate there are only a few thousand left in existence. So, if I am reincarnated as a koala, then this adorable marsupial would have survived another generation or more. And that's no joking matter.
Koala information from National Geographic channel's "Koala Hospital."
Stuck with a Capital F
in "goals"
Yes, you read that right--and I wish I felt as frustrated as that title sounds. Instead, I'm disappointed--in myself more than anything. This is not where I wanted to be at this point in my journey, and it's all my own damn fault.
I had hoped to be down one clothing size before my birthday at the end of this month, certainly before my trip to New York two weeks later. Short of emergency liposuction, that ain't gonna happen.
I have a favorite dress that I wanted to fit back into before going to New York. I tried it on, and it's not any looser than it was last summer. Then I realized that none of the clothes I wore last summer are any looser this summer. In fact, a few that had been getting loose last summer are not quite as loose anymore.
That tells me I'm heading in the wrong direction. While I have not put back a full clothing size of weight, I have put back a noticeable few pounds and I am not happy about that.
It makes me feel like the effort I have put in this past year has been wasted, like I'm going to be stuck at this weight forever. Clearly, to get the results that I did, I strayed a bit from my plan. I can admit that. But to do all the work I did do and be in pretty much the same place as a year ago, it makes me wonder: What was the point? And how much harder do I have to work to move forward?
With perspective gained from a night's sleep, I'm seeing things a little better now. I still doubt that I'll ever reach my healthiest weight, but I've realized that should I ever get there, I will be able to maintain it--because that's essentially what I've done over the past year. I've maintained my weight. That's not the best thing that could have happened, but it's not a bad thing, either.
I had hoped to be down one clothing size before my birthday at the end of this month, certainly before my trip to New York two weeks later. Short of emergency liposuction, that ain't gonna happen.
I have a favorite dress that I wanted to fit back into before going to New York. I tried it on, and it's not any looser than it was last summer. Then I realized that none of the clothes I wore last summer are any looser this summer. In fact, a few that had been getting loose last summer are not quite as loose anymore.
That tells me I'm heading in the wrong direction. While I have not put back a full clothing size of weight, I have put back a noticeable few pounds and I am not happy about that.
It makes me feel like the effort I have put in this past year has been wasted, like I'm going to be stuck at this weight forever. Clearly, to get the results that I did, I strayed a bit from my plan. I can admit that. But to do all the work I did do and be in pretty much the same place as a year ago, it makes me wonder: What was the point? And how much harder do I have to work to move forward?
UPDATE:
With perspective gained from a night's sleep, I'm seeing things a little better now. I still doubt that I'll ever reach my healthiest weight, but I've realized that should I ever get there, I will be able to maintain it--because that's essentially what I've done over the past year. I've maintained my weight. That's not the best thing that could have happened, but it's not a bad thing, either.
The Beast
Having finally finished the first draft of my first novel, I have recently begun the next step: revisions. To say the revising process is overwhelming would be an understatement.
The picture shows "The Beast"--aka my manuscript--in its current form. Each Post-It flag represents a page that requires at least one change. There are about 25-30 pages that I have not yet reviewed, so more Post-It flags will be added. The yellow Post-Its on the inside cover each represent one larger idea or change that I need to make, ideas or changes that will span many pages, scenes, or chapters. A few hold reminders of information I need to search out or double check. The pages between the yellow Post-Its and blue folder are from my most recent writer's group meeting, with notes and critiques to add to the manuscript (read: more Post-It flags!) The blue folder holds notes for the sequel, should I ever get as far as writing it.
If all that seems like organized chaos to you, you'd be almost correct. Chaos, yes. Organized, not so much. See, now that I'm ready to incorporate all of these changes and ideas, I have no idea where to start. Do I start with the small changes and then move to the larger ones? Do I start with the larger ones and then work down to the small ones? Do I start on page one and go page-by-page? Do I start revising right away and research information as I need it? Do I compile the list of information I need to find and do that first, before implementing text changes? Do I start from scratch, open a new file, and rewrite from Word One? Do I open the existing file and overwrite what's there?
Dizzy yet?
I am. Dizzy and paralyzed.
I've heard other writers say that revising is more difficult than writing. I didn't believe them. Coming up with ideas out of thin air has to be harder to than reworking something that already exists, right?
Wrong. Oh, so wrong. Because now it's not about getting on ideas on paper. It's about making sure those ideas are expressed clearly and creatively and "connectedly"(i.e, connected to each other and the larger story). It's about making sure the most accurate and precise words are used and that only those words--no extras--are used. It's about checking that everything that needs explanation is explained and that everything that doesn't, isn't. It's about making sure that every character and every location is described, if not in complete detail than with just the right detail. It requires exponentially more thought than just putting ideas on paper--and that part took me 8 years!
I know the revisions will get done. I know they will take me far less than 8 years. I just have to figure out where to start.
My gym is moving!
in "gym"
I know this is most definitely a first-world problem, and far down the list from say, the issues facing the people of Aurora, Colorado, or the citizens of Syria, but. . .my gym is relocating. That very fact has me not quite in a full-fledged panic (yet), but certainly feeling increasingly anxious and aflutter.
Part of the anxiety comes from the uncertainty of the situation. Giant posters around my gym announce the coming move, but the exact move date is still TBD. "Soon" is as specific as the information gets. For a pathological planner like myself, the amorphous nature of "soon" is sheer, unadulterated torture. (Is there such a thing as adulterated torture? I mean, if it's adulterated, is it really still torture?) Heck, I can barely get out of the bed in the morning unless I have a plan for the day! And yet I'm expected to continue going to the gym without being able to make a plan for adjusting to the commute to the new location? Horrors!
Now, I know the gym won't disappear overnight. I won't show up one morning and find a Post-It hastily tacked to the door with the words, "Sorry! We've moved!" scrawled on it in Sharpie marker. It's the idea that scares me. The fact that it's change. I don't think I'm breaking any new ground here by saying that change is scary--even when you know that change is coming and what form it will take.
I chose this gym in large because of its location. It's 5 minutes away--less if the two traffic lights cooperate, more if there's snow on the ground. The new location is 15 minutes away (if the traffic lights and Mother Nature cooperate) and on the other side of a never-ending construction zone. That may not seem like much--it may not even be much--but it's an obstacle. My 10-minute round trip to the gym will become 30-minute round trip. Believe me when I tell you that 30 minutes makes a big difference. It's the difference between 60 minutes out of my workday and 90 minutes. (How's that for stating the obvious?)
The problem is, the more time out of my day the gym requires, the less likely I am to go. I learned this lesson before, in my two other forays into gym membership. In both instances, the driving back and forth wore on me. My gym attendance dwindled until it stopped completely. I'm sure there were other factors at work, too, but the commute to the gym was certainly part of the equation.
Now I'm concerned that history will repeat itself. That this extra obstacle, this extra distance and the time it requires, will interfere in my current pattern of gym attendance. Right now, I go to the gym 3 times as week, nearly every week. My goal is to work my way up to five days a week. I know from the research I've been doing that to achieve and maintain the weight loss results I want, I will need to exercise for an hour a day, six days a week. For me, the gym is the best place for me to exercise.
I am not a natural athlete or "exerciser." Some days, it takes a metaphorical forklift to get me out of my chair, into my car, and over to the gym. I fear that the new gym location will force that forklift to work harder and more frequently until it breaks down completely.
That might not prove to be the case. It's easy for me to envision the worst case scenario. I struggle to envision a scenario of success. What it all comes down to is, the gym relocation will require a change in my routine--and I don't do well with changes, especially to my routine. It takes me forever to recover from them. Which brings me back right where I start: my gym is moving and I'm scared.
Part of the anxiety comes from the uncertainty of the situation. Giant posters around my gym announce the coming move, but the exact move date is still TBD. "Soon" is as specific as the information gets. For a pathological planner like myself, the amorphous nature of "soon" is sheer, unadulterated torture. (Is there such a thing as adulterated torture? I mean, if it's adulterated, is it really still torture?) Heck, I can barely get out of the bed in the morning unless I have a plan for the day! And yet I'm expected to continue going to the gym without being able to make a plan for adjusting to the commute to the new location? Horrors!
Now, I know the gym won't disappear overnight. I won't show up one morning and find a Post-It hastily tacked to the door with the words, "Sorry! We've moved!" scrawled on it in Sharpie marker. It's the idea that scares me. The fact that it's change. I don't think I'm breaking any new ground here by saying that change is scary--even when you know that change is coming and what form it will take.
I chose this gym in large because of its location. It's 5 minutes away--less if the two traffic lights cooperate, more if there's snow on the ground. The new location is 15 minutes away (if the traffic lights and Mother Nature cooperate) and on the other side of a never-ending construction zone. That may not seem like much--it may not even be much--but it's an obstacle. My 10-minute round trip to the gym will become 30-minute round trip. Believe me when I tell you that 30 minutes makes a big difference. It's the difference between 60 minutes out of my workday and 90 minutes. (How's that for stating the obvious?)
The problem is, the more time out of my day the gym requires, the less likely I am to go. I learned this lesson before, in my two other forays into gym membership. In both instances, the driving back and forth wore on me. My gym attendance dwindled until it stopped completely. I'm sure there were other factors at work, too, but the commute to the gym was certainly part of the equation.
Now I'm concerned that history will repeat itself. That this extra obstacle, this extra distance and the time it requires, will interfere in my current pattern of gym attendance. Right now, I go to the gym 3 times as week, nearly every week. My goal is to work my way up to five days a week. I know from the research I've been doing that to achieve and maintain the weight loss results I want, I will need to exercise for an hour a day, six days a week. For me, the gym is the best place for me to exercise.
I am not a natural athlete or "exerciser." Some days, it takes a metaphorical forklift to get me out of my chair, into my car, and over to the gym. I fear that the new gym location will force that forklift to work harder and more frequently until it breaks down completely.
That might not prove to be the case. It's easy for me to envision the worst case scenario. I struggle to envision a scenario of success. What it all comes down to is, the gym relocation will require a change in my routine--and I don't do well with changes, especially to my routine. It takes me forever to recover from them. Which brings me back right where I start: my gym is moving and I'm scared.