Marching Along

Some days (*cough* months), you've just got to put something down and keep going. Not all posts, scribbles, writing days are gold star worthy.

My thoughts are best summed up as a handful of sand tossed to scatter across a stone floor. Good luck chasing all that down.

I'm quiet. I'm observing more. I can feel a difference in my mood. All my interests are intact. Sleeping patterns, caffeine aside, are as usual.

And I can't exactly put my finger on what's got me this way. Maybe it's a seasonal thing. Maybe it's excitement about upcoming plans. Maybe it's a low bullshit tolerance and a learned response to circle my internal wagons against other folks' issues. Maybe it's life trying to resettle after a series of upheavals and it's just not as smooth a process as it used to be.  Maybe it's all of it.

Maybe it's the cold, hard realization that it's going to be almost a month before another round of holiday chocolate goes on clearance again. This seems most likely. Watch. Wait. Buy all the good discount candy.

Scattered brainwaves aside, I'm in the middle of 5 books - all average or better save one that's a little dry. And as far as movies, I've watched back to back movies that celebrate women - one a woman's journey to (forgive the cliche) blossom into who she wants to be and one that promotes women as equally capable as men at technology, battle and just all around on the same footing.

What have I learned?

When I finished writing my first manuscript, it didn't occur to me that it would take so ridiculously long for me to repeat such a feat. Hell, I could probably start knocking two or three of these out a year. 

Ugh. Just... ugh. 

Because in reality, I probably could have. Or at least one a year. You get the idea. Explanations, excuses, blah blah blah. But I didn't. Regardless of reasons, I didn't. That's the bottom line. 

So now I find myself nearing a wrapping up point on my first large-scale world building exercise. Otherwise known as the on-again-off-again project I've been working on for the past few years. 

And this is so much less smoothly done as the first go 'round at writing a book start to finish, even ignoring the time spent on it. Because my first manuscript? Written in less than a year - probably a matter of months. I've already mentioned how long I've been working on this patchwork mess. 

The first time, I learned I could do this. I could follow an idea through from blank page to The End. An important lesson to quell the nagging voices in the back of my head that I could not. Commercially viable or locked forever away, it was possible. But it was possible mostly in a vacuum. The demands on my time then were such that I could literally write all night, sleep during the morning and get up in the afternoon to handle whatever daily life needed to be attended before returning back to my private space for another writing marathon. 

I need a cigarette just thinking about it, and I don't even smoke.

The first time around, a much more straightforward and less fantastical story was written in simple linear, streamlined order without having to worry too much. This time? About halfway through I realized I'd left out an important theme. And despite a good friend's suggestion that there are no accidents, this leaves a gaping hole that must be addressed in rewrites. 

And that's okay. Or I realized it was after the initial WHAT-HAVE-I-DONE panic subsided. 

Because perhaps the overriding message I'll end up taking away from this writing experience (after relearning I can still do this) is damage control - or more nicely put - how to keep going when it's gone off the rails. 

And world building? I suspect with a decent rewrite period and solid edits, won't come across as nail biting as it felt fleshing out at the time. Which is another great reminder - it all sucks to begin with anyway. Unless you've written 50 published novels (or maybe this persists anyway), it all starts out as something that needs to be refined and edited to get it polished. There may be writers out there who get it right the first time, but I'm okay not being one of them. Or rather, I'm making my peace with it.

I had a bit of an artistic meltdown last night, crippling doubt over capability, quality, and the like. My husband, not exactly known for his empathetic skills, rose to the occasion as I confessed that there isn't anything special about me. 

"Of course there is."

"You think I'm special because I take care of you. It's not the same."

He stared at me silently for some time, which generally means he doesn't really have anything else to add to the conversation. To my surprise this was not the case.

"I know you're special. You are not a little fish in a big pond like you think."

"You're just saying that because you dream of me being a bestseller so you can be a kept man." This is a running joke as old as our marriage. 

"That's not it. I know you're special. All the people you've known in your adult life have made you feel like a small fish because of their issues. You may not be the big fish in your writing right now, but it's coming. I know it."

What else have I learned? That my husband is long overdue for me to bake him his favorite cookie. And that he's pretty damned awesome. I knew that anyway, but it's a hell of a reminder.

I already knew I was needy, so there's no big reveal there. By default, most writers tend to be. Some of us just try to keep quiet about it to give the illusion of being collected. Or because I'm embarrassed. 

I continue to learn that I still have work to do. I'm not at a point where I can just regurgitate what's in my brain up and onto the page with little muss or fuss. Or angst. 

And now that I'm nearing the end of this first world building business, I think it's time to try reading a few book series that take world building and turn them into 1,000 page monsters a piece. Because I just know that I've got something a little bit bigger, a little bit grander than the typical 300-ish page books lurking deep within me. Don't get me wrong, I've got more of those in my depths that I could tackle. But I also have a wild hair pushing me to get into something completely engulfing. 

 

Old Person Crabby

I had an expectation, while waiting for my foot to heal, that once the walking boot could come off it would be smooth sailing.

This couldn't be further from the truth. 

My foot hurts worse now, especially at night, than it did the last month in the walking boot. My ortho advised that if the pain began to build I should probably switch back into the boot. Both my husband and my dad have suggested recently that I should slip it back on for a while. 

That feels like defeat. Like failure. Says the voice in my head, not the tone from their words. 

Stubborn? Me? Why do you ask?

While my ortho guy is top of the line, with explicit directions on taking care of everything step by step post surgery, there wasn't a lot of chatter on what to expect during healing. And with the exception of if it hurts a lot put the boot on followed by if the pain goes nuts come back in, there wasn't a discussion on what to expect now that the bones knitted back together. If you've spent much time with illness or injury in your life, as I have, this is pretty common. Repair and the mechanics behind it is the focus, moving forward is usually up to the patient. 

So I turned to the internet. I skipped symptom checkers so I'm not currently worried about my foot having frost bite or gangrene or some bizarre parasite. Turns out lots of folks who have had my kind of break and repair have the same questions. What's normal? How long does this go on? Should it really feel like that? 

In short, the bone repair is only the start of healing. And I was damn lucky in that area because my bone healed super, duper fast. The rest of it can take more than a year. Seriously?! It's one little bone in one small area of my body. I'm here to tell you: the stitches are out and the incision has long healed but the skin and musculature at the site is still so tender I don't let my husband rub his foot along mine when we're going to bed. The idea of my foot slipping and whacking into something makes me nauseated, even if I have a shoe on it. Let me repeat that for emphasis. Just the idea of my foot making contact with something makes me physically ill.

So if you're wondering how I'm feeling, in general or specific to my foot, I'm in pain. Several times a day my foot feels like I licked a light socket. 

And I'm crabby. Not the snapping at a well meaning comment from the hubby without warning kind of crabby. Bitchy crabby. That was earlier in the recovery phase. No, I'm in the worn out, don't have patience with the world at large and just want to take a nap crabby. Old person crabby. I want to prop my foot up and read a book until I fall asleep. Wake up, eat fresh bread, and snuggle with a dog. Repeat. 

But the world moves on. I'm back at full steam to regular life. I'm frustrated from the 3 month hiatus from 'normal' life that didn't result in being fully rested and bursting with energy. 

It's ridiculous to me how I feel. I know it's not a serious illness. I'm not recovering from catastrophic injuries. I'm crabby. I'm sore. I'm unfocused. I'm tired. My morale is in the toilet. Today. The past week. This too shall pass. 

The Year That Was

So long 2017. Greetings '18.

I thought I'd take a few minutes and ponder the year that was my 2017.

Our pack size regained it's happy medium (in theory) when without warning I committed our family to a new four-legged member. It took almost a year after the loss of our other dog and everyone else was more than ready by the time the wild hair took hold and a squirming, furry bundle of kinetic energy chewed through our front door and into our lives. I made it through the "puppy blues". I made it through teething (barely). He's my little snuggle buddy (or more accurately, I'm his) and has livened up all our lives.

The bullet journal didn't revolutionize my life. Sigh. I am chronically, systemically, hopeless unorganized. My life is also humdrum, mundane and predictable - until it's so far into explosive chaos without warning that I can't see straight. That's the two settings of my life. These things I was not able to reconcile with the addition of a bujo.  I either had the exact same daily to-do's to keep track of for weeks on end OR didn't have time to slow down to track a single thing. I gave up on the bujo attempt after several months but still consider perhaps turning the fancy notebook into some kind of personal reference book - lists of meds for each of my folks, character name ideas I come across You know, like I already have an app for in my phone. Just analog. Because I've got a spiffy journal sitting around with glorious, glorious empty pages...

I surpassed my (admittedly low) books read goal for the year. I read half again more than the goal, so I definitely think I've got room to stretch 2018's bar. Considering I've got more books on my TBR list that I can finish in a lifetime and more being added all the time, I need to move my ass. Or, sit kind of still and focus. Whatever.

My foreign language lessons fell by the wayside. Boo!

Writing group is (dare I say) flourishing. Regular meet-ups. New faces. Semi-regular outings. Sharing projects & entering contests together. It has been a sanity saver on so many levels for 2017 that I cannot begin to explain. Which speaks so well of my vocabulary and wordsmithing, doesn't it?

Which leads me to NaNoWriMo. As if I could leave that out. Grueling as ever. Super bummed that the local group didn't host all the events. A mixed bag as ever. Still not done with this $@)*&*&@) work in progress. I want to get it to some sense of completion, put it away for a while and start on a new story that has been clamoring for my attention since about summertime.

While my blog posts have been spotty at best this year, my fiction ideas continue to multiply. Must write freaking faster. Must block out distractions. Look at that. I made myself laugh. How bad do I want to keep going though? I want it, so I keep plodding away at the pace I've got to work with and dream of a time when I can hammer out exactly what I want at a faster pace. Practice, practice, practice. With a bit of peace in my home. So a miracle basically.

And I cannot review 2017 without the co-headliner to the new dog: breaking my foot and the wacky chaos that ensued. Is still on going. I'm healing. Bone is repaired. Musculature, nerves, etc takes longer but is on the mend. My healing foot looks kind of skeletal from atrophy, but I'm working on it.

Less social media. What would you do if you didn't scroll endlessly through instant pot recipes, selfies and endless ego stroking pleadings for attention? I'm scaling back my viewing and what a breath of fresh air.

I'd like to travel some in 2018 (okay, a lot but I'll take what I can get). Though if travel isn't in the cards again this year, I hope there's a kinder way to let me know than a series of car repairs and surgery. I want to read more. Write more. Laugh more. Nap more. I want to record family stories from my dad. I want to have ridiculous fun with my husband. More doggie snuggles.

Happy Near Year! May 2018 be more wonderful than we can imagine.

How Bad Do You Want It?

I have been completely and totally out of focus when it comes to blog posts the last several months.

Yeah, I'm real broken up about that.

I'm a little bummed in that I had, with a few slow times, kept up to a twice a month posting schedule a LOT longer than I expected. I could highlight how everything going on can be best summed up by describing my life as dangling off the side of the Titanic just before it makes its final descent.

But that would be a bit dramatic. Plus, it's just not that cold where I live.

Social media reminded me that about this time last year I wrote a blog post about that nerdiest of nerd holidays: National Novel Writing Month.

That's right, it's NaNoWriMo time, kids! That batshit crazy time of the year when thousands of people lose all good sense and try to cram writing 50,000 words into 30 days and try to act like it's the most fun ever. All while trying not to crack like Humpty freaking Dumpty.

For all my bitching and moaning (a beloved past time, frankly), the idea of NaNoWriMo in October is kind of thrilling to my creative-esque brain. The idea of it November first is still kind of thrilling yet slightly daunting. Beyond that it's a mad dash of swear words, caffeine, loathing (both self- and for those who interrupt your process) and anxiety. There may or may not be a serious chocolate addiction to make it through the day as well.

We're one week in (Sweet baby arugula, one week down already?!) and I've already had to play a bit of catch up. But I rallied. And stumbled. And hopefully I'll rally again, because the quicker I rally, the less daunting my catch up mode has to be.

My family... Ahem, my husband and dad are supportive. And distracting. They really do mean well. And they patiently inquire about word counts and how I'm doing for the day.

And none of them know what I'm writing. Yes, I'm terribly squirrelly about explaining what I'm working on even to them and they have not, in the history of the universe, ever asked. Probably because I'm squirrelly. Or they're afraid it's about people talking about angst. Or wallpaper designs. Who can say?

The nice thing about this year, because I'm all about grasping for silver linings at this point, is I've conned my friends into doing it I have more friends participating than before. It's easier to stick with it in the rough moments when you're in this with other people. Mostly because you don't want to be the one who doesn't make it to the end and get all bitter when they celebrate.

I'm still on the mend from that broken bone (without the joy of prescription grade pain killers), my mother is still so far off her rocker she's in a different galaxy (and as loving and charming with me as barbed wire), and life in general has the audacity to continue on as if I'm not chest deep in a bizarre writing event. Must be November.

Good luck to everyone participating in NaNoWriMo - or any other nerdy endeavor that may be going on. May you be inspired, properly caffeinated, supported and a bunch of other stuff that helps.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

All year long various people have been asking me about taking a vacation. Which is weird, because usually the only people who talk to me about traveling are the few people I actually travel with. Because a vacation implies there is time and money and availability and resources and a shit ton of other factors that magically align. 

With the addition of our new dog this year, I officially wrote off any hope of traveling - let alone 'vacationing'. (I'm sure this reflects poorly on me, but somehow I can't shake the idea of a vacation being something wealthy television characters take in the 1950s. Or in the case of a particular doctor who has asked at each visit this year, multi-week world-tour like expeditions to amazing and exotic locales. 'Cause doesn't everyone go to Australia on a whim for their 5th or 6th trip of the year?)

And then once we rounded summer for the autumn, the urge to see an actual seasonal change starting kicking me in the gut. My family and I talked about the possibility of a brief trip, a there and back again kind of jaunt to one of our favorite fall locations to restock from orchards and delightful treats we've missed. 

And before you could say "Is that your check engine light?" our vehicle was in the shop. My father refers to the kind of known but not-covered-under-warranty issue it was as planned obsolescence - we could make this little tiny valve more durable, but we're not so you've got to buy something from us again AND pay for the labor cost - somewhere in the ballpark of your current monthly car payment.

Ouch.

Okay, but while not ideal it wasn't the worst case scenario. Maybe we could still pull of a quick getaway. 

Ha! Ha ha, I say!

Because a quick run over of the car (confirmed by us after picked up the vehicle) shows we need a new set of tires and brakes. 

He's going to pay $500 for 4 bald tires and a tow. Sounds about right.

(Wheezing choke) Ouch ouch.

For the briefest of moments I wondered if I could still somehow make it work. 

*Crashboombang*

I broke a bone for the first time in my life.  

Gawrsh! That looks painful - and expensive!

I spent most of my childhood wrapped in sports bandages, swollen joints and blood dripping down after falling off bikes. I fell up stairs, I fell down stairs. I tripped over my own feet and over nothing at all. All the grace and coordination of a blindfolded colt born on ice. And nothing, not so much as a hairline fracture until now. 

And I didn't just break something half-way relatively easy to navigate around. Oh no. I broke a bone in a place that will not heal on its own on in my foot. On my dominant side. That pushes the pedals in the car. 

I got to have surgery. My foot is so wrapped up in bandages and packing, topped with an immobilizing boot, that my husband keeps laughing that I should dress up for Halloween as the Wicked Witch and tell kids that Dorothy missed me with the house and it only got my foot. 

I'm completely non-weight bearing for a month and a half at a minimum. The person I despise most at the moment is the WASPy house designer who decided she needed to make popular the idea of adding an extra door to the toilet that is already inside a home bathroom. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to navigate a toilet hidden inside your bathroom so a handful of squeamish people can believe their spouses don't know they poop when you've only got 1 foot to balance on?

I hope you're laughing at that. Seriously. Because I have lost count of the number of times I've burst out laughing when I'm on the verge of crying the past few weeks. We've rounded ridiculous and are sliding into absurd. 

So let me sum this up a bit. I'm supposed to basically be on bed rest (using a little scooter I kneel on when I do need to move) until the bone heals. I take care of a household. I am forever running to the pharmacy or grocery store or doctor's office for a house full of my older folks. But I can't drive. For several weeks. 

In October. 

October is one of the two months my mother's mental illness goes completely bananas and her psychiatrist lets me use her personal cell number to reach her 24/7. And I'm out of commission. Let me clarify that for how my mother views things. I'm not out of commission. I'm getting all the attention. That's 200% how she sees this. And she's not going to stand for that. 

Necessary PSA that not all mental illnesses are the same and this is in no way meant to be derogatory in any way. My mother has more than a few things going on in her brain at the same time as her mental illness - something she's been treated for since before I was born. But at some point in her mind, right around the time I hit puberty, my mom took a very serious look at me and saw A. the bratty baby sister she fought with in her youth and B. competition for attention. I have been fair game for routine hatred ever since. 

A few days ago, my mom tried to convince me that she was the one with the broken bone (she eventually settled on her foot, but for an hour or two she said it was her arm). Later she told me I used to be so sweet to her, but that's mostly gone now. Yesterday and today she's been remarking that she needs to get ready because I'm having people over. A long and winding conversation gives way in the long run for her to make me feel guilty because I have friends and sometimes I go out and do things with them. There's so much more, so many more disheartening things, but you get the basic idea.

What I can't stop wondering though, is what horrible fate awaited me should I have pressed on with my longing thoughts of a fall trip that this was what had to stop me. At this point, I'll settle in with my homemade version of The Exorcist, a stack of books to read and now that I'm shaking the cobwebs of the painkiller out of my brain, writing.

Adventures of a different sort

One week ago, I, along with whoever else remained in the state of Florida, braced for the coming hurricane. Hurricane Irma was a big ole beast of a storm. And I've got to tell you, it took everything I've learned over the course of nearly a lifetime in this state to make it through the past two weeks with a dose of relief.

Irma went on her merry, destructive, psycho-ex-girlfriend-level-crazy way by Monday afternoon.

Let me rewind a little though. The week leading up to her arrival, my spidey-hurricane sense tingled. I began a snotty blog post about rising hurricane hysteria but never got back to it. And while the hysteria doesn't help anybody and it's a big part of frustration during hurricane season, I'm kind of glad I didn't finish that bitch session before Irma bitch slapped us.

It's exceptionally rare that I do any kind of hurricane prep. Seriously. The local news stations whip everyone in a frenzy, and usually it doesn't come near us. Last year was the first time in 12 years a major storm headed our way and at the last minute, as they are want to do like a dizzy toddler, Hurricane Matthew weaved to the right and spared my area the direct hit the weathermen were salivating over.

This year, when the projection said this angry drunk of a storm was heading our way, I picked up bottled water and canned goods like it was my destiny. I'd like to point out, I was NOT one of those assholes who bought up 20-30 cases of water leaving the rest of their neighbors scrambling to find supplies. I got what my family & animals would need for about a week and stayed the hell out of the stores.

Because to a point, there's not a whole lot you can do about the storm. You might need to put up plywood to cover your windows. You might need to bring in outside furniture, bird feeders and the like. But once that storm's howling (literally howling) outside, you're playing a waiting game. What you plan for, what most of Central Florida learned the super, duper grueling way about 13 years ago, is that you plan for the after. You plan for no running water. You plan for no power. You plan for no stores, restaurants or gas stations to have those things or anything else for that matter. And you've got to plan for that for at least a week, longer if you live outside of a subdivision where there are centralized substations.

I've gone through several hurricanes. I posted about that last year after Matthew. I've gone through a couple of impressive blizzards. Irma covered the whole state. The entire thing. There was not a place in the state that wasn't touched by at least one or two storm bands. I couldn't really tell you what the news was saying for the first several days after Irma, what without having power, phone or internet, but I know there is a sense of awe, pants-shitting awe, at the size and capability of this storm.

My family and I were fortunate. Our power was out from Sunday night until Wednesday night. I have a couple of friends who are still without power and were told to expect to be so anywhere from 2 more days to another week or longer. I don't care what your religious beliefs may or may not be, God, the universe or just collective consciousness needs to bless the power company linemen & tree trimmers, many out of state workers flooding in this week to help get the state back up and running. As soon as people are getting power up, they're cooking them hot meals, bringing them beer, liquor and cold water, bringing them pizza as restaurants reopen. Some kids are baking cookies or pastries or bringing them hand drawn thank yous with trays of store bought cookies.

We're a little dizzy here now. Last week was hurry up and panic, prepare as best you could and wait. Wait. W...a...i...t.  Sunday the very air around us was deadly. Snapping power polls like I'd snap dry spaghetti. Uprooting trees like their roots were made of tissue paper. Monday we crept out of our darkened houses for fresh air and to check the damage. Tuesday we sweated. It was kind of like everyone in the state was doing a sweat gland potency test. This continued until you got power and then the food nervousness began. Stores were refilling - and emptying as soon as trucks came in. It wasn't until Friday afternoon that perishables started returning to the shelves faster than they could be bought up. What a relief it was to buy a carton of eggs. Fresh milk. No canned goods. Not that I wasn't glad to have them, but not my first choice at the moment.

All in the span of a week, barely two if you count the panicked week of watching Irma's arrival.

So here I sit, in a coffee shop that's recently reopened, sucking down coffee at a vaguely alarming rate and so grateful that my life is able to return to it's weird normalcy in a headspinning week's time.