Becoming Write-Handed

Waiting for Soapy

We have painted the nursery - six "paintstaking" coats of three shades of brown 'til it was just right for Soapy.

We have unpacked and (sort of) decoded the car seat (sorry, the travel system).

We have attended six birthing, breastfeeding, babying classes. It turns out kids do come with owner's manuals and they are terrifying (the owner's manuals, not the kids).

We have pre-registered at the hospital, and kept a hard copy of our paperwork because the web site gives no confirmation that the hospital received our registration.

We have toured said hospital, gotten a glimpse of the "birthing rooms," the "Mother/Infant rooms," and the almost-empty "nursery," a room that is apparently a thing of the past at many new hospitals being built without them. 

We have trained the cat to sleep everywhere but with us or in the crib, except last night, when we accidentally made her spend the entire night in Steve's closet. She purred when we let her out this morning. We must be forgiven.

We have kept all our Dr's appointments, even added a few for excitement lately, like when we thought my water had broken, and when Soapy took a 4-hour nap during his/her normal active playtime and the lack of kicking sent me right back to the reassuring squeak, squeak of the fetal heart rate monitors.

We have attended a partner-assisted birthing stretching class, taught by my prenatal yoga instructor, and I have attended more than a dozen prenatal yoga sessions, where the support of other mothers-to-be has given me new courage and perspective on birth.

I have read none of the "required" reading, like "What to Expect When You're Expecting," opting instead for books by midwives, doulas, and holistic health practitioners. Some of my selections have caused my Doctor to raise an eyebrow or two at me, but that only reinforces my sense that these are the right sources of information. Steve has read two books for expectant fathers and could probably soon write his own.

We have washed the tiny laundry and marveled at each little sock or shirt as we put it away in the dresser drawers.

We have even replaced the roof over Soapy's head.

Along the way, we have laughed, cried, argued, faced our fears and each other's, worried, negotiated, and partnered to complete this pregnancy. Suddenly we find ourselves with few to-do's and lots of to-learn's. Our childbirth instructor assured us last night that even in the scariest, most tenuous birth situations, there are remarkable stories of love and tenderness that build strong, healthy families. This insight gives me hope that all our work so far has started to turn us, two mere mortals, into that magical species known as "parents."

The Rhythm of Writing

This week I participated in a writing exercise for my church. We are writing a letter to the people who will be leading our congregation 100 years from now, placing the letter in a time capsule along with other important artifacts.

We decided the letter needs a cadence, and while we're not sure of the wording, we've started working with the idea of Call/Response.  As in, "The American political landscape changed forever in 2004, with bitter division taking over for civil political and religious discourse, and our church leaders felt called to change that. Together with Dr. M. Scott Peck, First Community Church created the pioneering Faith & American Politics program."

Now, I don't claim that I've got the wording just right, or that this is the "right" structure for our letter. But it has gotten me thinking about the rhythm of writing and how we set a pace for our readers when we choose our words.

All of that has gotten me thinking about Barack Obama's speechwriters. Did you hear that the Inaugural Addresswas written in a D.C.-area Starbucks? Can you imagine sitting there, amid the baristas and the hissing cappuccino machines and a long line of people on their Blackberries, and coming up with the wonderful flow and pulse of that speech?

I am not sure if writing for readers is different than writing for listeners. It really shouldn't be, as I've been taught over and over to "write for the ear" and "write like you talk." It should flow, it should sound natural, it should seem real.

And the only way I know to do that, my friends, is to practice. So thanks for reading my practice sessions here at Becoming Write-Handed and wish me luck with that letter!

Sucked In To A Good Story

I am currently reading Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series, the fiendishly delightful vampire stories about Edward and Bella. It's amazing how so much of my writing passion is really about reading. I am completely and utterly helpless when I'm in the middle of such a good story ... I mean, I can't get the laundry done, I can't seem to go to bed on time (although I've lost my childhood habit of reading under the covers with a flashlight) and the characters are sort of stuck in my head all day as if they are suddenly going to appear around a corner and continue a conversation with me.

I also have a song stuck in my head from the musical "Rent" - you know the one about measuring a year in 525,600 minutes?

525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear.
525,600 minutes - how do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life?

Somehow these two influences are conspiring upon my sleep-deprived mind to make me think of my own writing. I am (as most first-time mothers-to-be) overwhelmed with to-do's and worried about my increasingly demanding schedule. But when it's all said and done, I won't look back on these last few months of childless freedom and remember all the things I accomplished and crossed off my list. I'll remember the books I've read, and maybe even some of the vivid hormone-fueled dreams I'm having, and if I have one-tenth of Stephenie Meyer's imagination and persistence, I'll remember the writing that filled up my summer.

I'm Not Sorry

I've read many blog posts by authors who feel guilty when their posting takes a back seat to their busy lives, or when they hit a case of writer's block and don't blog for a while, or when they choose other forms of social media (like Twitter) to express themselves at the expense of their blogs.

I'm not going to apologize for my silence here. Writing is something that I often leave and come back to in my life, and over the past several weeks (okay, months) I've been preoccupied with other things. And that, as usual, is a good story. The best part is my writing bug is always with me, and the ideas are always flowing, even when I'm not capturing them.

My husband and I are having a baby. That's the beginning of the story (actually, that's the beginning of more than one story, isn't it?) And in the process of finding out about our blessing, I also discovered I needed a different job and so ... in this brave new world of blogging and Facebook and Twitter and LinkedIn, I opted to keep my pregnancy a secret online as long as I was interviewing in this admittedly small town.*

What an impact such a secret can have. I learned how much those online connections meant to me, and I learned how "free" I'd become on the pages of my blogs.  Writing the experiences of my own life has been a way for me to process and learn about myself, and I hope, offer some insights into the human experience.

I missed a chance to write some heartfelt entries about my feelings on becoming a mother. I also missed a few hilarious opportunities to lampoon the various indignities of pregnancy.  For example, when I polished off two months of morning sickness with a bad head cold, and said rather pathetically to Steve, "Um, honey, there are cracker crumbs stuck in my Vicks VapoRub," we laughed as we agreed there was a blog entry in that statement somewhere!

I can't promise to catch you up on the past 6 months of our lives, but I will look forward to more frequent posts here as I get back into storytelling mode, in advance of the greatest story of my life being born in August.

*I'm happily back at my former job now, where blogging is part of our DNA and everyone knows my "secret." :)

Writing Practice - Jewelry

Saturday we cleaned the basement. Well, you can't really "clean" a basement, can you? We didn't use soap or water, so I guess you could say we re-organized the basement. Unpacked a dozen boxes of crystal and china and kitchen servingware. Moved a dozen more boxes under the stairs. And along the way, found several boxes of "stuff" that I've just been ignoring. One such box was full of baubles and tiny boxes and bits of shiny junk.

I have a huge 5-drawer jewelry chest in our room. With room in at least 2 of the drawers. So yesterday I finally unpacked that box of broken necklaces and club glasses and tarnished earrings. I saw so many versions of myself in those little jewels.

I saw a very young version of myself, named "Martha," in the engraved Pegasus necklace from my dad. I saw a much older version of myself, circa high school years, in the box of cameos and pearls and lovely antique-looking jewelry that I used to love. I saw myself in love with music for the first time when I unpacked my Phantom of the Opera music box and matching jewelry. I even saw my Grandpa and his lady love, Edie, when I unwrapped porcelain gifts they gave us years ago.

And yet, nothing was as dear and treasured to me as the pipe cleaner rose from Steve, green fuzzy pipe cleaner stem holding up a huge red paper "@" symbol as the flower.  Steve used to send me email roses using dashes for stems and <arrows> for thorns and "@" symbols for flowers. This pipe cleaner version is far more tangible and every bit as sentimental.

Akita Retreata!

It's a balmy 5 degrees in Columbus, and Steve and I are going camping.

Not really "camping" in the true sense, but we're heading to Camp Akita for a Creativity Retreat weekend. We'll be at a cozy lodge in the Hocking Hills for the next 2 days, staying warm by attending workshops on imagination, personal art, and new technology.

This will be my third trip to Akita in the past year. The first was for a writing retreat last spring, where we spent a weekend learning from Mike Harden, Columbus Dispatch columnist and writing optimist. The second was in the fall, when my mom joined me for a Women's Retreat on dreaming and the meaning of our dreams.

And now, I get to go back with my hubby and show him the beauty that is Akita, and we both get to recharge our personal and professional batteries while eating excellent camp food - what could be better?

It's not very often we actually take time for things like this, and with both of us in creative careers, it's really important. I am taking with me the writing journal I took to that first retreat, so I'm looking forward to re-reading it and getting my pen moving again!

This Little Light of Mine

In 5 days, I will turn 31. But last night, I had a "soul birthday" that made me feel simultaneously 18 and 88.

I've been calling these moments "soul birthdays" since high school, when I wrote an achingly serious essay about how the body grows steadily from year to year but the soul grows in leaps and bounds, characterized by these flashes of insight or moments of grace.

Last night's soul birthday came in an unusual place, as they sometimes do. I was sitting in a small auditorium, listening to an Appalachian folk singer perform a song called "Drop in the Bucket." You know, Rosa Parks was a drop in the bucket but the bucket fills the pond and the pond feeds the river and the river rushes on to the ocean and so on.

When she reached the verse about Mother Theresa teaching us to shine our lights to the world, Carla Gover broke from her beautiful lyrics, let her guitar swing loose on her hips, and raised her hands to clap out a rhythmn to "This Little Light of Mine." We all sang along.

And something inside me literally lit up. A tiny flame that has been struggling and smoldering just sort of surged brigthly as I realized my writer self is in there, trying to shine, and I need to get out of her way. I felt a sudden clarity about this because I just did this in my body. My body actually already knows how to do what my soul is crying out for.

Last month, I embarked on a nutritional journey that has changed my life forever. I have lost about 10 pounds and probably 4-5 inches of my generous curves since I started a "cleanse" that has led to all-new eating habits. A friend asked me this week why I was finally able to "take control" and "lose the weight" and my response to her about my body is exactly the same as my sense last night about my writing:

Something that the health counselors and trainers said to me was that our bodies want to be healthy, they want to get well and be active, and they can, if we just get out of their way. They said once your food is in order, you will actually crave workouts. That was so compelling to me, that the inner strength and tone and flexibility and figure that I want were all there, I just had to get the bad stuff out of my system to let it be revealed.  It fascinated me to think differently, that I didn't have to transform myself, I just had to uncover myself!

It is the same thing with the writing. I don't have to create a new life, or transform my current life (a daunting idea that makes me want to hide under the covers.) I simply have to allow the writer inside to be revealed because she's right there. I mean, I'm right there. I'm writing every day in my head (it's like breathing, I don't know how to stop) and I just need to let it all out. Let my light shine, just the way I've let my truly healthy self show herself to the world.

Mother Theresa and Carla Gover would want it this way.

 

Year Two, Day One

Yesterday, Steve and I celebrated our first year of marriage. Actually we've been celebrating for several days, starting with a trip to see Joe Bonamassa in Cleveland, a wine tour of Ohio wineries in amazing Indian Summer weather, dinner out at a fabulous restaurant, and then yesterday, the actual anniversary.

One year ago today, we were cleaning up from the wedding, sharing centerpieces and decorations and packing to go home.  Somehow I didn't get any of our little hanging aisle buckets to save as a memento. Actually, we got some of the buckets back, but none with flowers. My brilliant bridesmaids, on the other hand, saved theirs with the flowers and let them dry - every time I'd see those on Rachel and Alison's desk at Resource, I'd feel sorry we hadn't saved ourselves one. 

Well, my mom took care of that yesterday. She and Steve conspired to get the empty buckets into the hands of Fred at Flower Galaxy (Rachel's wedding florist) and he re-built us those gorgeous decorations! Now we will have dried arrangements to cherish forever!

Yesterday, after getting our flowers, we took a picnic and our wine bottles full of haiku messages and we went to The Park of Roses. In honor of our wedding, I wore my brown and orange summer sundress. In honor of summer, I got a touch of sunburn =)

We broke open those wine bottles, revealing 46 heartfelt messages from family and friends. Some were actually in haiku poem format (who knew we had such poets in our midst?) while others were pure poetical prose. Some were, um, cleary written at the end of an evening of open bar. A few were private jokes (who says the Packers suck?!) Others I will certainly put under my pillow as a fertility charm when the time is right!

One thing's for sure, it was a lovely way to spend our anniversary, remembering all our friends and hearing from them again. We have lots of ideas how to display the little poems, maybe in a frame or even in a paper mache chandelier like one we saw in NC a few years ago.

Steve cooked an amazing gourmet meal for us, scallops with champagne grapes and almonds. It was delicious, but nothing was as yummy as the dessert - a gorgeous necklace in the shape of Keuka Lake, with a diamond right where Heron Hill is located!

Booked

Well.

I'm two weeks into my new arrangement of leaving the office early every Monday to write. Already I am quite good at avoiding the keyboard. So far today I've eaten a snack, taken a quick catnap, met with a friend from church, started a load of laundry, painted a bookshelf, painted my toenails (luckily didn't mix up the colors) and read the New York Times online.

Finally I pulled myself up to the office and planted myself at the computer, and fired up the blog by a former writing instructor of mine, Nita Sweeney.  Her blog is appropriately titled "Bum Glue" and reminds me that writers all suffer from the same thing - procrastinatory tendencies.  In fact, author Stephen King says in "On Writing" that the only requirement of a writer's office is a door that closes. I am not sure whether that's more to keep the world out or the writer in!

Last week I read Becoming Left-Handed all the way through, from the first entry about my ring being at the jewelers (where it is today) to the final post about getting our wedding pictures from Frank DiMeo. At times, I was shocked at my bridal self; at times I was smiling happily or laughing at my experiences.  And these are all the things I hope will happen to my readers when I finally get BLH into a book form.

I thought about how to best put my journey into chapters - should I do themes/topics (i.e. Family, Ceremony, Relationship) or should I tell the story chronologically?  I talked it over with Steve, who of course helped me sort it out while maneuvering his way through pre-concert traffic as we made our way to see Celine Dion last week (Merry Christmas to me!)

And so, here I am today, with an idea in my head and a blank Word document before me. What a thrilling day! Why have I been avoiding this?

Monday, Monday

Today is the beginning of a new chapter for me.  From now on, I'll be working only 1/2 days on Mondays so I can come home early and work on my writing. 

Today I am concentrating on BLH (Becoming Left-Handed) as I print all the entries from that blog and see if I can start to establish a framework for a book. 

One of my new coworkers is also writing a book so she and I have exchanged a lot of great tips and stories, and it's given me new energy to get back on track with my writing.

Wish me luck.