Author: Charity

Impatience and the writer

Sometimes it takes writing to figure out what you are writing about and then you must go back and start all over again.

My instructor for the children’s writing class said this the other day (I’m paraphrasing slightly).

I have a friend (no, this isn’t me in the guise of friend–for real) who claims to hate writing “under the burden of previously written scenes.” This person is a good writer (but look at how deftly I avoid revealing gender). But I’ve never seen this person (more gender-avoiding waltzing) do more than a rough draft of a novel. In a strange paradox, this person hates “wasted scenes” but has walked away from (by my count) four novels.

Oh, and I’m not talking about anyone who reads this blog. If you thought “That’s me!”

You. Thought. Wrong.

But I’ve been thinking about this. My instructor referred to it as impatience. When you write, it simply doesn’t all come at once. I suppose it could, for some people. I know my brain can only handle so much at a time. When I started the revisions for my current project, I was all about voice. So much so, I forgot about structure. Structure flew out the window, ran down the street, and I’m still calling her name, trying to get her back.

Actually, this week, I’m all about structure. You might say the Hard-looking, Eye-looking is courtin’ structure.

Let’s hope she’ll want to be my steady gal.

Hard looking eye looker

Last night, I was praising the kids for swimming so hard at their lessons. Andrew will be moving up a level, yet again, and Kyra is oh-so close but her progress has been tremendous this session.

We made our standard joke of working hard/hardly working (cuz you know, it never gets old). Then Kyra insisted I work hard at swim lessons too. She groped for words to describe exactly what it is I do there and came up with:

Hard looking eye looker.

What I think she means is I watch their lessons closely with, of course, my eye. I love the sound of it, though. Sounds like something from the Old West (Hollywood version).

“Sure, I know the Hard Looking Eye Looker,” the barkeep said, polishing a whiskey glass with a bit of homespun. “Lives in the caves up behind the old abandon gold mines. Lives all by her lonesome, too, expect fer Pete, the one-eyed parrot. Mean sommabitch. Nearly took out young Nat’s eye last week. Jealous, you know. You best be travelin’ some other direction.”

And for writers, filed under the: if you only read one blog post on writing today, read this one from Stef’s (almost) Daily Dish. I didn’t realize that Stef was dishing it out almost daily lately either. I must get out more. Like Trish Milburn who sold a while back, Stef is another Noodler who sets the gold standard as far as persistence goes.

You might even say she’s a hard looking eye looker.

Tech Writer Haiku

I found Leslie’s Haiku Buckaroo Contest! via Jen. I wrote these a while back, but you know, there just isn’t a market for tech writer haiku. I can’t imagine why.

 

Technical Writer Haiku

 

 Code cutoff, rejoice
But wait! It will not install
Tears drench your keyboard

 * * * 

There will be changes
Content, timeframe, uncertain
Revisions endless 

* * * 

New program feature
Two Subject Matter Experts
The delay is long 

* * * 

Release tomorrow
“We forgot to tell you . . .”
Endless night of words 

* * * 

Documentation
Seven hundred pages
A tech writer weeps

When friends think of you

I was going to do Booking through Thursday today, but I’m in a somber mood. I’m sure most of you have heard of the bridge collapse already. In fact, I know you have. I received so many emails asking how we were doing. I was startled and touched. I know I’m sometimes geographically challenged, so I don’t expect everyone I know “cyberly” to remember where I live.

 

I do drive across the Mississippi everyday, but I take a different highway. And yeah, I drove across that bridge this morning and it was a little weird. We can’t determine if Andrew’s bus for yesterday’s fieldtrip went over the 35W bridge. Uh, no one was talking at the Y this morning, but it’s another sobering thought.

 

I’d like to give blood, but I’m deferred (there’s no way to screen for Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease and I spent the late 80s and early 90s on a military base in Europe). In fact, I just heard back from an RN at the Red Cross. I used their “customer service” email. I didn’t want to tie up anything locally. She confirmed what I already knew.

But I’m making a donation today to the disaster relief fund. If you’d like to help out, you can find more information here: Twin Cities Red Cross.

The what on the bus?

I’ve written before how much I like taking my kids to swim lessons, how just being around the water and the whole pool chemical cocktail smell (this pool doesn’t use chlorine but other … stuff) relaxes me. Sort of a Pavlovian dog paddle response.

Anyway, Andrew was in the pool. His lessons are longer, more rigorous. I use the fifteen minutes between start times to braid Kyra’s hair into pigtails. And sometimes it does take me the full fifteen minutes. We watch the babies in the Mommy & Me swim class, although more accurately, it’s the Grandma/Grandpa/Daddy/Mommy-with-tattoo & Me swim class.

They always end the class by singing The Wheels on the Bus. My fingers were in a tangle, trying to get Miss B’s slippery hair to behave. I may have misheard them. But. I could have sworn they sang:

The wankers on the bus go …

The what?

I believe they sang wipers. As in windshield. Really. But it didn’t sound like it at all.

Kyra and I also sing our own songs while we wait for her lesson to start. I’ll sing the ones I remember from Girl Scout camp, such as:

Oh, a duck can’t sit on a limb
Cuz he doesn’t have thumbs on his feet.
And a bird can’t swim in the sea like a fish …
Cuz he hasn’t got a waterproof, hasn’t got a waterproof, hasn’t got a waterproof seat.

Because singing about a bird’s butt? Always appropriate. Hey, at least I’m not singing to my child about wankers, thank you very much. Later that evening, Kyra was singing softly to herself while she played: hasn’t got a waterproof seat. Over and over again

As for the wankers, I don’t want to know why they were on the bus, but I’m thinking they can stay there.

The mighty return

Andrew returned from camp on Saturday. On the drive back from “up north,” Bob put him on the phone. For the first time, Andrew didn’t sound younger than he is. In fact, for a second, I thought maybe his voice changed during that week he was away.

He had an incredible week. He earned two merit badges and a bunch of activity patches. He tried everything and was one of the few boys to wake up early for the polar bear swim.

He made everyone a present. Mine’s below:

Pen holder Andrew made
A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Plus, it holds my pens.

He did so well on his own. Instead of feeling sad that my “little” boy doesn’t need me anymore, I’m both pleased and proud. He even kicked me out of the kitchen (sort of) yesterday and finished making the pancakes. Hey, he wants to take over the cooking, I’m all for it. Bring it on.

True, he neglected to brush his teeth for the entire week. And he did suffer an intense, but brief bout of homesickness over a drawing Kyra sent him (the two of them holding hands–she knows how to tug on heartstrings).

It’s good to have him home again. But it’s good to know he can go out and conquer the world (at least with his breath).

Where have all the envelopes gone?

Andrew is at camp and I’ve been writing him a letter every day. I end by pasting in a picture I hope he’ll like: our dog, Sparky, Naruto, Pokemon. So, last night, after finding a nifty picture of Naruto and Saske (if you have to ask, you don’t need to know, trust me on this), I reached for an envelope.

 

There were none.

 

Zero, nada, nothing. I couldn’t even find the loathsome lick-it-yourself-to-seal variety.

This is tragic because at the end of May (that would be this May) I bought three boxes of 45 each. 3 x 45 = 135.

I used 135 envelopes between May and July? For real? I mean, I know the super secret double probation hotdish project took a lot, but still.

135?

Unless, of course, envelopes are in collusion with socks, especially kid socks. That would explain a lot.