Tools of the Trade: Laptops I Have Loved

If you keep up with this blog, you are not surprised when I say the technology I most use when writing away from my desk (and much of the time at it) looks like this:

I can almost always be counted on to have a fountain pen and good notebook nearby, and they do a perfect job of capturing my thoughts in a way I find peaceful and pleasurable. That said, when it comes to finished work, it is time to pull out a computer like everyone else. (A computer with Scrivener, which is a must and a post for a later day.)

In the beginning, there was this:

Good thing I touch type.

Late 2004 14'' Apple iBook G4. This computer has been through the mill with me. With some help from my mom and between my two jobs, I managed to scrape together enough pennies to buy this, my first Mac, and my first laptop of any kind. When it was brand new, we sat at the back of my favorite coffee shop with a dear friend as he taught me tips and tricks on how to use a Mac. After he died a couple of years later, the computer would sometimes jog that memory of me sitting beside him and his own weathered laptop that sported an "I'd rather be reading Bukowski" bumper sticker, sipping lattes and sharing cookies while he showed me how to survive computing with only one mouse button.

Together, this laptop and I wrote my first novel, and my second. We got through my Master's program. We procrastinated all those things with reading endless message boards, lots of games of solitaire, and so much email.

It was also with this computer that I sat curled in my Felix the Cat pajamas (a gift from my roommate), and instant messaged this adorable guy who lived in my apartment complex at the time. This is the computer he used to IM me back.

2002 Titanium PowerBook G4

Once I messaged him and asked him out to grab a doughnut I didn't even want. Once he messaged me and asked me to go with friends to his parents' lake house, and somehow no one else but us showed up. Once we messaged that we were obviously dating, so why couldn't we just say we were dating? Because we were. Dating. Because he liked me. And I really liked him. So we were, officially.

Husband and I still have them both tucked away in the closet, too sentimental to let them go. The letters on my iBook's keys are worn off from use, the battery doesn't function at all, it weighs a ton by today's standards, and after I lost a big block of writing to a spontaneous shut down, it was time to retire permanently. Every so often I get a hankering to pull it out and see if it still works. It does, loyal as ever. Geriatric, but loyal.

I replaced the iBook G4 with a desktop computer, but quickly determined that I needed a portable writing solution to go with my main system. For a while, I used an HP netbook Husband managed to Hackintosh into a fine little writing machine. It did well, and I actually did a good deal of writing with it, but it was underpowered and eventually became a bit frustrating.

Down the road, I happened to purchase this used from a friend:

Early 2008 13.3'' MacBook. My friend had used this computer pretty hardcore in her music program during college, and it had seen better days. It did everything I needed though, and without fuss or fanfare. I spent a good deal of time writing on it, in libraries, coffee shops, and my backyard. When I was working for a small nonprofit that stayed afloat entirely based on grant funds, I worked with colleagues to write some pretty darn good grant proposals on there. I typed up the handwritten pieces from members of a local writer's group for people with a personal experience of homelessness for their newsletter. More than anything I remember about this computer is the editing. This computer and I spent hour upon hour editing so many things: my work, friends' work, grants, and even helping some local college kids editing their papers. We were going along fine until the fan decided to take itself out and I lost a block of writing. As we covered earlier, losing a chunk of writing is the death knell for any computer of mine. Do it, and you're getting replaced. Stat.

This is my current machine:

Early 2015 13.3'' MacBook Pro with Retina Display. Yeah...after going through a few other attempts at used and inexpensive computers, I lost more writing, which is NOT ALLOWED. Even though I still have a desktop as my "main" computer, I decided to pull the trigger and go for a laptop that will give me many good years of service, and maybe serve up a little slab of fun on the side. Thus far, I'm completely enamored with it. Here's hoping it is a long, long time before it hiccups and I lose some writing. I would be forced to pull out the old iBook G4 again and banish the MacBook Pro to the closet.

After all, I did write this entire post from my old buddy the eleven-year-old G4 without the slightest problem.

Writing Saturday (with Distractions)

Today is a beautiful day. It is the first day a long, hot summer has lifted up the corner of its tarp to give us a peek of a gorgeous fall to come, with a perfect blue sky and a hint of breeze to tickle your cheeks.

Naturally, I decided to plant myself indoors to get some writing done.

I actually thought it would go well. I have some motivation to make some progress on some projects, as I'm going on a writing retreat later in the month with a group of very talented, very productive writers. I want to at least put myself in a position to get the most out of the uninterrupted writing time by putting my projects on a solid trajectory. I picked up my pen and notebook, and told myself there would be time to enjoy the beauty of this Saturday after I had gotten some work done. I meant it. I did.

Right away, my stubborn brain did the thing stubborn brains do when they're being forced to sit and write on a schedule. At least, it is what my brain does, and I like to think I'm not alone! One thing after another popped up suggesting any other activity except sitting still and getting words on the page.

I decided I would combat the insta-ADD by writing down the list of errant, distracting thoughts as they came, then get the bit in my teeth so I could go back to my writing.

This is the gist of things:

Okay, so I did just wake up, and I haven't gotten very far in my writing project. But! There is enough of this lovely day to go around. There's still time to get more work done.

And blueberries. There's still time for blueberries, too. 

A Creative Revolution

It is hard to follow up a blog post like my last one with lighthearted musings on creative endeavors, or crumbs of inspiration that land in my lap. Life is like that sometimes--just when we are gearing up to zig, a zag throws your stomach in your throat and all you can do is hang on. At least I can be grateful for arms strong enough to do a great deal of hanging on.

For myself, one of the ways I make sure I can keep doing that is by keeping in tune with my creative side. I haven't done this as much or as well as I would like lately, but these last couple of weekends, I have been working hard on getting my hands dirty with a few ongoing projects. My desk has been covered in paint, string,  pencil shavings, fountain pen ink, sketchbooks, canvases, notebooks, novel manuscripts, and other people's good good novels (hey, reading is creative too!).

It's good to be making time for myself again, and doing the things that make me feel most at home in my own body. It is indeed a creative revolution, a turf war for my time and attention. I'm still too tired to think when I get home from work, and I still don't always feel like pulling a project out to lay eyes on it, but I'm doing it anyway. I must, because I can tell you, I don't like the alternative.

I'll have plenty to share here when I get a few projects whipped into shape! Viva la revolution!

A Hello and a Goodbye

I had a blog entry all planned out for today. I was going to write about how the last month or so has been so full to the brim with travel, work, more travel, more work, a little art, a little writing, and a few other new leaves I'm straining to turn over. I had planned to write that entry this very evening, my first Monday evening in a while that was not already pre-planned with all the things I mentioned above.

I'll still write that entry someday, but it won't be today. Today, I'm still trying to make sense of the most senseless, most evil, most unacceptable thing.

Murder.

Today I found out a family member was murdered.

It wasn't an accident, or a sudden illness, or any of the other things that can take the life of a person in her prime. A person stood in front of her and purposefully, willfully ended her life.

She was relatively close on the family tree, but after we both moved in different directions, I had lost touch with her since I was a kid. We had recently reconnected on Facebook, and I was happy to see how well her life was going. She had her family, she had her business, she had her friends. I thought, as I "liked' her photos, as I left little empty comments of "Cute!" or, "That's awesome!" on her pictures, that I should reach out and start a conversation. I thought that as recently as this past weekend.

There was no reason not to, except maybe a little shyness on my part. There was no real barrier to reconnecting with her or a dozen other family members except someone starting the conversation. I figured I would get around to it eventually, maybe around Christmas, or some big event I could use as an opener. I figured there was time.

I never figured someone would kill her.

I'm going to say the same thing I'm sure you've heard over and over from anyone who has recently lost someone. It isn't any less true when you aren't stinging with grief, but human beings have a remarkable capability to numb themselves. Here's the inspiration for your Monday: whomever that person is you've been meaning to reach out to, do it. Do it now. Don't wait for a reason, don't wait for them to make the move. If you're thinking of someone and you care about them at all, if you see their pictures on social media and you wish you could talk over old times, do it. Now.

I'm grateful to the family member who remembered me, a thread hanging by myself apart from the rest of the seam, and told me so I wouldn't find out on Facebook.

I'm grateful to feel how much that meant to me.

I just wish I would have said "Hello," before I had to say, "Goodbye."

*If you or you believe someone you care about may be experiencing domestic violence, don't wait. It IS your business. You can find help at the National Domestic Violence Hotline, 1-800-799-SAFE (7233).

Fan Profile at Rhodia Drive

I all puffed up with pride to have been interviewed for a fan spotlight at Rhodia Drive! If you follow my Tools of the Trade posts, you know Rhodia is as much a staple in my house as flour and sugar. You can't build a house without nails, and I can't write a novel without Rhodia! If you're a writing enthusiast like me, I highly recommend enjoying their blog on the regular. It is full of interesting reads. Go check it out!

Time to Be Still

Inspiration Monday: It's Just a Habit

Every once in a while, it's time for a blank slate.

Once again, I find myself apologizing for being away from the blog. I'm starting to think this has become a habit.

I've been thinking a lot about habits lately, especially as I am currently developing some new ones and shedding some old ones.

For one, I changed jobs a few weeks ago. It wasn't a sudden change--it was well-planned, expected, and full of goodwill. I'm still working with people experiencing homelessness, a population I care deeply about. Instead of working on the housing side, I'm now directing a program centered on mental health supportive services. I'm working for a community mental health center with whose staff I have collaborated for years with numerous shared clients. Long before I took this job, I knew that lobby like it was my own bedroom: where the most comfortable waiting chairs were, the best time to arrive to keep from having to wait too long for the lab, and that The Price is Right and Let's Make a Deal, always on the waiting room TV, make good conversation fodder to keep waiting clients from getting too antsy.

As comfortable as I was with the center, I didn't know how much I didn't know. Even transitioning into a job you already know how to do at a place you are already familiar comes with some new territory. There are the things all new jobs come with--new people, new rules, designated parking spaces, and new workspace. Then there are the things you don't think about before you make the switch, the million little habits you will find yourself making anew, and all the ones you end up breaking cold turkey.

My first week, I drove to work a different way every day. I bobbed and weaved my way through so many different roadways looking for the fastest, most efficient route I started to feel like I was playing a really boring edition of Grand Theft Auto: Commute or Die. I learned one thing on my attempt to carve myself a new rut in which to carry myself to work everyday: Memphis traffic is a strategy game that cannot be won. A few times, I caught myself "homing pigeoning" and getting onto the interstate at the same place I used to for my old job. It was just second nature, and depending on the amount of coffee in my system, a harder habit to break than I would have reckoned.

I eventually found what I would call "the path of least resistance," but it took a while before it was really comfortable. After a while, the landmarks weren't so weird anymore. The signs were familiar, the lane changes expected, and some fellow commuter cars recognized. I found a new pack to run with.

Of course, getting to work is only half the battle. There are a million new habits to forge once in the office. It took a while to stop reaching in the wrong drawer for my stapler, and to get used to the new squeak of my desk chair. I found myself carving out times when I could beat everyone to the microwave at lunch, and to avoid peak times at the restrooms. I noticed myself making new habit after new habit, finding comfort in the turning of new to old. Likewise, I've visited my former office a few times to staff cases with my former colleagues, and I was surprised to find that even when it felt so much water had flowed under our bridges, I sunk right back into the rhythm there.

It is human nature to develop routines and habits in our homes and in our jobs. They carve their way into our behavior,  silently at first. Sometimes they bring comfort and the certainty of safe passage. Then, when they get near the bone, they can ache a little.

The patterns we create are part of what it is to live and interact with the world around us. Writers and artists need their favorite tools, their favorite spots, their go-to music and muses in order to create. Routine is often the friend of hard work, and creative work benefits from structured practice as much as anything else. Likewise, the creations themselves benefit from the structure of the world around it, either as context or something to riff on. If you're writing a character whose life is nothing but routine, it's probably smothering him or her to death. Break the mold, shake them up, and watch them navigate the transition. If things are already topsy-turvy in his or her world, look for the little anchors that would realistically crop up--is it that he or she uses the same bathroom stall every time, even in the midst of great angst? That he or she notices what time the coffee runs out at the office? Maybe it's just noticing that they see the same gray car at the same intersection twice a day. Even if these mundane details don't make it into the text, as always, it is these things that inform your writing backstage, and that allow your characters to come to life when the curtain is up.

Inspiration Monday: A Home by Any Other Name...

This is my neighborhood in early spring:

Taken just a few days earlier, this is a client's neighborhood in early spring:

Here's what you have to know: my client loves her neighborhood just as fiercely as I love mine. More. She loves it without lakes and ducks and communal flower beds. She loves it without a homeowner's association, without a patio set, without any strings at all attached.

If you're expecting me to tell you she loves it because she has known homelessness and she's grateful enough to love anything anywhere, you're wrong. The truth is, she begged for this apartment, this very one surrounded by the barbed wire wall and the crumbled pavement. Her unit is nice, but that isn't why she chose it over the one with the big kitchen, or the one beside the restaurant, or the freshly remodeled one with the comfortable balcony. She chose it because it was where she felt the most at home, and there's nobody walking the earth who can tell her differently. Maybe that's a clue that no one should. This is the place she feels the safest, the most accepted, and the most herself. She picked out this place because she wasn't just looking for a place to house her, she wanted a place that would be her home. Her home. Not mine, not for anyone else with their well-meaning raised eyebrows. Hers.

There are a lot of ways to define "home," and a great many of them have nothing to do with houses. A person could find a home of sorts in the people one cares about, the work we spend our time and energy devoted to, and in the little things we do that makes us who we are.

For me, wherever I am, I can feel utterly content if I can find enough peace and time to pull out one of my ever-present notebooks and a beloved pen to scratch out a few words that will either become something artful...or not. It sews my mind to my body, and keeps my feet on the ground. I love playing music, and know my instrument as intimately as my own limbs. No matter how long I let it lie fallow, playing it always feels like I have just thrown open the door to a place I've always known. I'm at home wherever Husband is, because the deepest, most neurotic parts of me settle down and purr when he's near. I love all that he is and I know as long as I can find him in the dark, I will never be lost. The point is not in where I am, but in who I get to be: freely, safely, happily myself.

What is your home like, both the one you live in and the one that lives in you?
 

Inspiration Monday: The Last Night

As I passed by on my nightly walk, he stood in front of his house and leaned on his cane. His thick white hair and beard made him easy to see in the anemic light of the streetlamp. He waved like always. I paused my music as I waved back, just in case he decided to speak. He didn't always, but when he did, he liked to talk for a long time.

I met him about a year ago. I had been on a walk then, too. The neighborhood geese had lined up in the street in front of his house, blocking my path like an army battalion. He had ambled over beside me, shaking his head at them. I paused my music and we chatted while watching the teenage geese waddle stubbornly behind their parents. He didn't mind the geese, he said, as long as they stayed out of his yard. They scared his squirrels away when they came on his property, and that was a problem.

He told me about the squirrels, how he liked to sit on his back porch and watch them run in his trees, fueled up from his feeders. They never chewed on his roof like they did mine. He said it was because he gave them a home of their own and made sure they always had enough to eat. They respected him, he said. They communicated.

Partly because I was simply too shy to end the conversation, partly because I could see how lonely he was, and partly because he was simply a kind, interesting person, I stood there and stood there while he talked. He told me about his good wife who had died and left him alone a few years back. When it happened, he hadn't known how to cook or where the checkbook was. She was the best part of him, he said, and that was harder to find again than the checkbook. He told me about his son who was smart and stubborn and didn't come around anymore. He smiled and told me about his youngest daughter who used to live close and was his rock, but she had her own family now and left him missing her more often than not. He had Sally though, his little rat terrier who had slept between him and his wife, and who never chased his friendly squirrels.

We never had a conversation quite like that again, though he never failed to wave to me on my walks. I always waved back and paused my music, just in case. Sometimes he would chit-chat about the goings on of the neighborhood, but my restless feet kept me from standing there like the first time. Still, I kept my eye out for when his daughter's SUV would show up in his driveway and I'd smile, knowing he was enjoying her visit. I would sometimes pet Sally as she ran around in the yard, never setting more than a foot in the road. I grinned when I saw squirrels scurrying through his trees and hoped the geese wouldn't bother them. That was it, though. Waves, smiles, and a few kind thoughts to interrupt my own worries.

Last night, while he leaned on his cane under the glow of the streetlight, he waved me over to him. "Come see Sally," he told me. "This is her last night."

We both looked down at the little black and white terrier, and she wagged her tail. He told me about how it was, with her pancreas not working anymore. "She's sick, but she doesn't want me to know it. It's in her eyes, though," he said. "I can tell she knows she's sick by the way she looks at me." He told me she had never suffered a day in her eleven years, except for missing his wife when she died. He told me how they had saved her from going to the pound as a tiny puppy by scrounging up $50 to give a woman who couldn't afford to keep her. "It was meant to be," he said.

The little dog came to my hand and licked my fingertips. I saw what he meant about her eyes, but she wagged her tail anyway. I told him I was so sorry, but it felt hollow. Then I told him about losing Bella, and how I hadn't known her last night was her last. I told him I was glad for the weather, for the both of them. I didn't know what else to say. I still don't know what I should have said.

A car came by and I moved to the other side of the street. I called to him that I would pray for him and I would think of him and Sally the next day. "Come say goodbye to Sally one more time before you go," he said, beckoning me back to his side of the street. "She needs to say goodbye to all her friends." It wasn't until that last sentence that his voice ever cracked.

Bella, my copilot

I didn't expect that. I didn't expect anything when I went out for my walk, except maybe some shin splints and a little bit of a backache at the end of things. The rest of my walk back to my house, I thought about how many nights pass me by that mean so little to me but may change the world for someone else. I thought of Bella again, and how I couldn't decide if it would have been better or worse to know her last night was her last. I thought of my new puppy Ally, waiting at home for me, still recovering from surgery and craving all the comfort I could give her.

That conversation definitely changed my night. It got me thinking about the blessing and curse of a last night, of knowing it. I still don't know if I was given a choice if I would trade the bliss of ignorance for the dread of dawn. I don't want to think about choices like that, but sometimes I may need to. I do know I'm glad I got to say goodbye to sweet Sally on her last night.

My neighbor will be on my mind. I don't know him well, but how well do you have to know someone before you can care about them? He's gone through so many last nights in his life, and I know that someday I will walk by his house and pause my music to wonder where he is. I probably won't know that the last time I wave to him will be the last. Probably neither will he.

If you're ever struggling to figure out what's important, either in your life or your creative endeavors, think about The Last Night. Think about what you (or a character) would do if you knew it, and think about what you would miss if you didn't know it. Think about what piddling worries would leak out your ear, and how much more you would appreciate the simple blessing of a clear night kissed with a warm spring breeze.

Code White: Everything Stops

Recently, I got the opportunity to co-present a training on homelessness and mental illness for the county Sheriff's Department. As an officer walked myself and my colleague through the maze of our sprawling urban jail, the PA rumbled to life. I could barely understand anything it said, but our guide stuck out her arm in front of us. "Code White," she said. "Everything stops."

And it did. Everyone stopped what they were doing. She listened for a moment, and then went on to tell us the code system for the jail. Code White is a medical or mental health emergency, and only designated staff are authorized to move through the facility until it is lifted. We sat on a bench, and we waited. I had time to look around and notice what I would only have walked quickly by without the Code White. It looked kind of like jail on TV, with cinder-block walls and hard metal benches. There was an unexpected cheerfulness in the reflection on the tile floor. I'm sure I wouldn't have noticed that otherwise. Cheerfulness was not at all what I expected to find there.

We're having another kind of Code White situation in Tennessee right now.

People love to make fun of southerners for freaking out about dustings of snow that would have trouble rivaling sugar on a powdered doughnut, but there are reasons. Reasons! Most of our cities are not prepared to treat the roads and our drivers might be able to handle mud, mountains, and grass, but ice is not exactly in our wheelhouse. Anyway, that said, the snow we've got basically amounts to a Tennessee blizzard. I'd be stopped in my tracks anyway, but since I also have a raging cold, you might say I'm feeling under the weather. *rimshot* (Okay, okay. I don't feel good. I have to amuse myself somehow.)

Snow days (and/or sick days) are good for a lot of things--watching a snow-hating puppy bound back inside the house like her tail is on fire (or like she wishes it was), watching funny TV with Husband (who has the BEST laugh), and getting past the exposition of a book that's been on the TBR pile too long.

These slow-downs and stop signs are also a chance to catch our breath and take a look around and what we've been missing. We can take in our surroundings a little more fully, run through the thoughts we've pushed to the backs of our minds, and hopefully, give a little reflection to whom the Code White may be an emergency.

I've been counting my blessings while I've been sequestered in the house. The last one on the list is the ability and time to do so.

Inspiration Monday: I Had a Tree Once

I have a thing for trees.

I get lost looking at them sometimes, if I'm blessed with a quiet moment to do so. I watch the branches sway in breezes I can hardly feel. When I'm bored, I draw them. Doodles, really. Nothing too serious or artful; just a way to pass the time squiggling leaves and branches into each other.

I don't really even know why they captivate me. Maybe it's because they symbolize so much: strength, perseverance, growth, rebirth, usefulness, fruitfulness, solitude. They're so simple, but so complicated at the same time. It's easy to signify a tree with a stick and a cotton-candy canopy, but try measuring out each and every branch, splitting and multiplying, on and on like a rebellious, asymmetrical fractal. Capturing those haphazard limbs in keeping with nature is like trying to create a line-drawn interpretation of a break dance.

Maybe my fascination started young, with an ancient, mean tempered hickory tree that lived in my childhood backyard. That tree had to be a thousand feet tall, or so it seemed at the time. It would bean you in the head with a green-skinned hickory nut just for the fun of it, and I had been warned all my life never to touch it because it had enrobed itself in a poison ivy armor to repel my sticky child fingers.

That tree and I regarded each other warily for years, and I gave it its berth. I only had to run over a couple of those fallen hickory nuts with my bike before I found the side yard more to my liking. That was The Tree: black bark, trunk as thick as an elephant, canopy in the sky, craggy, gnarled, and heavy.

One day, I got brave and I touched the tree. I was feeling vinegary and defiant, so I carefully dodged the poison ivy leaves, and I ran my fingers over the rough black bark. I don't know what I expected to happen, but I figure at least one good thunder clap would have been appropriate. Instead, absolutely nothing happened. Yet.

Never wont to push our luck, my family chose the only viable option: we moved.

Okay, maybe the incidents weren't connected, but if that tree ever shared its side of the story, I know it'd take credit.

Husband has a special tree, too. One Christmas, my father-in-law took us driving past the old house where they lived when my husband was very young. One year, they planted their Christmas tree in the backyard, an adorable Charlie Brown tree set in the ground by a father and his little son. That was why they did it--for that memory, and the hope that someday we would be taking that very drive through their old neighborhood to see how it had grown. Of course, they didn't know they were planting the Little Tree That Could, which would eventually turn into the Godzilla Evergreen of the neighborhood, gobbling up the modest backyard and stealing into the neighboring yard. Yards. Both of them. I know hyperbole is a writer's indulgence, but I'm serious--air traffic control has to be aware of this thing. Has to.

When we drove by and looked at their gargantuan former Christmas tree, Husband and his father both just grinned, so proud they had planted it, and that something in the way they had done it had propelled it to flourish beyond their wildest hopes.

I hadn't given much thought to my "tree thing" until today when I was sitting in my office with a client. This client is experiencing a number of mental health and medical struggles that can sometimes make communication difficult for her. Today, she wasn't doing well. Her speech was tangential and hard to understand. I did my best to hang in there with her, and eventually we settled into silence. She sat in her chair, staring at a tree I had drawn on our office whiteboard as part of a long-over drawing game. She looked at that tree a long time before she spoke. "I had a tree once," she said. "My dad planted a tree for me when I was a little girl, and I have always liked them. I like how they start small and they grow so big. That tree reminds me of my dad, and yeah. I like that tree."

That was the most coherent communication I had with her all day long, and it was the first time she had ever spoken about being someone's little girl.

I guess I'm not the only one with a thing for trees, and maybe that's part of a craving we all have, to weather the storm, stand strong and tall, to bend and not break, thrust our fingers to the sky, to bear fruit, and share our shade.

Whatever your creative endeavors may be, don't forget to water them. With toil and patience, the seed that started so small will grow so, so big.

Stories from the Waiting Zone

My day began early. I am sitting in a waiting room anticipating my nephew's turn to have his tonsils yanked out. Well, lasered out or off or whatever they do to tonsils these days. Did I say I got up early? It was early. Very. I am not ready to people. Still.

My mom is behind me making small talk with the Church Lady she was surprised to see today. They're getting along pleasantly, and I hope it continues. I'm letting them go on without me. No one remembers the martyr groundhog who gets between the land mine and the tank.

Small talk is horrible. Tragic even. I appreciate its place in society, but it does not appreciate mine. As I'm accidentally on purpose avoiding chit-chat with Church Lady and my mom, there go the strangers to my right. Talking to me. Right to my face, like I'm a person or something. Shoes. They like my shoes. "They're nice," says the man with the diamond earrings and delicate glasses. "They got colors on them. I like all them colors."

"Thanks," I say back with what I hope is a shy, distracted, I-want-to-go-back to my writing smile.

"They sure do got lots of colors on them," he says first to me and then to his friend, who has on boots in a singular, apparently boring brown. He glances at them, too.

"They do!" exclaims Brown Shoes. Envious? Appalled? My shoes are not brown. Not even at all. "What are those?" she asks.

"Brooks," I say.

"Oh, okay, but like, what kind?"

I clear my throat and do the smile thing. "Um, running shoes, I think. You can run in them if you're not me."

Somehow from there, the talk turned to casinos. I'm not sure exactly how that happened except maybe they don't like small talk either.

Eventually, they call my nephew back. I miss him. I like talking to him. I like not talking to him. I just like him. My mom and sister go back with him, leaving me with Church Lady.

Church Lady is nice, and also a genius. She loves my nephew, so she passes the first test. She asks me to run to McDonalds with her to grab some breakfast. There, she showed me magic. Magic!

Putting mustard on a sausage biscuit is not only not gross, it is delicious AND it cuts the greasy taste of fast food "sausage." This is magical in itself, but also because it will enable me to intake more unnecessary, unhealthy calories without tthat pesky nasty greasy excuse not to. Of course, this means all future weight gain will be blamed on Church Lady. It's okay though. She had to have seen this coming when she handed me the mustard.

The waiting room hasn't changed in our absence. It is still full of glaze-eyed people staring at the floor. One of them kind of looks like the tuba player from my old brass quintet, but if he was a little older and stuffed. I wonder for a moment if that might be the case, that this guy was stuffed and planted in the waiting room like a scarecrow, but then he moves. A flinch first, a twitchy muscle spasm. This is involuntary, his body says to me, the quiet people-watcher Roger-lite doesn't see. Then, slowly, he turns his head and accidentally watches HGTV. Accidentally, I'm sure.

I scan the room for other brass quintet doppelgangers, but everyone seems to have his or her own unique face. Well, there's one guy who kind of looks like Joe Biden, but that is a bit of a stretch.

I'm cold. I am pretty sure they do that to waiting rooms on purpose. Don't get too comfortable, buster. Leave your coat right where it is. You see, unless you're a writer, waiting is boring. Bored people tend to sleep. Sleeping people snore. Snoring people are murdereed by bored, non-sleeping waiters. Obviously, whomever set the thermostat is in the life-saving business and I had better just get used to it.

A man's phone rings. Duelling Banjos. It's his daughter. Munchkin is good. So is Matt. Her mother is in good spirits, but he's kind of tired. Daughter told him yesterday that she's a pro at this, having surgery. She says for him to text her. He says he can't. She says he can if he tries. He doesn't want to try. He heard something about a drug bust down on the four-lane highway. He hopes they got every one of them. It's a shame they didn't shoot them. "I know, Dad," says the daughter. She knows. I know, too because he is talking to her on speakerphone. I wonder if he has a hearing problem, but he doesn't. My mom is back and they are now best friends forever. They're talking about butchering hogs. He hears her fine. So do I. 

It's time to go to the restroom. There is a sign on the door warning female patients not to use the restroom. Why? WHY? Reasons, that's why. Men patients, go right on ahead. Standing up, even. 

I am running out of snarky comments and I can already feel my eyes going stale, deadening. It is happening. I am becoming one of them. Is that...HGTV? They're doing duvets...

They need to hurry up perfecting my already near-flawless nephew and return him to me fast. Soon, he will have no good-willed aunt to tickle fight with and from whom to learn the art of sarcasm. He will have a husk that looks like me, a remnant of the waiting room sacrifice made on the altar of cheap coffee by the light of a mop commercial. 

At least I can go to the restroom anytime I want and my shoes are cute. They have colors.

Coffee, with Cream and Ink Please

I have been away from the blog for a while, and to be honest, from my writing in general. Everyone needs a break sometimes, and there are only so many things that fit on a person's plate before things start glopping over the side.

I noticed a few things while I was on hiatus from the literary arts. None of it was a surprise.

1) I need to write to live.

I don't mean this as one of those cheesy sayings that people slap on t-shirts to hawk on Facebook. I don't mean this as a Thing to Say to Convince Others I'm For-Serious Going to Be a Famous Novelist One Day. I'm not going to be famous. I don't think I would want to be. What I do mean is that writing is that one thing I do that helps me keep track of all the things in my life, consciously and subconsciously, and to have an outlet for the geyser of creativity that lives in me and is constantly under pressure to escape. In other words, it allows me to live an authentic life and not just survive. Living and being alive are different. I prefer to live.

2) Writing and reading are the same thing.

I tried spending time with some of the good, good books on my To Be Read pile. Every single time I got to a line I loved, I couldn't sit still and think, "Wow, good job, author!" I thought, "Oh my gosh, how can I do that? Let me pick it apart syllable by syllable and see why the sentence is so musical." I don't think I can ever go back to passively reading a book, and I'm okay with that. Still, when I don't have enough time or energy to fall face-first into my own work, it can make me reticent to read something I know will stimulate all my book-loving neurons and set me on fire to write. Because the good ones do. Always.

3) There are a lot of episodes of Murder, She Wrote.

While I wasn't writing, I watched a lot of Netflix. I love old shows, and it was only a matter of time before I went down the cozy mystery rabbit hole. First, why would anyone be friends with Jessica Fletcher when you know someone is about to go belly-up every time she enters the room? Anyway, every time Angela Lansbury says something humble about her prolific backlist and making time between police investigations for her new book, I feel guilty. I mean, I don't even solve murders, and I can't make time for my book. I know it was the 80s and there was no Netflix and no iPhone games, but still. Guilt.

To pull myself out of this wordless chasm, I've forced myself back to my old morning routine, the one I had before we got a new puppy and my proverbial life-plate got quite so full. Every morning, no matter how much I oversleep, I do some writing. Most of it is free writing about whatever happens to be on my mind in the moment (some past gems include, "Scrambled eggs: who named them? Why not mixed eggs or jumbled eggs?" and "I've got the construction traffic blues"). Sometimes I get a snippet of an idea that I jot down to suss out later when I'm not suffering from the construction traffic blues and late for work. Either way, it affords me a few minutes in my morning for myself, my true self, and I can be done while I wait for my clothes in the dryer. (Let's be real. Every morning is an oh-crap-is-there-something-to-wear-in-the-dryer morning. Every.)

I feel better. I feel more like myself. From now on, I take my morning coffee with a lot of cream and a little bit of ink on the side.

The Hypocritical Oath: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Mazda

I love words. I've made that pretty clear with all my ramblings about reading and writing, but I don't think I ever mentioned my least favorite word-related activity.

Eating them.

But, here I am, spoon in hand, lapping up about ten years worth of them.

Let me tell you a story. When I was in graduate school, I was poor. The poorest. I was working two jobs and going to school full time. Between books and rent, the amount of dollars left in my pocket would probably not have bought you bag of name-brand potato chips. All the plates spinning in my life were required to keep spinning with minimal wobble and as little expense as possible or all the plates would crash down to break around my worn-out shoes.

Transportation was a very, very important plate to keep spinning because it is nigh to impossible to have two jobs and go to grad school in three separate corners of a large city with practically non-existent (at the time) public transit. I was lucky enough to have a car.

This car.

This was my 1997 Mazda 626, purchased used by my mother and graciously given to me. I was so grateful for this car, which replaced the 1994 Nissan Altima I paid for myself and loved with all my heart until it met its demise in an accident. I never got over that car, and as grateful as I was for the Mazda, I could never love it.

I tried at first. The Mazda was nice enough. There was a sunroof, which was pretty cool, and the air-conditioning vents even oscillated back and forth, which I've never seen before or since. The seats were comfortable, it wasn't ugly, the radio sounded decent, and for some reason it always kinda smelled good even though I was no champ at keeping it clean. This car was important, vital even, but I never doted on it like I did my old Altima. It was just transportation.

Until it wasn't.

This darn car gave me more trouble than any other piece of machinery I have ever owned. The windows wouldn't roll up when it was cold outside (which was bad when I was surviving on Wendy's drive-thru side salads and baked potatoes). The electrical system had a serious personality disorder, with lights working one minute and not another. The check-engine light was on from the day we brought it home and no one we took it to could figure out what to do to fix it. The air conditioning stopped working in the middle of summer while I was taking classes--I remember commuting to campus with all the windows down (praying it wouldn't rain because they probably wouldn't roll back up) and still arriving drenched in sweat. In my small advanced statistics class everyone sat on one side of the room, and I would slink across and sit by myself on the other. When my professor once asked me why I didn't sit with the rest of the class, I answered, "Because I am a merciful being." He was standing pretty close to me by then, and he didn't ask any further questions.

I could go on and on about all the issues I had. It was towed out of more parking lots than I have fountain pens (and that is significant). It overheated. It leaked EVERYTHING. It bucked like a rodeo bronc on the interstate. It shuddered, shook, and eventually started stalling at red lights and stop signs. It sucked the lifeblood out of my tender bank account over and over, but never came back from the shop any healthier. It panicked me time and time again, threatening my delicate, chipped, precariously spinning life-plates.

After my Mazda's final tow, I was so frustrated with it that I wasn't even surprised when the mechanic told me it was basically totaled before he had even popped the hood due to a complete electrical system failure. The cantankerous thing finally died with 97,000 begrudged miles on it.

Right then, I didn't think much about all those tired nights of working the closing shift at the bookstore when it carried me home with relative peace, or the fact I was leaning on it when I first met my husband, and in the driver's seat when we had our first kiss. I didn't think ten years later I would still be laughing with my old roommate about how we both had to crawl underneath it in our pajamas while chasing our kitten. I didn't know then that I would someday hold tight to the memories of driving a good friend to and from work in that car after he would die much too young. I didn't know a lot of things. I just told my mechanic to get it limping enough to go to a dealership so I could kick it down a hole and throw the keys in after.

My next car was another Altima, and I set about licking my Mazda-induced wounds. Now that I was riding high with an air conditioner that worked and windows that went up and down when I wanted them to, I was full of talk. "Never again, Mazda," I said over and over. I pitied other Mazda drivers on the road. "Poor thing," I thought as I zipped past them. I heard other people talk about this or that good old Mazda, but I shook my head. "Nope," I said. "Never ever ever ever will I ever ever ever own another Mazda."

RIP Altima. Good times.

Well.

That gulp you heard was me eating those lemony, Mazda-hating words.

My good old Altima finally reached the end of the line and the time came to trade up to a new model. (When the air conditioning goes, so too must I.)  Husband and I have had car-fever for the last several months, agonizing over the healthy tension of "I'm totally still young and everyone should have a sports car once in life, right? RIGHT?!" and "Well, sedans are responsible. We're responsible. Right? RIGHT?!" We drove things. We watched reviews. We kept our minds open and thought carefully about every angle. Except Mazdas. Because I am not a hypocrite.

Except I am.

This is my new Mazda 6 and I LOVELOVELOVE it with all possible car-related love.

The best 2014 Mazda 6 on Earth. Promise.

This car has bells, whistles, windows that work, and air conditioning so strong and cold it could form snowflakes. It drives like heaven, the price was great, it is about as safe as anything can get, and it is half sports car, half sedan.

In other words, it is perfect for us.

Welcome to the family, Mazda 6. It is a valuable object indeed that makes a person stop and pick her teeth for signs of crow. My mouth was full of it, and I'm happy to say I have swallowed it all. Mazda, I take it all back. This is a mighty good car, and I'm mighty proud to own it.

Whether we're talking cars, sports, politics, or people, never be too proud to admit when you're wrong. You could end up missing out on a lot of good past and a lot of good future.

Zoom zoom.

Inspiration Monday: Dashboard Confessions

Sometimes, when the problems of the world get a little too large, I go for a drive.

When I am alone in my car, I am in my own little pod and whatever is going on with me and my day is isolated there. The other motorists on the road need only be concerned with my driving, and my person-hood is my own. For me personally, it is a time for prayer, deliberation, solitude, creativity, and wholeness.

Sometimes, when I have a client with whom it is difficult to build a relationship, I find a reason to drive them somewhere. I don't know if it is because of the inherent trust of riding in a car someone else is driving, maybe because my eyes are locked on the road and I'm not looking at them, or maybe just because it feels safe, but I find it tends to get people talking about what's on their mind. I jokingly call it "Dashboard Therapy." You won't find it in any psychology textbook, but it works.

A great deal of the miles on my car have been banked directly into the pages of my manuscripts. When I just can't seem to work out what I'm thinking or feeling about a writing project, I go for a drive. I put on some music that fits the mood, or sometimes I just leave the radio off. I drive around and look at things, trying to see them as a character would. I test out dialogue--there's no better way to do it than saying it out loud, (and no more embarrassing way either)--and search for unbidden inspiration.

My dashboard has absorbed so many of my prayers, thoughts, and confessions, it must be a holy relic by now. Who cares that it has cracked in the sun and needs a good wipe down. It has become an integral part of my creative life and of my desperate need for solitude. It may not be exactly poetic, but there's something to it.

Take a ride today. Whatever it is you're working on, whether it be part of your creative life or just hurdles you're jumping in the real world, and dump them in the passenger seat. Talk it out, sing it out, pray it out, whatever it is you need to do, but speak it out loud and saturate your vehicle in the fullness of your mind and heart. If you've got a character you just can't wrap your head around, picture him or her doing this exact exercise--what is it they think about when they're driving a lonely highway with no one to judge them and only the dashboard to listen?

There's no rule that says the same person who enters any room must be the same person when he or she leaves it. I figure the same must go for cars (and probably even trucks. Probably).

Every Inch is a Mile to Someone

It feels like a month has passed since Monday.

Month and a half, tops.

Lately I've been wearing an extra hat (or five) at work, and I think it's catching up with me. At least, it is catching up with my back, and where my back goes, unfortunately the rest of me must follow. It has gotten to the point that the last two days my dinner has consisted of Doritos and ibuprofen--and I didn't even mind.

My to-do list is piling up like a sky-high stack of dishes in a restaurant sink. Every one I wash is quickly replaced by another, even grosser dish.

Yesterday, I found myself between "dishes" and I decided to finish up a simple, piddling task I had been putting off. All I had to do was thread a label into the plastic spine of a binder. Easy, no?

No.

If I had to guess, I would say this binder was forged by the fires of Mt. Doom and protected by an unbreakable curse that could have netted the world an extra Harry Potter book. The first label I printed only made it about an inch into the plastic before it tore. I printed another one and tried as hard as I could to cram it in there until it was all mangled up like a used tissue. I tried folding it to make it stronger, but then it was too thick. Unfolded, it stood no chance.

What should have taken seconds was racking up minutes, and I didn't have any minutes to give to such a small thing. There were too many big things looming over me, waggling their fingers and taking swats at my tender conscience.

Since every other attempt at force hadn't worked, I did the only thing left: I slowed down. I thought small. I moved it in such tiny increments I could barely make out my own progress until I saw that the crumples and tears from my previous attempts were sliding slowly under the plastic. "This is ridiculous," I said to myself and chewed on my molars. It was working, but not nearly fast enough to suit me. The progress was just too small for the time I had allotted for the task. "This wouldn't be fast enough to suit an ant," I grumbled.

But it would have been. The more I thought about it, I realized I was looking at things all wrong. I was looming over the project like a time-crunched grizzly bear, when I should have been looking up at it like a persistent ant. If I was as small as an ant and I saw the progress I was making, suddenly it wouldn't seem like such a tiny amount. I would look at the ground I had gained in those too-fast seconds, and I would be proud. I would see those inches, and they would become miles.

After that crossed my mind, I realized how silly I was being, getting frustrated over a task I hadn't even dignified as a legitimate undertaking. I had wasted more energy being frustrated than I had time in slowing down.

This should not have been any new epiphany to me. I have been working for years with a population of people whose small victories I celebrate as often as I can. I never waste an opportunity to tell a person when I see good in them, or when I am proud for them, and that includes when one particular client remembers to use a napkin to clean a spill, or when someone says "no" when every fiber of his being tells him to say "yes," and he hands me the $20 bill to keep safe for him because he can't trust himself to stay clean with money in his pocket. Those might be inches to some people, but I see it through their eyes--they have traveled miles.

Sometimes I forget. I get busy, tired, frustrated, and worn down to my achy bones, and I forget that an ant can carry more weight in proportion to its body than any grizzly bear can. Small success, slow victory--they aren't second class. Any success--whether it be conquering The One Binder or recovering from an addiction--deserves to be seen for the milestone it is. 

One of Those Days

I wouldn't say today was a bad day.

A bad day is like the one a few weeks ago when I was almost killed in a near-miss car accident, I got the worst papercut I've had in years, the door handle of my car broke off, and (if that was not enough for a king-sized bad mood), a resident of my housing program passed away in his apartment.

That is a bad day.

This is just "one of those days."

Today was just the kind of day when nothing--nothing, mind you--went to plan. Everyone needed something, and I found myself all out of somethings...and out of air conditioning in my car. Did I mention it is hot in Memphis in the summer?

(It is hot in Memphis in the summer. It is hot in Memphis often when it is NOT the summer. It is just hot in Memphis.)

It was the kind of day where I drove my boiling, paint-peeled car around in circles so much I didn't notice I was almost out of gas, the kind where I worked most of a whole day before I ever got close enough to my desk to see my daily planner, the kind where I told someone with a straight face I couldn't possibly go to a party because I smelled like Secretariat.

I said it's hot in Memphis. Everyone without air conditioning smells like Secretariat.

I'm lucky to have friends and colleagues to whom I can vent, who laugh at my pathetic attempts to drop a honey-glaze on everything with a few bad jokes, and who tend to think no less of me on my bad days than on my better ones (or at least they treat me just the same). I am grateful for Husband, to whom I can merely whimper and he will have pajamas and a good book ready for me at home.

Maybe it is these days, the in-between, run-ragged days that give lighter ones their shine and darker ones their heft. It's like exercise. Without days like today, I wouldn't have the muscles I need to get through a really bad day.

Even still, I sometimes I wish I had a couple of these and a "wake-up-and-start-again" machine:

Messy Drawer Wisdom

I found this note wadded up in the back of my nightstand drawer while I was pawing through for change. I don't know why I shoved it in that drawer, but I'm glad I found it.

Today reminds me that bad things don't last forever either, because I have no idea why I originally wrote that note.

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Days like today make me wonder what I'm made of.

When the going gets tough and I get tougher, I think I'm a rock. I'm strong. I'm granite. But then there are those scissors. They're sharp and when they come biting, I just don't have what it takes to crush them. I'm no rock. I'm no scissors either. I guess that means I'm paper.

I'm paper because everyone I meet who has survived the streets is a rock. The best I can ever hope to do is to cover them, not in defeat, but to share peace with them. Peace at last.

I'm paper because those scissors, when they come snipping, they get right into the meat of me and slice me up. I'm going to tell you I'm fine, but I'm not. I'm just paper, after all.

I'm paper because you can fold me seven times, but no one will get that eighth crease.

I'm paper because even ripped, torn, wet, and erased, what was written upon me became real when the ink dried, even though no one need ever read the words.

I'm paper, and that's all I would ever aspire to be.

A Well of Unspecified Hope

I am hopeful.

Ever notice how no one ever stops there? There's always something else, something into which the hope must be funneled, a cake which must be iced.

"I'm hopeful I'll hear back about that job."
"I'm hopeful my electric bill doesn't go up again."
"I'm hopeful the pizza turns out better this time."
"I'm hopeful I will find some time."
"I'm hopeful the tests will be negative."
"I'm hopeful this won't last."

Me?

I'm just hopeful. 

Hope within boundaries only allows us to hope for what we've already conceived. That's not hope. It's a wish.

Hoping to reach a goal isn't hope either. It's a plan.

Hope is a wild thing that grows and spreads without heed or permission.

It will sit on your shoulder and teach you patience, optimism, and kindness. It will sing you peace.

Hope will keep you alive and heal your wounds, but only if you don't look it in the eyes and tell it what to do.

Keep it ever before you and never be
too afraid,
too busy,
too fast,
too slow,
too smart,
too silly,
too dour,
too hungry,
too lonely,
too cold,
too bored,
too lost,
too comfortable,
too overwhelmed,
too indifferent,
too hurt,
too sure,
too loud,
too soft,
too hard,
too controlling
too helpless,
too anything,
too everything
to listen to it whisper in your ear.

I'm not hopeful for anything.
That means I'm hopeful for everything.