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Monthly Archives: February 2013

Fence-sitting

07 Feb

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This week’s Mind the Gap writing challenge on The Daily Post asks, “How do you prefer to read, with an eReader like a Kindle or Nook, or with an old school paperback in hand?”

I am a complete fence-sitter on this issue—so much so that after fifteen minutes of contemplation and internal struggle, I gave up on clicking either radio button in The Daily Post’s poll on the subject.  If you put a gun to my head and made me choose, I certainly would, but I think it would take the click of the safety being released for me to actually commit.

I am a staunch supporter of reading old-fashioned paper books. Nothing beats going into a bookstore or library and wandering amongst the shelves, pulling down this volume or that, looking at the cover art, pondering the title, reading the dust jacket, and deciding with those three simple actions whether or not you’ll devote a few irretrievable hours of your life to the words contained within. I love the crackle of the dried glue in the spine when I open a book for the first time, and the smell of the ink that wafts so easily from whatever paper they use in today’s mass-produced paperbacks. I like the hardcover library books that have those ruffly, unevenly cut pages, and appreciate them even more if there’s sand stuck under the clear protective cover. If someone cared enough to read that book while relaxing on the beach, it’s surely worth my time as well. At home, a bookcase full of texts, their neatly aligned spines marching along the shelves until they collide with a family photo or personal keepsake, makes an office or living room warm and inviting. If an author’s words make a deep enough impression for me to purchase my own hardcover copy, the book becomes a treasure on those shelves, part of the art and ambience of the room.

However, now that I’ve defended my love of real books, I do have to admit to owning an eReader (well, four if you count the free Kindle apps on my iPad, desktop, and laptop in addition to the actual Kindle). I travel, and with the increasingly unrealistic airline baggage restrictions, the eReader eliminates the need to figure out how to transport a week’s worth of paperbacks and still have enough room to pack a swimsuit and some clean knickers when I go on vacation. I like having multiple books on my Kindle, so if I finish John Campbell’s biography of Margaret Thatcher while I’m waiting at the DMV, I can flip over to the latest novel by Maeve Binchy without skipping a beat. The anonymity of the Kindle is also refreshing…I don’t have to explain to anyone why I’m just now getting around to reading Pride and Prejudice or endure any judgmental glances while I’m working my way through the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. It’s amazing that so many classics are available for free download to eReaders…the benefits of having a library card but without the due dates (two weeks is not long enough to tackle some of those classics, and knowing there’s no pressure to finish a book on someone else’s schedule makes it much more likely that I’ll choose to read it).

I find the Kindle easier to prop up than a chunky hardcover novel when I’m reading in bed, but there’s no way I’m taking my eReader anywhere near the bathtub, one of my top three reading locales. I’d not think twice about leaving a paperback in the car to read whenever I’m waiting to pick up my husband, but possible theft or baking/freezing of the electronics would dissuade me from keeping an eReader in the glove box. A good storyteller can leave me sobbing—tears are absorbed (almost) harmlessly into the pages of a paperback, but what does a salty torrent do to the inner workings of an eReader?

Deep down, I harbor a secret longing to one day own a used-book store—a place with big comfy chairs, maybe some cakes and coffee—where people can bring the books that didn’t rate high enough to grace the shelves of their personal libraries and trade them in for someone else’s cast-offs, in hopes that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. I feel I’d be killing my own dream before it has a chance to come to fruition if I come down squarely on the eReader side of the fence. I can’t throw my full support behind traditional books, either; as an aspiring writer, I believe eReaders have increased my odds of eventually getting a work in front of a reader’s eyes compared to when traditional kill-a-tree publishing houses were the only option. Now, even if I am rejected by any number of reputable agents, I can still self-publish electronically (and comparatively cheaply) in the hopes of attracting an audience from the public who troll Amazon’s Kindle Store looking for free or almost-free novels by unknown (temporarily!!) authors. Going that route, I may never achieve the fame and fortune of J.K. Rowling, but there’s a certain satisfaction knowing my words could be scrolling across the screen of some faceless commuter’s Nook as the 6:45 train rumbles toward his downtown office.

My eReader is convenient and I’d hate to give it up; traditional books are my first love, to have and to hold till death do us part. I have different, but not totally unrelated, dreams for my future that count on both paper books and electronic books being widely desired and available. I am hoping that by reading an equal number of books in both formats now, both industries will see demand for their products and I won’t contribute to the demise of either. Bottom line is I love words, and will pick up a book in whatever format I can, so I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t force me to get off the fence.

 
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Posted by on February 7, 2013 in On Me, True Life

 

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Remix

06 Feb

Up the stairs to the third floor(To the tune of “I Fought the Law” by The Bobby Fuller Four)

Printin’ pages for my lesson
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I need to hurry, ‘cause it’s time t’ run
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

I lost my footing and it feels so bad
I guess of grace, I’ve none
Well, it’s the worst fall that I ever had
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

I got a big bruise and it looks so bad
I guess I’m blessed it’s one
Well, it’s the worst mouse I’ve ever had
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

(Instrumental Break)

Throbbin’ muscles sure are no fun
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

I’m now just sittin’ on my good bun
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

I know I’m klutzy and I feel so mad
I guess this tale is done
But won’t be the last, I’m sad to add
I fought the stairs and the stairs won
I fought the stairs and the stairs won

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Posted by on February 6, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

Abundance

05 Feb

100_1122I am my mama’s daughter in that neither of us knows how to make just a little bit of soup. The problem is we don’t really follow recipes when we make soup, so it’s a matter of adding some of this to a little bit of that, and oh, look, that would be nice in there, then adjusting the amount of liquid till it all looks right.

Growing up, my brother and I were in charge of doing dishes, and soup making days meant we’d better roll up our sleeves and settle in, because we were gonna be there awhile. Whenever Mom made soup, there were always two, sometimes three, huge pots to be washed, in addition to whatever utensils, cutting boards, and measuring cups she’d used in the process. She would start out with her ingredients in a large Dutch oven, but before she’d gotten all the vegetables added to the stock, she’d realize she needed more room and dig out her humongous soup pot—the one that hung off the edges of the electric coil of the stovetop and was so tall you’d scrape your knuckles on the bottom of the microwave trying to lift the lid. Occasionally even that would runneth over, and she’d have to transfer a few servings to her biggest saucepan (or on a really generous day, back to the Dutch oven) in order to have room to stir.

I try to save myself a few steps (and a lot of pot-washing) and start in my biggest pot, but by doing so, leave myself few options when the volume of soup exceeds the capacity of the vat. I usually end up with a concoction that is too heavy on the “good stuff” and way too light on liquid. I once served a bowl of chicken soup to a guest and by the time she crumbled half a dozen saltines over the top, every bit of the broth had been absorbed; she wouldn’t have missed a drop if I’d given her a fork rather than a spoon.

This heavy-handedness does have its benefits. For a couple hours’ work in the afternoon, Jim and I have tonight’s dinner, lunch a couple times during the week, three dinner-for-two-plus-the-next-day’s-lunch size buckets to put in the freezer, AND a two-quart container to share with a friend. All that’s left is to fire up the griddle to make some grilled cheese sandwiches…

 
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Posted by on February 5, 2013 in Cooking, Food, On Me, True Life

 

Caged

04 Feb

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“Damn you, Daisy,” I fume for the umpteenth time, picturing her brown eyes pleading for liberation behind a chain link gate at the rescue kennel, “you could have chased that rabbit’s trail clear to the next county, but now you’ve cost us both our freedom.” Jeb from the pub found the stupid beagle dragging an unmanned leash and baying beside the canal like her heart was broken, then noticed something familiar about the balloon of fabric barely visible below the surface of the water. The air trapped by Randall’s jacket as he fell into the canal prevented his body from sinking to the muddy bottom as it should have done, so it was quick work for the police to fish the hateful ogre out and discover the hole that marked my bullet’s path through his heart. When the officers at the door saw my black eye and split lip, “Ma’am, we’re sorry to tell you that your husband was found…” quickly became, “Were you having any sort of marital issues?” It seems the sympathy and outrage law enforcement officials normally feel on behalf of domestic violence victims vanishes like the London fog when a victim’s abuser turns up dead. I thought I’d found my freedom when Randall toppled into that watery grave, but in reality I’ve only traded one prison for another; the cell of threats, insults, and blows in which I paced for more than fifteen years has been replaced for the next twenty-five by cold concrete walls and unyielding iron bars.

 
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Posted by on February 4, 2013 in Fiction

 

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Repurposing

03 Feb

100_1113Maybe the folks over at The Daily Post picked up on my somewhat obsessive thoughts on this very topic over the past week. Here’s their writing prompt for today:

A genie has granted your wish to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?

I already told you about my ideal reading space in Wednesday’s Haven post, as it would be part of my chick cave (I still don’t know the correct name for the female equivalent of the man cave). But don’t be misled into thinking that room is the only place I would be happy reading. I would (and do) read in the bathtub, in bed, in the car, on the sofa, at the kitchen table, at my desk, on the patio, in the coffee shop, at the beach, on a bench in the park…there’s really no place that’s off-limits when I’m in the middle of a good book.

However, I’m quickly coming to the conclusion that my writing space really does need some thought. I’m currently writing in my office, at my regular desk, surrounded by the detritus of everyday life—there are some tax documents that need to be scanned, there’s a folder that contains half-baked ideas for next week’s English lessons, there’s a half-compiled grocery list—all plotting to divert my attention away from writing. I think I’d like a separate area within my current office devoted solely to writing.

So, Mr. Genie, here’s my plan.

The most important component in this space is my desk, so I’ll use the student desk my mother lovingly finished for me when I was in high school, the one that is now masquerading as dressing table in the spare room. It is smaller than my regular day-to-day desk, so I’d have less surface area on which to pile distractions. I’m thinking I’ll need a lamp, a coaster for my mug of tea, my laptop, and nothing else. In the top center drawer, you should put a notepad, a pencil, an eraser, a couple of pens, a highlighter, some Post-it flags, a pair of scissors, and a roll of Scotch tape. The top left drawer should be stocked with healthy snacks (dark chocolate counts, so make sure there’s lots of that) and a supply of paper napkins and wet wipes. The middle drawer is going to stay empty for now, but eventually I’ll use it to store back-up CDs of my work. The large bottom drawer that was originally meant for file folders will be my inspiration drawer—photos, snippets cut from magazines, little trinkets, anything that looks like it could spark a story can go in there so I can sift through it when the muse has left me. You can put a box of tissues and an old-fashioned, yet current, dictionary and thesaurus on the shelf to the right of the desk’s kneehole; I love the convenience of the online references, but it is too tempting to also check email or log into Facebook or Google something while the browser is open…

I’m not sure about the chair for this desk. If I decide to keep the original straight-backed chair that came with it, I will definitely need a new seat cushion. The desk is too small for a big cushy office chair, but a small padded chair with wheels and pneumatic height adjustment might be nice. Of course, a big bouncy stability ball might be even better—I could burn a few calories and tone my core trying to avoid rolling off in an unglorified heap.

Under the desk, I’d appreciate a small heated rug, or a tiny electric space heater. I have such a hard time concentrating when my feet are cold.

The walls in the room should be painted something other than standard off-white. The pale blue in my current office is kind of nice, but I also like the warm, subdued yellow of my husband’s office.  I’ll need to think about this and get back to you on the color scheme. I’d like the desk to face the corner, please, so I’m not tempted to stare out the window at the birds in the trees or the neighbors walking by instead of concentrating on the computer screen. Directly in front of me, please mount a shelf that will support a brightly painted pot with a healthy green philodendron dribbling several long, exploratory tendrils over the edge. Attach my Pecksniff horse brass to the bottom of the shelf, so he can glare disapprovingly at me through the leafy curtain of the philodendron when I slack off. (I didn’t know anything about this Charles Dickens character when I bought the brass, but just one look at his imperious gaze and I knew he’d be a stern taskmaster. How sad is it that I’m such people pleaser that an inanimate stare from a cast metal visage can keep me in line?) There’s got to be a corkboard just at the edge of my peripheral vision, so I can pin up meaningful quotes and colorful odds and ends for motivational purposes.

I’ll need my room to be fairly quiet. A ticking clock is nice (I find it soothing, rather than demanding) and I could probably write to the sound of waves or rain from a noise machine. Music is too distracting, though, so don’t leave a radio or iPod in easy reach of my writing desk; I get too wrapped up in deciphering the artists’ lyrics to pay any heed to my own words struggling to reach the page.

Looking back over this wish list, Mr. Genie, I see there really isn’t much you can do that I can’t do myself to create an ideal writing space. It seems I can repurpose items I am already familiar and comfortable with in the square footage I’ve already got. Your role was apparently to make me take the time to stop and think about how to make my surroundings more conducive to productive writing, so I guess your work here is done…off you go to grant the design wishes of the next aspiring writer. I’ve got furniture to rearrange!

 
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Posted by on February 3, 2013 in How It Could Be, On Writing

 

Freedom

02 Feb

103_0300No sooner had the bells finished ushering the last of the faithful through the oaken door into St. Mary’s than the men who revered the gospels of Remington, Winchester, Smith, and Wesson lifted their arms in praise. The wind blew in from the southwest, transmitting the rifle reports of the Sunday morning gun club clearly across the stubbly winter fields, the sharp tattoo echoing off the stone cottages as I walked through the empty lanes of our quaint little village. Randall stumbled to a surprised halt when I stepped from behind the shadowed arc of the bridge onto the towpath directly in front of him; Daisy had not sent up her usual baying alarm because she had not scented a stranger as the twosome ambled along the deserted canal. His face and fists began to clench with rage when he realized that I was not in the kitchen fixing the “full English” he had commanded as he clomped out the door, and I couldn’t help but wonder once more how a man so tender and patient with the witless, intractable beagle straining at the end of leash could berate, belittle, and beat his own wife so mercilessly without the slightest provocation. With one swift, sure movement of my gloved hand, I swung the tiny revolver from my jacket pocket and pressed its muzzle to his heart, the solitary crack of its discharge a declaration of freedom, yet an indistinguishable voice in the weekly chorus of the gun club’s riflemen. Noticing a sudden lack of tension in the lead against which she constantly tugged, Daisy took off through the hedges, nose to the ground, hot on the trail of some unseen rabbit or fox, the racket she made crashing through the underbrush nearly disguising the splash of Randall’s limp body as it toppled into the murky water of the canal and obscured the concentric rings of ripples where my discarded revolver had sunk.

 
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Posted by on February 2, 2013 in Fiction

 

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Roots

01 Feb

Topsy turvy @Butterfly World, near St. AlbansI like to think of myself like the little cactus I bought at an antique fair last year (it’s not an antique cactus, just a sideline business of one of the vendors).  The stallholder said, “Don’t worry if part of that falls off on the way home, just stick it in some dirt and it’ll be fine.” Sure enough, part of the cactus did fall off, and I stuck it down in the dirt right next to the mother plant, where it is now outpacing the growth of its progenitor.

I’ve never been securely planted in any one place in my whole life. I was born in a little Ohio town, and left there when I was five, so I’ve never felt I could claim it as a hometown. Moving with my father’s job every couple of years until high school made it nearly impossible to put down roots. There was always a new assignment to knock our family loose, and we’d need to be stuck down in the dirt in a new location. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was growing stronger each time I was replanted.

As an adult, I haven’t done much better at clinging to a single patch of earth. I married a man whose job offers opportunity for travel, and despite my transient youth, I was eager for him to apply for overseas positions.  We’re a few months away from moving for the fourth time in seven years—a statistic that looks bad on paper, but has been such a blessing for my personal growth.

As a child, I envied my schoolmates who had lived in the same town, even in the same house, their whole lives, whose grandparents were within an hour’s drive, and who were certain that when they went off to college, got married, had their own families, they’d always know where home was. At the time, I couldn’t appreciate that having to put down shallow roots time and time again was actually giving me more stability than my deep-rooted friends. From my adult perspective, most of the people I know who have always been firmly entrenched in one place are sometimes narrow-minded, often intimidated by change, and hesitant to acknowledge or accept progress. I can now see that constantly moving and having to reestablish myself in new locations has enabled me to view the world from a broader and more open perspective, to adapt quickly to new surroundings and conditions, and to generally just go with the flow.

My mom used to have a fridge magnet which I resented with every fiber of my youthful being; it said simply, “Bloom where you are planted.” Every time I poured a glass of milk, I felt like those words were mocking our rootless family and my childhood misery over yet another relocation. But today, as I am once again thriving in new dirt, I see the wisdom in the magnet’s message, and follow its command without an ounce of regret or resentment.

Today’s post was a five-minute (okay, closer to 15 because I just can’t give up the editing and revising part) free-write inspired by the Five Minute Friday section of Lisa-Jo Baker’s blog. I cheated even more by not writing on today’s topic (Afraid) and choosing one from November.

 
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Posted by on February 1, 2013 in Memoirs

 

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