Where’s there? Today it was on a plane flying far overhead through the beautiful blue sky while I was stuck in traffic on Friday afternoon with two impatient kids in the backseat and a loooooong list of things to do for the weekend - with moving, ending school and all…. I don’t care where the plane was heading. Out of the city, state, country - didn’t matter. I just WANTED TO BE ON IT!!!
Ok, I guess I needed something else to fill in any spare moments in my life - so I decided to buy a house. YAY!! I’m so excited! Then I open my eyes and see all the paperwork and I’m slightly terrified. So I close my eyes again AND I’M SO EXCITED!! And going in a solid eight different directions and needing coffee more than ever! Since sleep is just out of the question at this point. But then again….YAY!!!
I’m so past the “Is it Friday yet?” syndrome and am SO ready for sum-sum-summer time!! I want to walk barefoot on the sidewalk at dusk and feel the warmth still held in the sidewalk. Smell freshly cut grass and suntan lotion. Switch my margaritas out for mojitos and enjoy long, sun-lit evenings. I want to shed the sweaters and jackets and pull out the tank tops, shorts and break in a new pair of flip-flops, preferably with cute little jingling jewels that match the new shade of bright polish on my toes. And this yearning for summer has absolutely NOTHING to do with the fact that I’m a teacher with a classroom bursting at the seams with wiggly, hormone-infused, stir-crazy, are-we-done-yet-this-is-boring-can’t-we-just-watch-the-movie teenagers with attention spans shorter than a gnat’s blink. Absolutely nothing. I promise.
HA!
Notebooks that is. 
Sorry, not a love scene from one of my books. Though I did write a lot of sex today. But that’s a rabbit trail off the main path of this blog. I thought about what I had written yesterday and realized I didn’t have it exactly right. I can jump into a story pretty much wherever my brain has worked through a scene, but not on the computer. For some reason, when I type, it’s got to be “in order”. In my mind, those words echo with pompous authority the way a large and ancient bell tolls the hour for beginning classes across the lawn of a strict, Ivy-league prep school where all the students are required to wear suit coats and of course the hallowed halls are empty because tardiness is not allowed.
Wow. I’m really wanting to dart down those darn rabbit trails.
Anyway, I can’t type out of order. Maybe because rough drafts for me, lists of ideas, random wanderings, all fit more naturally onto paper. Where if I scratch it out, I can come back to it and see it, gather up the direction of inspiration, the starts and stops and AH HA’s!! even weeks or years from the day of writing. Arrows and stars and brackets and doodles all meander easily across a piece of notebook paper for me. But on a keyboard with electronic letters and delete, save, print - it’s gone, done, finished - even with the multitude of fonts available - it’s just not the same.
It’s not MY writing. I can look at something I wrote weeks ago and tell by the slant and shape of the letters what kind of mood I was in. From the complexity and number of doodles just how long it took me to pull a thought from my head in a manner precise and narrow enough for words. And I like to see my work spread out. I do a lot of flipping back and forth, moving whole scenes, descriptions, conflicts, paragraphs, and descriptions around. When I try to do that on the computer, I get confused because I don’t have the visual clues that I do on my handwritten pages. There’s no blue star with a number one in the margin and a note to call mom before the NCAA championship game starts (because of course, she won’t answer when the game is actually being played.) No coffee spill on page 62 or half-written poem along the margin where the scene being played out sparked inspiration for several other stories.
The computer is wonderful. I absolutely would NOT want to live a life in today’s world without it. It makes so many things faster and easier. (And in my notebooks, let’s face it - as much as I love them, they DON’T automatically correct my spelling when I’m rushing and forget the “i before e except after c” rule among others.) But there’s something about seeing words formed by your own hand that just draws me, entrances me. Keeps me reaching for that notebook one more time. When I hit a writing block, 9 times out of 10, I’m sitting at the computer. And 9 times out of 10, all I have to do is shut it down, grab a spiral and a colored pen, take a deep breath and dive into that clear, inviting page that’s been waiting on me.
I’m not a very organized person. I try, and “most” important things are under control. I don’t miss bill payments, I keep up with all the organizational needs of my work and my kids’ schedules and I remember most of my family’s birthdays - at least sometime during the correct month. (Numbers - in any form - dates, taxes, addresses, phone numbers, ages - just blur in my head. I write A LOT down. Finding where I wrote it….huh. That’s another trick.) But basically, life stays mostly in reach. Until recently. Lots to say on this, but today is about needing to get organized on one specific thing - where the hell did I write that down at?
You see, I do quite a bit of writing in notebooks in “stolen” moments. Much of my writing time isn’t done in a peaceful, distractionless office (I’m not sure if I’ve even SEEN one of those) for hours at a time. I run around living life with these stories blaring away inside my head and as soon as I can, I let them bleed out into the closest spiral notebook laying around (of which there are more than a few spread throughout my home due to this exact thing). I’ll scribble paragraphs down and then take the notebook with me to pick up my daughter to finish a thought and it will get left in the car. I’ll jot down a conversation in another notebook and stuff it into my computer bag to finish noting down expressions and background during lunch. I’ll write down ideas about setting while fixing dinner and then toss the notebook onto a shelf when I need the counter space to mix up a sauce. Are you getting the picture? Eventually, I do get around to putting it into the computer at a later date (at which point I am extremely thankful for my English background which makes the grammar and mechanics of writing mostly a given rather than another hurdle to jump before sending it off to my editor).
But my problem is FINDING the right notebook when I’m ready for it. Today I searched for nearly an hour trying to find the scene I had written down when Connyn first shows his “non-jerk” side to his mate. I needed that scene to move on. My brain wouldn’t process through to the next section until it had reviewed what I had written before. Apparently I have an innate refusal to just “jump” into a story at any place in it and start writing. I finally did find the notebook. In the dining room on a shelf under a stack of my daughter’s latest assignments brought home from school, a pizza delivery flyer and Optimus Prime (one of my son’s Transformers). And judging from the splatters across the bottom corner, I had been working on this while fixing last week’s lasangna.
There’s got to be a better way.
You would think, or at least I did, that if a person were unhappy - really unhappy - that they would know it. But from personal experience, I can say that this isn’t true. There was a time when I had been unhappy for so long that I didn’t even recognize it. I didn’t “feel” unhappy. I just felt normal. Which now when I think about it, makes me the most sad. That being unhappy could be normal. That I could be unhappy and not realize it, because by not realizing it, by accepting it as normal, I didn’t even attempt to change my situation, my outlook, whatever it took. What made me realize I had been so unhappy? I HAD to change my circumstances for my children’s sake, and then one day I woke up not feeling normal. I woke up happy. And I’m still happy - as crazy busy and in circles as I’ve been running these last weeks trying to keep up with all the areas in my life spinning off in different demanding directions - I’m still happy.
Though I need more sleep….
So that’s what I’m doing - watching, laughing, clapping, groaning, (writing during commercials), critiquing dresses and making my list of movies I still need to see. Jeez! I hadn’t realized how very few movies I’ve seen this year! Ok, back to Oscar Night… Hope everyone had a great weekend!
Good lord, did I have tons of high school crushes! They didn’t quite turn out like the one in my story Saint Jillian’s Rebel, but they sure left some good memories. What’s funny is that I don’t remember their names - most of them - but I remember the blue eyes of one, the first kiss of another, meeting another by literally crashing into him in the hall because I was late for class and wasn’t watching where I was going. An upperclassman, I doubt he’d have even noticed I was alive had I not just completely plowed straight into him. He picked up my books that had flown out of my arms, walked me to class (of which I was no longer concerned that I was late) and asked me out when we got there. I know. Sounds after-school-movie corny. But it’s all true and still gives me a fluttery warm feeling when I think about it.
Not all my high school crushes turned out so well. I was in crush-love with a guy that never looked my way. Wasn’t his type I suppose, not the peppy, built, blonde-in-a-bottle daddy’s little rich girl - which he eventually married. Much to my chagrin. (I crushed on him for years - clear through college, so please chalk the snarkiness up to all that pent-up unrequited “love”). Funny how things work out. Turns out, according to the post-high school grapevine he’s not made her too terribly happy because he doesn’t exactly have strong sexual “urges”. Apparently, he wasn’t my type either.
Haven’t been on for awhile - told you February was kicking my butt. Anyway…normally when I click online I skim through the headlines of whatever news site pops up (I’m regularly on about four different computers, and each one has a different homepage). Today the first headline I saw was this:
And the first thought I had was “Ooooh, my boyfriend would NOT be happy if I had sex every day” since he travels a lot for work and if I was having sex every, there’d be a lot of days he wouldn’t be involved. But the headline is very attention-getting, isn’t it? Of course, out of context, the information used in the title from the sermon makes one think that there’s a minister out there randomly suggesting that every person on the planet go orgiastic, which <gasp!>, isn’t what the article is about. But it did get my attention. That, of course, is the point. Goes to the “don’t judge a book by its cover” - or apparently - an article by its title.
I think one of the best “first” kisses is a kiss that isn’t the first, isn’t the last, but is the first time you realize, in the long line of kisses with a steady significant other that the kiss is automatic. Those “have-a-good-day-I-love-you-I-love-you-too” quick kiss and I’m out the door kisses. I often hear about these kind of kisses in a negative light, but I don’t think so. I mean how great is it to have someone you get to kiss “automatically”? Who’s there to kiss you back without thinking about it. There are still stomach-fluttering moments, giddy, heart-pounding times. But those can come with a stranger too. Or an aquaintance, a “new” love. But that natural, automatic kiss that seems like a throw-away, unthinking action is precious for that very reason. It’s a gift of time, and too often we take it for granted. But that’s part of it too. Having something so precious, so common. I keep hearing that line “It’s later than you think.” It might be, so time to smile with all the everyday things in life that make it good.
