Many, many years ago, when the Earth and I were younger, I remember my mother answering one of my moans of boredom with an emphatic, "I wish I could be bored, but I don't have any time."
Naturally, I knew what she was talking about, but to this day, I still suffer from boredom. Maybe I never learned my lesson--the one she must have been trying to teach me with her subtle sarcasm. There's work aplenty to be done, but that place in my brain that surveys said work and determines which tasks to complete, and in which order, seems endlessly stuck in the laundry/dishes/dinner loop--the essentials.
Yes, the foyer has shoes and paper and backpacks sprawling across the floor. I see the steadily growing piles of things on the kitchen counter. Weeds and grass have overtaken the flower beds, and I probably don't need to mention the garage. I mean, come on, that's what garages are for, right? And even if I wanted to park a car in there... well, never mind.
The point is, I haven't gone blind. I know there's work to be done. And I could lie about it and say that I'm too busy playing with my kids, or writing magnificent books for all the world to love, but I try not to deserve getting struck by lightning more than once a week. And since it's Tuesday, and I can't remember what other tall tales I might have shared earlier, or whether I might need to exaggerate the truth later on, I'm not going to press my luck. I see the mess. I ignore the mess.
I don't always mean to, though. Take the yard for instance: nobody wants to walk through knee-high grass to weed flower beds they can't see anyway. And it isn't my fault the lawn mower died again. I'm not a mechanic! Mercy me, think of my nails--if one breaks, I'd have to cut them all and start over. Know how many horse-pill-sized multi-vitamins it takes to get my nails to that perfect length? Trust me, it's a lot.
As for the messy foyer: I could spend a half-hour cleaning it up, straightening the shoes and papers and back packs, vacuum up the dust-dogs (I swear, they're huge) and even polish the wood floor to make it look less like the forbidding entrance into the underworld, but the minute school lets out and the troops come home, it's disaster all over again. Remember that guy who had to push the same boulder up the same mountain every day for all of eternity? It's like that. Same thing goes for the connected living room, which spills into the kitchen and dining room, and back into the foyer, like a big, round dog-run. Or kid run. Honestly, whoever designed this house was clearly an idiot. Cleaning this place is like baling out a ship with a single bucket, during a rainstorm, and with a hole in the bucket.
For the sake of this blog-post, my brain is that bucket. Goodly thoughts of cleaning are often leaked out through that hole (which we can label: Attention Span) and my mind then reverts to a certain stack of library books, conveniently placed within reach of my comfy chair and a nice reading lamp. It's a great rut, and a lot cheaper than say, shopping. So long as I don't forget that the real world is waiting for me beyond the printed pages, all is well.
So, yeah. The Mess. I've gotten very good at blocking it out. Walking through my house might sometimes resemble navigating a mine field, stepping over this and that, dodging the skates, scooting around the trumpet, but maybe keeping all that mess around is actually healthy. Maybe it can cure boredom--which we all know leads to all sorts of irrational behavior. Like, say, wanting another child. Messy houses could be the next form of birth control. Well, maybe. But only if the house is so messy that Mom and Dad can't find one another in it.
Yeah, okay. Forget it. I'm not making excuses, exactly. Yes, I know where my vacuum is. I even dust it off now and again to, you know, clean... But I try not to get carried away. I wouldn't want to be the neurotic kind of person that spent so much time cleaning that the world revolved around shining floors and (gasp!) organized closets. This might be considered a personality flaw to some, but only to those who don't understand that I fully intend on cleaning up The Mess. All of it. You know, some day. In between trips to the school and library, before the next great "Have To Read" book comes out or after the really disappointing sequel to the last "Had To Read".
And of course, only if I'm not busy writing.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Trials I Can't Do Without
Everyone has trials, those rough patches in life that make us groan or cry or wish we had an unending supply of chocolate. For writers, many of those trials are, in a sadistic way, self-inflicted.
Think about it. Writers start with an idea, and it takes many long months of dedicated effort to jot that idea into a manuscript, maybe even years. And then they have to revise, polish, tweek and agonize over it before it feels good enough to let their very bestest writing buddies have a look at it. And if they're really awesome friends, they'll point out all the crap that's really wrong with that pitiful first (or hundred and first) draft. It's all that stuff the writer knows to be awful, but can't see because they're the ones that wrote it. They're standing with their noses pressed up so close to the trees, they can't see the forest.
And then the writer cries, because their lack of perfection has been made public... (sort of). But after the tears, because they're insanely dedicated to the story, they start to revise. Rinse and repeat, for as long as it takes. In the background, very quietly, they've put together a query, maybe even a list of agents to whom they will send said query. And eventually, when an overdose of chocolate makes the writer extra-brave (or stupid, as the case may be), they send out those query letters and hope for the best.
If the query is half-way decent, it just might catch an agent's eye, maybe even more than one. But the bulk majority of agents will reply with the same, tired line about how every query is read, but that one ain't cuttin' it.
Which means no.
But one yes is all it takes, right? And maybe there's an agent who requests a partial, or even a full. Maybe, if the heavens are smiling and the planets align, there will be an agent who loves the writer's story... except for ten-thousand things that need to be fixed. Because really, the writer stopped revising too soon, tried to jump the gun and then forgot to keep working at the story. Or maybe they really did do their best and it's time for a little outside help.
Never mind that some of the aspiring author's writing friends told them (months ago) that the exact same things needed fixing, and said aspiring author didn't listen to them. Now that advice is coming from an AGENT, penny advice has suddenly become gold. So the writer jumps at the chance to fix those ten-thousand things! A professional has offered to give a hand, let's hear it for free advice!!
The writer works days, nights, weekends... forgetting to water plants, talk to friends, feed their kids, but eventually, they reach the end of their edits, so cross-eyed and sick of the story that they never want to spend another day on it. Which means it must be ready, right?
Wrong.
But they send it off anyway. The agent takes one look at the mess Aspiring Author X dared to call a revision, and automatically assumes they don't know jack about writing. She writes back, in her kindest it's-not-you-it's-me letter that she's changed her mind, has no time for the project, and let's part as friends, because she really doesn't want hurt the writer's feelings, or turn them into a stalker, or even one of those mean-spirited rumor mongers spreading vicious lies about her on every web page/water cooler for disgruntled, spurned writer wannabes.
Which is exactly what that writer will become. Maybe. But only if they can't open their eyes and take another look at what said agent pointed out in her last-ditch piece of try-to-help-you-on-your-way advice, and see that she was right. Really right.
But it still hurts, because the writer sees now that they are an impatient buffoon. An over-eager idiot, who couldn't wait a few days for their eyes to un-cross and THEN go over that manuscript again.
Does it hurt? Yes indeedy.
Is it entirely the writer's own fault? Almost absolutely.
Do they learn anything? Maybe. Probably. But it depends. ...On whether they go back and try again after the tears have dried up and food stops turning to ash in their mouths. Do they sit down in front of their computer and force themselves to admit they could have done better? Or do they contemplate the ruin of the publishing industry as a whole? (A word of advice: that last line is futile, so don't bother.) Do they send out more queries, or have they given up on the whole, sadistic dream of authorhood?
Only the toughest will make it through. From the rubble of failure, the strong emerge even stronger, smarter, a little bit tougher in the skin. But never with less tender feelings. Because a good book needs a lot of feeling, it has to be written with heart. The writer's heart will always bleed. Their fingers will grow calloused and their house plants will die. Their chests will occasionally cave in and ache with the endless pain of disappointment, but the emergency chocolate reserves will always be there and the the true writer will always keep writing.
No matter what.
Think about it. Writers start with an idea, and it takes many long months of dedicated effort to jot that idea into a manuscript, maybe even years. And then they have to revise, polish, tweek and agonize over it before it feels good enough to let their very bestest writing buddies have a look at it. And if they're really awesome friends, they'll point out all the crap that's really wrong with that pitiful first (or hundred and first) draft. It's all that stuff the writer knows to be awful, but can't see because they're the ones that wrote it. They're standing with their noses pressed up so close to the trees, they can't see the forest.
And then the writer cries, because their lack of perfection has been made public... (sort of). But after the tears, because they're insanely dedicated to the story, they start to revise. Rinse and repeat, for as long as it takes. In the background, very quietly, they've put together a query, maybe even a list of agents to whom they will send said query. And eventually, when an overdose of chocolate makes the writer extra-brave (or stupid, as the case may be), they send out those query letters and hope for the best.
If the query is half-way decent, it just might catch an agent's eye, maybe even more than one. But the bulk majority of agents will reply with the same, tired line about how every query is read, but that one ain't cuttin' it.
Which means no.
But one yes is all it takes, right? And maybe there's an agent who requests a partial, or even a full. Maybe, if the heavens are smiling and the planets align, there will be an agent who loves the writer's story... except for ten-thousand things that need to be fixed. Because really, the writer stopped revising too soon, tried to jump the gun and then forgot to keep working at the story. Or maybe they really did do their best and it's time for a little outside help.
Never mind that some of the aspiring author's writing friends told them (months ago) that the exact same things needed fixing, and said aspiring author didn't listen to them. Now that advice is coming from an AGENT, penny advice has suddenly become gold. So the writer jumps at the chance to fix those ten-thousand things! A professional has offered to give a hand, let's hear it for free advice!!
The writer works days, nights, weekends... forgetting to water plants, talk to friends, feed their kids, but eventually, they reach the end of their edits, so cross-eyed and sick of the story that they never want to spend another day on it. Which means it must be ready, right?
Wrong.
But they send it off anyway. The agent takes one look at the mess Aspiring Author X dared to call a revision, and automatically assumes they don't know jack about writing. She writes back, in her kindest it's-not-you-it's-me letter that she's changed her mind, has no time for the project, and let's part as friends, because she really doesn't want hurt the writer's feelings, or turn them into a stalker, or even one of those mean-spirited rumor mongers spreading vicious lies about her on every web page/water cooler for disgruntled, spurned writer wannabes.
Which is exactly what that writer will become. Maybe. But only if they can't open their eyes and take another look at what said agent pointed out in her last-ditch piece of try-to-help-you-on-your-way advice, and see that she was right. Really right.
But it still hurts, because the writer sees now that they are an impatient buffoon. An over-eager idiot, who couldn't wait a few days for their eyes to un-cross and THEN go over that manuscript again.
Does it hurt? Yes indeedy.
Is it entirely the writer's own fault? Almost absolutely.
Do they learn anything? Maybe. Probably. But it depends. ...On whether they go back and try again after the tears have dried up and food stops turning to ash in their mouths. Do they sit down in front of their computer and force themselves to admit they could have done better? Or do they contemplate the ruin of the publishing industry as a whole? (A word of advice: that last line is futile, so don't bother.) Do they send out more queries, or have they given up on the whole, sadistic dream of authorhood?
Only the toughest will make it through. From the rubble of failure, the strong emerge even stronger, smarter, a little bit tougher in the skin. But never with less tender feelings. Because a good book needs a lot of feeling, it has to be written with heart. The writer's heart will always bleed. Their fingers will grow calloused and their house plants will die. Their chests will occasionally cave in and ache with the endless pain of disappointment, but the emergency chocolate reserves will always be there and the the true writer will always keep writing.
No matter what.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Alec Trebane and the Toilet of Doom
Episode one-
It all started with evil Annabelle taking the last of the bacon, which was supposed to be mine. The argument was short, and Mom sided with Annabelle, so I snagged the last two pieces of toast and stuffed them in my mouth before the evil one could grab any. I would have stuck out my tongue, for good measure, but it was sort of encased in bread at the moment.
Back in my room, I reached for my backpack only to find that the contents had been scattered across the floor and Deep Dungeon VI (which I had stashed in my secret pouch) was missing.
"MOM!" Bread crumbs sprayed from my mouth, but I didn't care. Mom would make me vacuum after school, but it didn't matter. Little Jimmy, my brother and nemesis, had stolen my new game. His crib lay empty and there was no telling where the little demon had got to.
"MOM!"
"Stop yelling at me, Alec." Mom came up the stairs with a basket of laundry on her hip, completely unfazed by the tragedy at hand.
"Jimmy stole my game!"
At that moment, the little turd emerged from the bathroom, false smile in place so that Mom wouldn't know what he really was.
"I go potty," he said.
"Where's my game you little--"
"Alec," Mom warned.
I knew what she would say. Be nice to your brother. But she didn't understand what I had to deal with. "He took my game and wrecked my backpack. Why can't I have my own room, with a lock on the door?"
Mom ignored me and picked up the demon. And kissed him! Sure, that will teach him to be better behaved. His eyes darted toward me, gleaming with triumph.
"Did you take Alec's game, Jimmy?"
"No," Turd Boy answered. "It fell."
"Fell where?" I insisted.
"In the potty."
Horror gripped me as I rushed into the bathroom and looked down into the toilet. Sure enough, the black and silver square of my new game stared back up at me through the tainted water. Words failed me; I just stood there, gaping, fuming. Mom came up beside me and, about two seconds after I hoped she might reach down there and save my game said, "If you had cleaned this indoor-outhouse like I told you yesterday, it wouldn't look so bad."
Then she turned around and left me there.
"Wait," I cried, blinking back any evidence of tears. "How am I supposed to get it back?"
"You have fifteen minutes before the bus comes to figure it out."
... Will Alec brave the Pee-Pot? Can Deep Dungeon VI be saved? Tune in next time when our hero gets flushed.
It all started with evil Annabelle taking the last of the bacon, which was supposed to be mine. The argument was short, and Mom sided with Annabelle, so I snagged the last two pieces of toast and stuffed them in my mouth before the evil one could grab any. I would have stuck out my tongue, for good measure, but it was sort of encased in bread at the moment.
Back in my room, I reached for my backpack only to find that the contents had been scattered across the floor and Deep Dungeon VI (which I had stashed in my secret pouch) was missing.
"MOM!" Bread crumbs sprayed from my mouth, but I didn't care. Mom would make me vacuum after school, but it didn't matter. Little Jimmy, my brother and nemesis, had stolen my new game. His crib lay empty and there was no telling where the little demon had got to.
"MOM!"
"Stop yelling at me, Alec." Mom came up the stairs with a basket of laundry on her hip, completely unfazed by the tragedy at hand.
"Jimmy stole my game!"
At that moment, the little turd emerged from the bathroom, false smile in place so that Mom wouldn't know what he really was.
"I go potty," he said.
"Where's my game you little--"
"Alec," Mom warned.
I knew what she would say. Be nice to your brother. But she didn't understand what I had to deal with. "He took my game and wrecked my backpack. Why can't I have my own room, with a lock on the door?"
Mom ignored me and picked up the demon. And kissed him! Sure, that will teach him to be better behaved. His eyes darted toward me, gleaming with triumph.
"Did you take Alec's game, Jimmy?"
"No," Turd Boy answered. "It fell."
"Fell where?" I insisted.
"In the potty."
Horror gripped me as I rushed into the bathroom and looked down into the toilet. Sure enough, the black and silver square of my new game stared back up at me through the tainted water. Words failed me; I just stood there, gaping, fuming. Mom came up beside me and, about two seconds after I hoped she might reach down there and save my game said, "If you had cleaned this indoor-outhouse like I told you yesterday, it wouldn't look so bad."
Then she turned around and left me there.
"Wait," I cried, blinking back any evidence of tears. "How am I supposed to get it back?"
"You have fifteen minutes before the bus comes to figure it out."
... Will Alec brave the Pee-Pot? Can Deep Dungeon VI be saved? Tune in next time when our hero gets flushed.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Hello World
It was never my intention to leave off blogging forever, but demons sometimes get the better of folks when they least expect them. And then those folks must do nothing but sit on the couch and read unmentionable books for six months straight.
I'm still here and, more importantly, I'm still writing. There's a certain joy to be had in one's favored hobby, and I'm lucky enough to have enough of them --hobbies that is--that I should never get bored. (a very good theory, that) :) So far, this has been a year of goal setting and goal reaching for me. As soon as I'd crawled out of my personal PIT OF DESPAIR (cue creepy music), I determined to write another novel. In about three months. Which, if any of you are accustomed to writing will know is not such a difficult task. Sometimes.
And I reached it. Yay for me!
Naturally, I have other, less glamorous goals, but I won't bore you with the list. And obstacles, there were (are) many, but you don't want to hear about the gut-wrenching agony of those, or about leaking roofs and broken mowers, gremlin children and what-not. Suffice it to say that all those things exist and we'll leave it at that. In the mean time, I'm still bouncing on my cloud of anxiousness, waiting for the publishing rainbow to shine on me.
Wish me luck!
So, not only did I tuck another finished story under my belt, I also managed to get said story under the noses of a couple of agents. Whether that pans out any gold remains to be seen, but I can say that I've been checking my e-mail obsessively. Of course!
I'm still here and, more importantly, I'm still writing. There's a certain joy to be had in one's favored hobby, and I'm lucky enough to have enough of them --hobbies that is--that I should never get bored. (a very good theory, that) :) So far, this has been a year of goal setting and goal reaching for me. As soon as I'd crawled out of my personal PIT OF DESPAIR (cue creepy music), I determined to write another novel. In about three months. Which, if any of you are accustomed to writing will know is not such a difficult task. Sometimes.
And I reached it. Yay for me!
Naturally, I have other, less glamorous goals, but I won't bore you with the list. And obstacles, there were (are) many, but you don't want to hear about the gut-wrenching agony of those, or about leaking roofs and broken mowers, gremlin children and what-not. Suffice it to say that all those things exist and we'll leave it at that. In the mean time, I'm still bouncing on my cloud of anxiousness, waiting for the publishing rainbow to shine on me.
Wish me luck!
So, not only did I tuck another finished story under my belt, I also managed to get said story under the noses of a couple of agents. Whether that pans out any gold remains to be seen, but I can say that I've been checking my e-mail obsessively. Of course!
Sunday, August 8, 2010
More of my reads
How very dull my blog has become, listing book after book of what I've been reading, and not telling any of the great stories that make up my life. Where has the fun gone? Where is the enthusiasm?
Beats the tar out of me. I'm on the last stretch of summer vacation, the true test of endurance for any full-time parent. The rosy tint has gone out of my glasses and my chauffeur's hat is seeing more use that I care to admit. Bleh.
As a recent convert to the ways of insomnia, I'm tired, and easily irritated. My diet is, once again, forgotten by the wayside. Or, perhaps a better description would be to say that I ate my diet for breakfast, and a whole lot of other diets for lunch, dinner, and dessert.
Maybe my stomach hurts, and maybe my hair is falling out, and maybe my life has become a little box of library take-out, but... um... the bright side is that there is that person called "Grandma" who is still crazy enou-- I mean willing to lend aid in these dark hours of summer boredom.
Bless you, Grandma.
Dragonbreath by Ursula Vernon--
What a cute story! I think it is for the elementary level, and all of my elementary kids loved it. They can't wait to see the next installment... something about ninja frogs. :)
White Cat by Holly Black and Tithe and Ironside--
First, White Cat: the story was great, the writing was great. I was so impressed, that I sought out other stories by the same author. Which leads us to Tithe. Imagine my disappointment when I picked up this book and found an abundance of foul language, which is always a sore spot for me. Language is not my only complaint, though. This story reads like a draft that didn't quite make it through all the revisions. There were many parts of the story that simply did not make sense, and I plowed on ahead with the hope that, eventually, it would. It didn't. That being said, the part of the story that made enough sense for me to follow was actually good enough to carry me through to the end and give me the strength to pick up the sequel.
Ironside (the sequel in question) is a much better read that its predecessor, better told and better crafted. Language is still a complaint (though not as much as in the last book), as is the moral issue of sexuality in one of the principal characters. Steer clear if such things offend you.
Only the Good Spy Young by Ally Carter--
This fourth book in the Gallagher Girls' series contains the same fun and excitement that has come to be expected from these YA spy books. A good read for the young and old alike.
Beats the tar out of me. I'm on the last stretch of summer vacation, the true test of endurance for any full-time parent. The rosy tint has gone out of my glasses and my chauffeur's hat is seeing more use that I care to admit. Bleh.
As a recent convert to the ways of insomnia, I'm tired, and easily irritated. My diet is, once again, forgotten by the wayside. Or, perhaps a better description would be to say that I ate my diet for breakfast, and a whole lot of other diets for lunch, dinner, and dessert.
Maybe my stomach hurts, and maybe my hair is falling out, and maybe my life has become a little box of library take-out, but... um... the bright side is that there is that person called "Grandma" who is still crazy enou-- I mean willing to lend aid in these dark hours of summer boredom.
Bless you, Grandma.
Dragonbreath by Ursula Vernon--
What a cute story! I think it is for the elementary level, and all of my elementary kids loved it. They can't wait to see the next installment... something about ninja frogs. :)
White Cat by Holly Black and Tithe and Ironside--
First, White Cat: the story was great, the writing was great. I was so impressed, that I sought out other stories by the same author. Which leads us to Tithe. Imagine my disappointment when I picked up this book and found an abundance of foul language, which is always a sore spot for me. Language is not my only complaint, though. This story reads like a draft that didn't quite make it through all the revisions. There were many parts of the story that simply did not make sense, and I plowed on ahead with the hope that, eventually, it would. It didn't. That being said, the part of the story that made enough sense for me to follow was actually good enough to carry me through to the end and give me the strength to pick up the sequel.
Ironside (the sequel in question) is a much better read that its predecessor, better told and better crafted. Language is still a complaint (though not as much as in the last book), as is the moral issue of sexuality in one of the principal characters. Steer clear if such things offend you.
Only the Good Spy Young by Ally Carter--
This fourth book in the Gallagher Girls' series contains the same fun and excitement that has come to be expected from these YA spy books. A good read for the young and old alike.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Those First Ten Minutes
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many children that she didn't know what to do. Her poor old body was so out of shape, that she struggled almost daily with ways of getting her BC (before children) shape back. She tried joining a gym, but it was so expensive, and such a hassle that she had to let the membership expire. She tried dieting, but her willpower was weakened after a stressful day with the kids, and she couldn't stick to it.
Long walks outside worked, until it got so hot she couldn't bear to leave her air-conditioned shoehouse. And, of course, there was the problem of who would watch the little one while she was out walking for an hour (Nobody volunteered). One day, the old woman asked her husband to buy her an elliptical for her birthday, so she could exercise at will in the comfort of her living room. This was fine, as long as she could force herself to actually do the time on the equipment, which was spotty for about two weeks and ended with the usual discouraged, "What's the use?"
Time passed and the elliptical saw seldom use. The children viewed it as an indoor playground, racing to climb to the top and smearing their filthy fingers across the ceiling, pushing random buttons to hear them beep, and hanging from the handlebars by their knees. The old woman kept dusting it off, thinking she ought to make use of the machine, but then got side-tracked with all her other responsibilities. She kept on dieting and walking, sporadically, trying and failing to loose those extra pounds, and forgot all about the elliptical until one day when her husband asked, "Why don't you use the exercise machine?"
"Oh!" she says. "I forgot all about that thing." Not forgot-forgot... you see, it's a rather large piece of equipment, and took up a huge corner of the living room. But it had been such a fixture for such a long time that she forgot she was supposed to be using it. So she resolved to use it once more, after all, what did she have to lose besides what wouldn't be missed? (some fifteen pounds or more)
The first thirty seconds were easy enough. The old woman was proud of herself for getting on the machine; she even envisioned fitting into those pants she bought a couple of years ago, the ones that almost fit... before she had that last little boy and gained another... um, well, more weight. After about a minute and a half, sweat beaded up on her forehead and her legs ached in protest. "This is harder than I thought," she mumbled.
She closed her eyes for a while, forcing herself not to look at the flashing numbers that displayed her dismal progress, hoping that if she didn't look, the time would go by faster. When she opened her eyes, she had only accumulated three minutes. Her chest hurt, her palms grew slick. "I'm not going to make it," she thought. Still, she kept going.
The children gathered around, watching her sweaty, awkward struggle atop their favorite indoor toy, and immediately sprouted tons of questions that she had not the breath to answer. They eventually lost interest and moved on, but the old woman looked down at her accumulated time, ready to drop from exhaustion. Seven minutes.
"You have got to be kidding!" Her throat closed in and sweat poured down her face, into her eyes and down her neck. "I need a towel," she thought. "I need a drink. I need a break." But she knew that if she got off, she might never get back on again. So she kept going, her chest on fire with the labored breaths of a terribly out-of-shape person.
She thought of the story about the little engine that could, tried to believe in herself, but the time flashed up again. Eight minutes. She wanted to scream. She thought of all those movie stars, bouncing back from pregnancy like they hadn't gained an ounce, but that was hardly encouraging, since everyone knew that Hollywood was full of plastic surgeons and highly-paid personal trainers. Neither of which she had.
"Ten minutes," she thought. "I can do just ten minutes." Eight minutes and fifty-nine seconds... one minute to go. "I think I can, I think I can." As the seconds ticked by and her legs kept pumping, it seemed as though time had slowed to extend her torture. She wiped her face with the bottom of her shirt, focused on a spot before her, at some odd piece of artwork one of her kids had taped to the wall, and pushed onward.
Ten minutes came at last, but the old woman found that once it had passed, her legs had stopped aching so much, and her chest had gotten (somewhat) used to the new rhythm she'd found on her machine. Realizing that she actually could do it, she kept going.
Some of you might think this is silly, but I can attest to the difficulty of those first ten minutes, or even to the difficulty of that first blank page, that first ten thousand words, or whatever the difficulty that may have you daunted. As you stand before that impossibly messy room, or overgrown jungle of a yard, remember that the longest journey begins with but a single step, and even the largest elephant is eaten one bite at a time. The old woman who is a walking, talking stretch mark will lose the unwanted weight, but only if she doesn't give up.
So help me God.
Wings and Spells by Aprilynne Pike--
Reading Wings was a pleasant surprise for me, it being different than what I had expected, and I really enjoyed delving into Ms. Pike's fairy world... so much so, I couldn't wait to get to the library and check out the sequel. Spells (the sequel) I'm afraid was rather disappointing. The action was spotty and the descriptive, non-action sequences tended to drone on and on. Having said this, I am not entirely turned off to this particular series, just mildly disappointed. When the time comes that the next book reveals itself, I will read it.
The Cardturner by Louis Sachar--
I enjoyed this book, though not as much as my teen-aged son. I think Mr. Sachar's books tend to cater toward the male reader, though not so much that girls would dislike his stories (since I know that many girls do, like them, that is). The Cardturner was an interesting story of a boy and his dying great-uncle, the mystery that is the past when relayed incorrectly by others, and a touch of paranormal phenomenon. It's also about bridge, the card game. For those that don't wish to learn about bridge, the story might lean toward the dull side, but if you can skim over those details, sufficiently knowing that you don't understand (unless of course you do understand, and good for you!) then you might like this story as well. However, if you are looking for a gripping action novel, look somewhere else.
The Prince of Mist by Carlos Ruiz Zafon--
I'm not really so into ghost stories that I purposely seek them out, but this one found it's way into my arms and I really enjoyed most of it. There was sufficient spookiness with the mystery that unfolded, but it was the ending that changed a "liked" book into a "not-so-liked" one. What can I say without ruining it? I simply felt that the author's choice on how to end this story was unsatisfactory. It felt unfinished to me.
Lips Touch Three Times by Laini Taylor--
Ms. Laini Taylor may just be a name to watch for in the future--like on the New York Times bestseller list. This book was a collection of three short stories hinging on a kiss. The first I didn't like so well, because it had that same feeling of being unfinished that bothers me so much. The second was better, all the loose ends tied together by the end of the story, and the third was, I think, the best of them all. The writing was superb, the telling, spellbinding. My only complaint is that these were all such short stories that I wanted them to last a little longer--Perhaps they could have been extended, but such is not for me to decide, now is it?
Long walks outside worked, until it got so hot she couldn't bear to leave her air-conditioned shoehouse. And, of course, there was the problem of who would watch the little one while she was out walking for an hour (Nobody volunteered). One day, the old woman asked her husband to buy her an elliptical for her birthday, so she could exercise at will in the comfort of her living room. This was fine, as long as she could force herself to actually do the time on the equipment, which was spotty for about two weeks and ended with the usual discouraged, "What's the use?"
Time passed and the elliptical saw seldom use. The children viewed it as an indoor playground, racing to climb to the top and smearing their filthy fingers across the ceiling, pushing random buttons to hear them beep, and hanging from the handlebars by their knees. The old woman kept dusting it off, thinking she ought to make use of the machine, but then got side-tracked with all her other responsibilities. She kept on dieting and walking, sporadically, trying and failing to loose those extra pounds, and forgot all about the elliptical until one day when her husband asked, "Why don't you use the exercise machine?"
"Oh!" she says. "I forgot all about that thing." Not forgot-forgot... you see, it's a rather large piece of equipment, and took up a huge corner of the living room. But it had been such a fixture for such a long time that she forgot she was supposed to be using it. So she resolved to use it once more, after all, what did she have to lose besides what wouldn't be missed? (some fifteen pounds or more)
The first thirty seconds were easy enough. The old woman was proud of herself for getting on the machine; she even envisioned fitting into those pants she bought a couple of years ago, the ones that almost fit... before she had that last little boy and gained another... um, well, more weight. After about a minute and a half, sweat beaded up on her forehead and her legs ached in protest. "This is harder than I thought," she mumbled.
She closed her eyes for a while, forcing herself not to look at the flashing numbers that displayed her dismal progress, hoping that if she didn't look, the time would go by faster. When she opened her eyes, she had only accumulated three minutes. Her chest hurt, her palms grew slick. "I'm not going to make it," she thought. Still, she kept going.
The children gathered around, watching her sweaty, awkward struggle atop their favorite indoor toy, and immediately sprouted tons of questions that she had not the breath to answer. They eventually lost interest and moved on, but the old woman looked down at her accumulated time, ready to drop from exhaustion. Seven minutes.
"You have got to be kidding!" Her throat closed in and sweat poured down her face, into her eyes and down her neck. "I need a towel," she thought. "I need a drink. I need a break." But she knew that if she got off, she might never get back on again. So she kept going, her chest on fire with the labored breaths of a terribly out-of-shape person.
She thought of the story about the little engine that could, tried to believe in herself, but the time flashed up again. Eight minutes. She wanted to scream. She thought of all those movie stars, bouncing back from pregnancy like they hadn't gained an ounce, but that was hardly encouraging, since everyone knew that Hollywood was full of plastic surgeons and highly-paid personal trainers. Neither of which she had.
"Ten minutes," she thought. "I can do just ten minutes." Eight minutes and fifty-nine seconds... one minute to go. "I think I can, I think I can." As the seconds ticked by and her legs kept pumping, it seemed as though time had slowed to extend her torture. She wiped her face with the bottom of her shirt, focused on a spot before her, at some odd piece of artwork one of her kids had taped to the wall, and pushed onward.
Ten minutes came at last, but the old woman found that once it had passed, her legs had stopped aching so much, and her chest had gotten (somewhat) used to the new rhythm she'd found on her machine. Realizing that she actually could do it, she kept going.
Some of you might think this is silly, but I can attest to the difficulty of those first ten minutes, or even to the difficulty of that first blank page, that first ten thousand words, or whatever the difficulty that may have you daunted. As you stand before that impossibly messy room, or overgrown jungle of a yard, remember that the longest journey begins with but a single step, and even the largest elephant is eaten one bite at a time. The old woman who is a walking, talking stretch mark will lose the unwanted weight, but only if she doesn't give up.
So help me God.
Wings and Spells by Aprilynne Pike--
Reading Wings was a pleasant surprise for me, it being different than what I had expected, and I really enjoyed delving into Ms. Pike's fairy world... so much so, I couldn't wait to get to the library and check out the sequel. Spells (the sequel) I'm afraid was rather disappointing. The action was spotty and the descriptive, non-action sequences tended to drone on and on. Having said this, I am not entirely turned off to this particular series, just mildly disappointed. When the time comes that the next book reveals itself, I will read it.
The Cardturner by Louis Sachar--
I enjoyed this book, though not as much as my teen-aged son. I think Mr. Sachar's books tend to cater toward the male reader, though not so much that girls would dislike his stories (since I know that many girls do, like them, that is). The Cardturner was an interesting story of a boy and his dying great-uncle, the mystery that is the past when relayed incorrectly by others, and a touch of paranormal phenomenon. It's also about bridge, the card game. For those that don't wish to learn about bridge, the story might lean toward the dull side, but if you can skim over those details, sufficiently knowing that you don't understand (unless of course you do understand, and good for you!) then you might like this story as well. However, if you are looking for a gripping action novel, look somewhere else.
The Prince of Mist by Carlos Ruiz Zafon--
I'm not really so into ghost stories that I purposely seek them out, but this one found it's way into my arms and I really enjoyed most of it. There was sufficient spookiness with the mystery that unfolded, but it was the ending that changed a "liked" book into a "not-so-liked" one. What can I say without ruining it? I simply felt that the author's choice on how to end this story was unsatisfactory. It felt unfinished to me.
Lips Touch Three Times by Laini Taylor--
Ms. Laini Taylor may just be a name to watch for in the future--like on the New York Times bestseller list. This book was a collection of three short stories hinging on a kiss. The first I didn't like so well, because it had that same feeling of being unfinished that bothers me so much. The second was better, all the loose ends tied together by the end of the story, and the third was, I think, the best of them all. The writing was superb, the telling, spellbinding. My only complaint is that these were all such short stories that I wanted them to last a little longer--Perhaps they could have been extended, but such is not for me to decide, now is it?
Monday, July 19, 2010
Those endless summer days
Besides keeping house, toilet-training my toddler, feeding my hoard, chasing my sanity, preparing submissions, and reading a friend's book, I continue to work toward my reading goal--though I can't remember what (exactly) it was supposed to be. Anyway, I do like to read, so here's the latest on my list:
Runaway by Meg Cabot--
Ms. Cabot has written many successful, interesting, even gripping, teen romances. This third and last installment of the Airhead series is not one of them. I found this particular series to be excessively drawn out with annoying repetitions that (I think) set a very poor example of how a book should be written. Cabot's fans must be disappointed with her latest works.
Gregor and the Code of Claw by Suzanne Collins--
At long last, I got to read the last installment of the Underland Chronicles. And, as expected, I loved it. Collins' expertise in creating an alternate world makes her readers want to return again and again. It makes me kind of sad, though, that this was the last. The end... But I do get to look forward to her next book, Mockingjay, which is sure to be a thrilling crowd pleaser the whole world over.
Runaway by Meg Cabot--
Ms. Cabot has written many successful, interesting, even gripping, teen romances. This third and last installment of the Airhead series is not one of them. I found this particular series to be excessively drawn out with annoying repetitions that (I think) set a very poor example of how a book should be written. Cabot's fans must be disappointed with her latest works.
Gregor and the Code of Claw by Suzanne Collins--
At long last, I got to read the last installment of the Underland Chronicles. And, as expected, I loved it. Collins' expertise in creating an alternate world makes her readers want to return again and again. It makes me kind of sad, though, that this was the last. The end... But I do get to look forward to her next book, Mockingjay, which is sure to be a thrilling crowd pleaser the whole world over.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
