OMG. I am an old woman already. How did that happen?
I’m not really complaining. The problem is not how long I’ve lived but how little I’ve accomplished along the way. In my youth, I expected to be steeped in life-wisdom, knowledge & skills by my current age. How shocking that I’m still myself, just more faded on the outside.
My previous resolutions are still not resolved.
Here are the goals I was supposed to have reached years ago:
- Fluency in Spanish and French as well as English, possibly a working knowledge of some other language (e.g. the Kalabari dialect of the Ijaw language, as spoken in the Niger Delta by my late ex-husband’s relatives).
What I’ve accomplished: I wrote down about a dozen Kalabari words (written phonetically) while living with the late ex-husband. Eventually, I passed that list to my adult daughter. That’s it.
When anyone asks me: Habla(s) espanol?
I answer: Hablo un poco, y comprendo un poco mas. Not impressive. I never hang out in Spanish-speaking watering holes to discuss Latin American Magic Realist literature in Spanish with serious fans.
Re French: I can read street signs in Quebec and bilingual labels on groceries. “Vente” means sale (useful to know for such pursuits as shoe-shopping). “Arret” means stop (very useful to know to avoid arrest in the English sense). “Congele” means frozen (okay, that’s not usually on any street sign in Canada – it would be too obvious in winter – but it appears on all frozen food packages).
On days like today, I can hum a kind of French-Canadian national anthem: “Mon pays, c’est ne pas un pays; c’est l’hiver.” (My country is not a country, it is winter. To be sung to the tune of “I’m a Star in New York, I’m a Star in L.A.” Melody & French words by Gilles Vigneault.)
Comment je ne parle pas comme il faut? Because there are only 24 hours in a day, & I probably waste most of them.
More goals left over from my hopeful past:
- A Ph.D. in English and possibly a Post-Doc. In real life, I never wrote a monster thesis or gained a “terminal degree” (i.e. Ph.D., sometimes granted after death). I never applied to a university with a Ph.D. program, since that would involve moving away. For several reasons, that never seemed feasible.
- At least one critically-acclaimed novel. (I gave myself permission not to write a bestseller, just a book admired by the most critical critics.) No sign of that either.
- At least one book of lit-crit or reference work (my concordance on the work of Ntozake Shange which remains a work-in-progress years after various publishers turned me down) or raunchy composition handbook (still just an idea and a few grammar exercises). No, no and no.
- Artwork displayed in an exhibit or a publication. Never happened. To see my artwork, you have to know me personally and look at my old drawings. Or come to my class and watch me make cartoon images on a blackboard to illustrate grammatical concepts or metaphors in poetry.
- Proficiency in a musical instrument. No. I used to make godawful sounds on a violin. Be glad I stopped.
- Proficiency in ballroom dancing. No. I’ve been told I have rhythm and an ability to follow steps – after getting them wrong a few times. I never learned an award-winning routine.
- A professional (i.e. paid, even if spotty) acting career. Ha.
At this rate, it’s clear that I have to live to be about 150 to reach all my goals.
I can imagine doing all these things, of course, and becoming the improved new Jean, Model 400, or some such.
I could make resolutions. I could. That would be a minor accomplishment. Then I could look at my list at the end of each year and feel like a huge failure.
Here is what I did last year: Having read up on the harmful effects of caffeine, I broke my addiction to coffee by weaning myself off it, one cup at a time. That doesn’t mean I never drink the stuff, it just means I no longer feel the need to drink it every day. I can go for a week or two without a drop of coffee in my system.
Maybe that’s how these things work: drop by drop, cup by cup. Sigh. I need to reread my entry-level Spanish textbook before my trip to Cuba in February. Not that I’ll understand much Spanish spoken at Cuban speed. With patience & amusement, someone there might understand me.
As they say, life is what happens when you were planning something else. Maybe that's the life-wisdom I've gained in all the detours away from my goals.
Here’s hoping I don't lose all my resolve along the way.
--------------
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
From a Bed, Late at Night
Green thoughts sleep furiously.
Sleepy red thoughts exfoliate drowsily.
Glassy notes drown helplessly.
Mossy bells cascade lazily in a carillon in the stone tower, and the girl with the silver hair listens with her face uplifted.
I reach over to the nightstand and pick up the little plastic pencil sharpener, a good one I bought in an art store and give my wooden Skilcraft No. 1, a rare and sensuous instrument, a twist or two and turn back to my yellow pad. The connecting bathroom door is open and I can hear my wife starting up her shower in there. I’ve already kicked our cat Ronnie out of bed and the day is winding down.
Adjective then Noun then Verb then Adverb
Ugly babies play innocently.
Adverb then Verb then Adjective then Noun then Verb then Adverb.
Swiftly brillig the slithy toves ejaculated furiously.
Studying a sentence form works better when the words are nonsense and don’t actually mean anything. Then its pure form and sound. Content is profoundly affected by form and structure, like watching women walk by. I'm trying to teach my ears how to read. I haven’t learned how to hear iambic meter but I’m always messing with it, trying to get the ear. A SENtence IS a SINGle CRY. Pffhh. Writing with a wooden pencil feels for me what playing an acoustic guitar must feel like for a musician. Right now I'm just practicing my scales.
I love words. I’ve always loved words, but recently I’ve begun really working with words, which I think is one of the advanced steps in a writer's apprenticeship. I’ve begun to discover what I think of as “cadence”, which really isn’t the right word, but it’s the word that comes to mind.
Green tongues loll furiously. Hell, no.
I’m a little better than I used to be, which is all you can hope for. I find as I work my way up the basic elements of story craft there always seems to be another level I didn’t realize was there before. As soon as I think I know something I rediscover my colossal ignorance. One of the pleasures of getting older is that ignorance isn’t as threatening as it is when you’re a young person. Ignorance loses its shame. In the things I’m passionate about ignorance becomes a source of excitement.
Ignorance thrives thrillingly.
I have this little pocket planner notebook laying on the bed and I’m thinking, should I make a resolution? Should I resolve to be a better writer? It seems silly somehow, like resolving to grow another toe, or resolving to be taller. You fix what you can fix. I can resolve to study more. I can resolve to do more crits for people, because crits help me learn. I can do that. I can’t make myself a better writer. All I can do is put in my time at the keyboard.
My hand fumbles for the pencil sharpener and it drops off and rolls out of sight. Shit. I put down the yellow pad and throw aside the covers. In the bathroom I can hear my wife in there showering, and it sounds like she’s singing something soft and low.
As I throw my legs over the bed and try to stand, thunderclaps of pain shoot up my thighs. This is good pain, it even feels good a little bit which makes me wonder if this is what athletes and maybe sexual masochists see in pain. It’s so closely related to pleasure that sometimes they cross notes.
The pain came from doing barbell squats yesterday in my back yard. That and yoga stretching. I didn’t resolve to be more fit. Its just that I’ve been sitting around so much that my body began to cry. My body begged to be stretched, to lift, to push, to run, to strain at its limits. It needs to be exactly what it is, muscle and bone and nerve, as a horse needs to run and a bird needs to fly. The spirit wants to be spirit. The flesh wants to be flesh.
The shower goes on. My wife is standing naked under falling water while I crawl on my knees searching for my lost pencil sharpener. Water is falling on her shoulders and soap is moving down the modest swell of her familiar breasts.
The pencil sharpener is under the nightstand and I snatch it up and fall backwards into bed, because it hurts to hold my legs straight. I suppose I should get some aspirin, but the pain is interesting. I should be trying to figure out how to describe it, taking notes or something. The room is filled with the sound of her showering, like rain. I’m imagining her with the sudsy water running down her back and pooling between the cheeks of her ass.
One of the great discoveries of my life was after shave cologne. It represented a major shift in consciousness.
I personally never cared how I smell. Men generally never do. We have to learn stuff like this. We’re not born with that knowledge like bugs and animals, which if they could speak would have told me, the way you smell isn’t supposed to be for you, bub. It’s for getting women. It’s for mating. My wife kept buying me after shave which I simply used to kill the burn of the razor after shaving. Then I noticed I got lucky in bed after splashing some on at the end of the day.
And meanwhile that shower in there goes on and on.
Along with aftershave, another fairly recent discovery for me is that a woman likes to be seduced. To be romanced and eased along. It’s not like they don’t know what you’re doing. Women are the gatekeepers of paradise and they see you coming way before you see them jingling the key.
And still that shower in the next room goes on and on. What if . . . ?
The incantation each fiction writer conjures by. What if?
I’m feeling very aroused right now. It’s not a question of what I’ll do next, because I don’t even know. The thrill is . . .that I don’t know. The incantation each reader conjures by – “And then what happened??” What can happen next if I drop my underwear and go in there and . . . and . . . maybe she’s tired.
What if she’s not?
That has changed for me too. Sex isn’t about getting it in and getting it across the goal post anymore. It’s the essence of this tormented feeling I have right now. Its what makes male birds fluff out their plumage and do silly dances. Its what makes males lions fight, and stags lock horns. It’s this feeling I have right now.
Should I do it? Pull aside the shower curtain, step in and babble something apologetic about washing her back, when we both know the real reason I’m there is sticking up stiffly in front of me?
Should I do it?
The real stuff, where the soul lives, you can’t make resolutions for. You just can’t.
I resolve to be a better writer. No. You will not.
You will never resolve be a better writer, because you can’t. You will observe humanity and try to make your craft a little truer each time if you can and shovel shit with your keyboard until it smells better.
I resolve to become strong and healthy. No. You will not.
Because your body has a lot to say about that. That’s why your legs feel like hell right now. But you can care for your body, the wife of your spirit and allow it to express its nature through pleasure and toil and appetite.
I resolve to be a better lover. No. You will not.
You will love. Or not. That you will do. And you will be kind, no matter what.
I sit here in bed with my ridiculous pencil in my hand and my hopeful hard on and listen to that shower and my pudgy, sore, middle aged body is saying yes, get in there cowboy and saddle up before she turns the water off. Catch the moment before it gets away. Birds want to fly. Isn’t that right? And what do you want, cowboy?
I put down the pencil and the legal pad. I throw aside the blanket and look down at my tent poled underwear with its tiny little wet spot of anticipation and that exquisite fear, that feeling of adolescent mystery is there squeezing my balls. Is this what women feel when they see the candles on the dinner table after a long day? How do I capture that feeling in words? I’m still so goddamn ignorant.
And meanwhile her shower goes on and on.
C. Sanchez-Garcia
Sleepy red thoughts exfoliate drowsily.
Glassy notes drown helplessly.
Mossy bells cascade lazily in a carillon in the stone tower, and the girl with the silver hair listens with her face uplifted.
I reach over to the nightstand and pick up the little plastic pencil sharpener, a good one I bought in an art store and give my wooden Skilcraft No. 1, a rare and sensuous instrument, a twist or two and turn back to my yellow pad. The connecting bathroom door is open and I can hear my wife starting up her shower in there. I’ve already kicked our cat Ronnie out of bed and the day is winding down.
Adjective then Noun then Verb then Adverb
Ugly babies play innocently.
Adverb then Verb then Adjective then Noun then Verb then Adverb.
Swiftly brillig the slithy toves ejaculated furiously.
Studying a sentence form works better when the words are nonsense and don’t actually mean anything. Then its pure form and sound. Content is profoundly affected by form and structure, like watching women walk by. I'm trying to teach my ears how to read. I haven’t learned how to hear iambic meter but I’m always messing with it, trying to get the ear. A SENtence IS a SINGle CRY. Pffhh. Writing with a wooden pencil feels for me what playing an acoustic guitar must feel like for a musician. Right now I'm just practicing my scales.
I love words. I’ve always loved words, but recently I’ve begun really working with words, which I think is one of the advanced steps in a writer's apprenticeship. I’ve begun to discover what I think of as “cadence”, which really isn’t the right word, but it’s the word that comes to mind.
Green tongues loll furiously. Hell, no.
I’m a little better than I used to be, which is all you can hope for. I find as I work my way up the basic elements of story craft there always seems to be another level I didn’t realize was there before. As soon as I think I know something I rediscover my colossal ignorance. One of the pleasures of getting older is that ignorance isn’t as threatening as it is when you’re a young person. Ignorance loses its shame. In the things I’m passionate about ignorance becomes a source of excitement.
Ignorance thrives thrillingly.
I have this little pocket planner notebook laying on the bed and I’m thinking, should I make a resolution? Should I resolve to be a better writer? It seems silly somehow, like resolving to grow another toe, or resolving to be taller. You fix what you can fix. I can resolve to study more. I can resolve to do more crits for people, because crits help me learn. I can do that. I can’t make myself a better writer. All I can do is put in my time at the keyboard.
My hand fumbles for the pencil sharpener and it drops off and rolls out of sight. Shit. I put down the yellow pad and throw aside the covers. In the bathroom I can hear my wife in there showering, and it sounds like she’s singing something soft and low.
As I throw my legs over the bed and try to stand, thunderclaps of pain shoot up my thighs. This is good pain, it even feels good a little bit which makes me wonder if this is what athletes and maybe sexual masochists see in pain. It’s so closely related to pleasure that sometimes they cross notes.
The pain came from doing barbell squats yesterday in my back yard. That and yoga stretching. I didn’t resolve to be more fit. Its just that I’ve been sitting around so much that my body began to cry. My body begged to be stretched, to lift, to push, to run, to strain at its limits. It needs to be exactly what it is, muscle and bone and nerve, as a horse needs to run and a bird needs to fly. The spirit wants to be spirit. The flesh wants to be flesh.
The shower goes on. My wife is standing naked under falling water while I crawl on my knees searching for my lost pencil sharpener. Water is falling on her shoulders and soap is moving down the modest swell of her familiar breasts.
The pencil sharpener is under the nightstand and I snatch it up and fall backwards into bed, because it hurts to hold my legs straight. I suppose I should get some aspirin, but the pain is interesting. I should be trying to figure out how to describe it, taking notes or something. The room is filled with the sound of her showering, like rain. I’m imagining her with the sudsy water running down her back and pooling between the cheeks of her ass.
One of the great discoveries of my life was after shave cologne. It represented a major shift in consciousness.
I personally never cared how I smell. Men generally never do. We have to learn stuff like this. We’re not born with that knowledge like bugs and animals, which if they could speak would have told me, the way you smell isn’t supposed to be for you, bub. It’s for getting women. It’s for mating. My wife kept buying me after shave which I simply used to kill the burn of the razor after shaving. Then I noticed I got lucky in bed after splashing some on at the end of the day.
And meanwhile that shower in there goes on and on.
Along with aftershave, another fairly recent discovery for me is that a woman likes to be seduced. To be romanced and eased along. It’s not like they don’t know what you’re doing. Women are the gatekeepers of paradise and they see you coming way before you see them jingling the key.
And still that shower in the next room goes on and on. What if . . . ?
The incantation each fiction writer conjures by. What if?
I’m feeling very aroused right now. It’s not a question of what I’ll do next, because I don’t even know. The thrill is . . .that I don’t know. The incantation each reader conjures by – “And then what happened??” What can happen next if I drop my underwear and go in there and . . . and . . . maybe she’s tired.
What if she’s not?
That has changed for me too. Sex isn’t about getting it in and getting it across the goal post anymore. It’s the essence of this tormented feeling I have right now. Its what makes male birds fluff out their plumage and do silly dances. Its what makes males lions fight, and stags lock horns. It’s this feeling I have right now.
Should I do it? Pull aside the shower curtain, step in and babble something apologetic about washing her back, when we both know the real reason I’m there is sticking up stiffly in front of me?
Should I do it?
The real stuff, where the soul lives, you can’t make resolutions for. You just can’t.
I resolve to be a better writer. No. You will not.
You will never resolve be a better writer, because you can’t. You will observe humanity and try to make your craft a little truer each time if you can and shovel shit with your keyboard until it smells better.
I resolve to become strong and healthy. No. You will not.
Because your body has a lot to say about that. That’s why your legs feel like hell right now. But you can care for your body, the wife of your spirit and allow it to express its nature through pleasure and toil and appetite.
I resolve to be a better lover. No. You will not.
You will love. Or not. That you will do. And you will be kind, no matter what.
I sit here in bed with my ridiculous pencil in my hand and my hopeful hard on and listen to that shower and my pudgy, sore, middle aged body is saying yes, get in there cowboy and saddle up before she turns the water off. Catch the moment before it gets away. Birds want to fly. Isn’t that right? And what do you want, cowboy?
I put down the pencil and the legal pad. I throw aside the blanket and look down at my tent poled underwear with its tiny little wet spot of anticipation and that exquisite fear, that feeling of adolescent mystery is there squeezing my balls. Is this what women feel when they see the candles on the dinner table after a long day? How do I capture that feeling in words? I’m still so goddamn ignorant.
And meanwhile her shower goes on and on.
C. Sanchez-Garcia
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Aim Low
I never make resolutions. I can't, because inevitably it will mean ending this year on a low note. December 31st will roll around and I'll look down at the things I promised myself, only to find I haven't accomplished a single one of them. I didn't crash a blimp into another blimp. I haven't invented the world's first sex-robot, with a face like Armie Hammer's and a body like...well...Armie Hammer's. In fact I was really just intending to grab Armie Hammer and stuff him in a bin bag, then haul him back home to the sex den I've made for him under the stairs.
But on December 31st I won't have achieved that, either. And then I'll just have to kick my own ass, and no one wants that. Last time they found my leg in a tree, and I had to be put together with the spare parts I had left over from my failed Armie Hammer sex-robot plan. Now I have one big leg, one tiny one, and a third enormous one that I'm not quite sure what to do with.
Am I supposed to use it in some sort of...tripod type configuration? And when it goes all droopy, do I just wind it up and store it in his conveniently gigantic belly button?
Thought so. But enough thinly veiled references to Armie Hammer's immense tripod penis! Onto resolutions so insane that anyone could achieve them, just by existing:
1. I will not fail to definitely maybe not sort of eat less chocolate. Yeah, take that December 31st me. Your chances of deciphering that sentence are slim, to none.
2. I might do that thing one time.
3. Continue to sometimes wear clothes.
4. Answer the telephone and talk to the person who has also used a telephone.
5. Agree with something - or if the thing is really bad, then maybe disagree with it.
6. Want something because of reasons.*
And there is my list of totally possible resolutions.
*I think this comes from a Kate Beaton comic, so I'm not sure I can claim it as one of my own resolutions. It's really more this guy's resolution:
But then, that guy is ORSUM. I'm thinking of subscribing to his newsletter. Wanting things because of reasons! HOW did I never think of that before? I intend to want things for reasons all the time, from now on.
But on December 31st I won't have achieved that, either. And then I'll just have to kick my own ass, and no one wants that. Last time they found my leg in a tree, and I had to be put together with the spare parts I had left over from my failed Armie Hammer sex-robot plan. Now I have one big leg, one tiny one, and a third enormous one that I'm not quite sure what to do with.
Am I supposed to use it in some sort of...tripod type configuration? And when it goes all droopy, do I just wind it up and store it in his conveniently gigantic belly button?
Thought so. But enough thinly veiled references to Armie Hammer's immense tripod penis! Onto resolutions so insane that anyone could achieve them, just by existing:
1. I will not fail to definitely maybe not sort of eat less chocolate. Yeah, take that December 31st me. Your chances of deciphering that sentence are slim, to none.
2. I might do that thing one time.
3. Continue to sometimes wear clothes.
4. Answer the telephone and talk to the person who has also used a telephone.
5. Agree with something - or if the thing is really bad, then maybe disagree with it.
6. Want something because of reasons.*
And there is my list of totally possible resolutions.
*I think this comes from a Kate Beaton comic, so I'm not sure I can claim it as one of my own resolutions. It's really more this guy's resolution:
But then, that guy is ORSUM. I'm thinking of subscribing to his newsletter. Wanting things because of reasons! HOW did I never think of that before? I intend to want things for reasons all the time, from now on.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Resolved
By Kathleen Bradean
I don't do New Year's resolutions because if I feel a need to change something, I just do it when the mood strikes. However, since my post last week was a bit of a downer, I'll try to be more positive. Something did change at the beginning of this year, just last night actually. For the first time in months, I wrote something.
I've always had intermittent periods when I haven't written anything. They used to make me panic. Would I ever be able to write again? Was my creativity gone forever? Eventually, the answer (to will I ever be able to write again) is yes, so I've learned to face those months with acceptance and patience.
The good thing about not writing is that I have plenty of time to read. I read a blog not long ago that said something along the lines of 'listening to music doesn't mean you can write music any more than reading makes you a writer,' and while I understand the sentiment behind that, I also think that reading helps writers. Besides, I like reading. I love stories. I love stories more than beautiful language and turns of phrases, meaning that if the prose reads like poetry but nothing happens, I'll chuck the book across the room and pick up something with interesting characters doing interesting things even if the language isn't a rare and beautiful piece of delicate craftsmanship. Any writer that in love with his/her own words should be allowed to carry on the affair without me peaking through their window. However, give me a ripping yarn and you'll hold my soul in your hands until the last page. Sometimes, even longer. Like Sleeping Beauty, sometimes I stay under the enchantment for years.
So I guess my resolution is to pay back the favor and tell someone a damn fine tale. If I do it right, I'll weave a spell of words around them that transports them into another world. I'll make them ache to return to my world when they have to leave it for real world commitments. That's a daunting challenge to slap my own face with.
~~~
My reading list these past few months:
The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern (absolutely wonderful)
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy by John le Carre (there's a reason he still sells)
The Honorable Schoolboy by John le Carre
Jonathan Strange and Mr Norell by Susanna Clark (did I really enjoy this book? undecided)
Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs (meh)
True Grit by Charles Portis (no wonder why they keep making this into movies)
The Mermaids Singing by Val McDermid (early work by a master of the mystery craft)
As She Climbed Across the Table by Jonathan Lethem (I liked the writing more than the story)
The Forever War by Joe Haldeman
Dracula by Bram Stoker (sorry, Judja)
Boneshaker by Cherie Priest (liked)
The Osiris Ritual by George Mann (meh)
The Affinity Bridge by George Mann (why am I still reading his work?)
The Immorality Engine by George Mann (I'm done with this writer by now)
St Lucy's Home for Girls Raised By Wolves by Karen Russell (hmmm)
The Poison Master by Liz Williams (liked)
Leviathan by Scott Westerfield (liked)
Crocodile on the Sandbank Elizabeth Peters (I've read this at least ten times)
Chew by John Layman (issues 1- 3. I just realized that 4 was out and ordered it)
The Adventures of Sherlock Homes by Arthur Conan Doyle
(these are only the ones I finished, and don't include books I read for reviews)
I don't do New Year's resolutions because if I feel a need to change something, I just do it when the mood strikes. However, since my post last week was a bit of a downer, I'll try to be more positive. Something did change at the beginning of this year, just last night actually. For the first time in months, I wrote something.
I've always had intermittent periods when I haven't written anything. They used to make me panic. Would I ever be able to write again? Was my creativity gone forever? Eventually, the answer (to will I ever be able to write again) is yes, so I've learned to face those months with acceptance and patience.
The good thing about not writing is that I have plenty of time to read. I read a blog not long ago that said something along the lines of 'listening to music doesn't mean you can write music any more than reading makes you a writer,' and while I understand the sentiment behind that, I also think that reading helps writers. Besides, I like reading. I love stories. I love stories more than beautiful language and turns of phrases, meaning that if the prose reads like poetry but nothing happens, I'll chuck the book across the room and pick up something with interesting characters doing interesting things even if the language isn't a rare and beautiful piece of delicate craftsmanship. Any writer that in love with his/her own words should be allowed to carry on the affair without me peaking through their window. However, give me a ripping yarn and you'll hold my soul in your hands until the last page. Sometimes, even longer. Like Sleeping Beauty, sometimes I stay under the enchantment for years.
So I guess my resolution is to pay back the favor and tell someone a damn fine tale. If I do it right, I'll weave a spell of words around them that transports them into another world. I'll make them ache to return to my world when they have to leave it for real world commitments. That's a daunting challenge to slap my own face with.
~~~
My reading list these past few months:
The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern (absolutely wonderful)
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy by John le Carre (there's a reason he still sells)
The Honorable Schoolboy by John le Carre
Jonathan Strange and Mr Norell by Susanna Clark (did I really enjoy this book? undecided)
Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs (meh)
True Grit by Charles Portis (no wonder why they keep making this into movies)
The Mermaids Singing by Val McDermid (early work by a master of the mystery craft)
As She Climbed Across the Table by Jonathan Lethem (I liked the writing more than the story)
The Forever War by Joe Haldeman
Dracula by Bram Stoker (sorry, Judja)
Boneshaker by Cherie Priest (liked)
The Osiris Ritual by George Mann (meh)
The Affinity Bridge by George Mann (why am I still reading his work?)
The Immorality Engine by George Mann (I'm done with this writer by now)
St Lucy's Home for Girls Raised By Wolves by Karen Russell (hmmm)
The Poison Master by Liz Williams (liked)
Leviathan by Scott Westerfield (liked)
Crocodile on the Sandbank Elizabeth Peters (I've read this at least ten times)
Chew by John Layman (issues 1- 3. I just realized that 4 was out and ordered it)
The Adventures of Sherlock Homes by Arthur Conan Doyle
(these are only the ones I finished, and don't include books I read for reviews)
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Inner Space
By Lisabet Sarai
When New Year's comes rolling around once again, and every blogger begins to ponder his or her resolutions, I try to ignore the trend. For one thing, why should anyone else care about my goals or commitments for the year ahead? For another, I don't really like the concept or the timing. If I'm focused on self-improvement, what's so special about January first? I'll be making decisions, working on adjusting my life objectives, all year long. It's not as though the New Year offers me the only chance to reflect on my status and my progress.
Still, Garce has invited all of the Grippers to address the issue of resolutions, and I don't want to be a spoil sport. So here's my one and only resolution:
During 2012, I resolve to maintain the quality of my inner space.
When I look back over the past year, I remember a lot of tension. I've been feeling pressured by the combination of job demands, relationship demands and the demands of my writing career (such as it is). Even the Grip contributed to that uncomfortable sense that I'd never be able to satisfy all my commitments. I love this blog, but lately I've been feeling as though it's just one more deadline hanging over me, week after week. To an alarming degree, the joy has melted away.
Now it's true that I've been busy in 2011. My course load has been double the usual. I've had a variety of special projects and proposals to address. I'm mentoring several graduate students by email, on top of supervising my own students' research.
I've been blogging here once a week, at Beyond Romance at least three times a week (plus posting articles by my many guests), and producing at least two or three guest posts for other blogs each month. I finished a novel and several short stories, and just put together a new collection that will be out in a few days. And now I have a new commitment: starting in February, I'll be writing a monthly column in the Author Resources section of the Erotica Readers & Writers Association, called "The Erotogeek's Guide for Technologically Challenged Authors". In fact, I have to work on my first installment today...
I find myself getting panicky even as I list all these tasks (and think about the many other more ephemeral items on my to-do list which I haven't bothered to mention - correspondence, blogs to check, quizzes to grade, etc.). When I'm stressed like this, I take it out on the people around me, most notably my husband. And yes, I do think our relationship has suffered over the past year because I've been so focused on all the tasks I have to complete. I've been unwilling to take time off just for fun - I can't forget all the stuff that will be waiting for me when we get back.
Now, you might be thinking, "Well, she should make a resolution to cut back on her commitments." But honestly, that's not the problem. Kristina (just to pick a random person!) has far more commitments than I do. On top of writing, editing, promoting, blogging, and making a living, she has to care for two young children. Aside from my highly capable husband, the only person I have to take care of is myself.
No, the real problem is my inner space. It's not what I'm doing or not doing. It's how I'm looking at things, and how I'm allowing myself to react.
I recently had a reminder of a truth that I've known for a long time. Everything comes from inside. My physical and emotional state depend primarily on how I'm viewing the world.
I might not be happy with my behavior. For instance, I feel guilty for slacking off on exercise, and for drinking too much. But I'm not going to change those things by resolutions. That will just increase the overall level of stress. On the contrary, I have to start work inside. I have to feel healthy and strong - then I can demonstrate those qualities in the physical world. I need to remind myself that I have all the intelligence, energy and creativity I need to follow through with the tasks I've chosen.
And yes, I need to recollect that I did choose this life - and for the most part I love it. Nobody held a gun to my head and said "You're going to take over management of the Oh Get A Grip blog, or else." I agreed to accept the extra course load, the students, the projects, because I felt I could learn something and make a contribution. Heck, I volunteered to do the ERWA column, knowing that it would be fun as well as an opportunity to get my name out in cyberspace.
In 2012 I vow that I'll try to live up to my core philosophy, namely, that our minds create the reality we experience. I believe that each of us has at our core a well of Spirit - love, compassion, joy, intelligence, creativity. The secret to happiness is letting that inner light shine. When we do, the outside world, no matter dark, will brighten.
This year, I resolve to keep the windows of my soul clean, and to allow what's inside out.
When New Year's comes rolling around once again, and every blogger begins to ponder his or her resolutions, I try to ignore the trend. For one thing, why should anyone else care about my goals or commitments for the year ahead? For another, I don't really like the concept or the timing. If I'm focused on self-improvement, what's so special about January first? I'll be making decisions, working on adjusting my life objectives, all year long. It's not as though the New Year offers me the only chance to reflect on my status and my progress.
Still, Garce has invited all of the Grippers to address the issue of resolutions, and I don't want to be a spoil sport. So here's my one and only resolution:
During 2012, I resolve to maintain the quality of my inner space.
When I look back over the past year, I remember a lot of tension. I've been feeling pressured by the combination of job demands, relationship demands and the demands of my writing career (such as it is). Even the Grip contributed to that uncomfortable sense that I'd never be able to satisfy all my commitments. I love this blog, but lately I've been feeling as though it's just one more deadline hanging over me, week after week. To an alarming degree, the joy has melted away.
Now it's true that I've been busy in 2011. My course load has been double the usual. I've had a variety of special projects and proposals to address. I'm mentoring several graduate students by email, on top of supervising my own students' research.
I've been blogging here once a week, at Beyond Romance at least three times a week (plus posting articles by my many guests), and producing at least two or three guest posts for other blogs each month. I finished a novel and several short stories, and just put together a new collection that will be out in a few days. And now I have a new commitment: starting in February, I'll be writing a monthly column in the Author Resources section of the Erotica Readers & Writers Association, called "The Erotogeek's Guide for Technologically Challenged Authors". In fact, I have to work on my first installment today...
I find myself getting panicky even as I list all these tasks (and think about the many other more ephemeral items on my to-do list which I haven't bothered to mention - correspondence, blogs to check, quizzes to grade, etc.). When I'm stressed like this, I take it out on the people around me, most notably my husband. And yes, I do think our relationship has suffered over the past year because I've been so focused on all the tasks I have to complete. I've been unwilling to take time off just for fun - I can't forget all the stuff that will be waiting for me when we get back.
Now, you might be thinking, "Well, she should make a resolution to cut back on her commitments." But honestly, that's not the problem. Kristina (just to pick a random person!) has far more commitments than I do. On top of writing, editing, promoting, blogging, and making a living, she has to care for two young children. Aside from my highly capable husband, the only person I have to take care of is myself.
No, the real problem is my inner space. It's not what I'm doing or not doing. It's how I'm looking at things, and how I'm allowing myself to react.
I recently had a reminder of a truth that I've known for a long time. Everything comes from inside. My physical and emotional state depend primarily on how I'm viewing the world.
I might not be happy with my behavior. For instance, I feel guilty for slacking off on exercise, and for drinking too much. But I'm not going to change those things by resolutions. That will just increase the overall level of stress. On the contrary, I have to start work inside. I have to feel healthy and strong - then I can demonstrate those qualities in the physical world. I need to remind myself that I have all the intelligence, energy and creativity I need to follow through with the tasks I've chosen.
And yes, I need to recollect that I did choose this life - and for the most part I love it. Nobody held a gun to my head and said "You're going to take over management of the Oh Get A Grip blog, or else." I agreed to accept the extra course load, the students, the projects, because I felt I could learn something and make a contribution. Heck, I volunteered to do the ERWA column, knowing that it would be fun as well as an opportunity to get my name out in cyberspace.
In 2012 I vow that I'll try to live up to my core philosophy, namely, that our minds create the reality we experience. I believe that each of us has at our core a well of Spirit - love, compassion, joy, intelligence, creativity. The secret to happiness is letting that inner light shine. When we do, the outside world, no matter dark, will brighten.
This year, I resolve to keep the windows of my soul clean, and to allow what's inside out.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Cannot Predict Now
by Shanna Germain
Long before this year began, I already knew what I wanted it to be. I wanted it to be my year of “yes.” I even did a blog post about it in December. How I was turning 40 this year. How I had done the divorce and the rebound and the internal exploration. How I wanted to start saying yes to the good things, the important things, the scary things. And start saying no to the obligations, the negatives, the non-joys. I’d looked into the crystal ball of my brain, and I knew what I wanted and how I was going to get it.
I’m like that. A planner. No Magic 8 Balls. No Ouija boards. No fortune cookie futures.
I had a second post started, all about the goals I’d set for this year. Finish my trilogy. Teach more. Do more writers’ events. Write x number of stories for x number of anthologies. Submit to a specific list of publications. I had it all laid out in numbers and checklists and plans.
But before I could finish and publish that goal post, something happened.
My atoms got rearranged. Literally. Okay, maybe not literally but it certainly felt like it. Sometime between Christmas and January 1st, something happened that changed me so profoundly I have no words for it. Some, I suppose, might call it a miracle. Being a woman of science, I would call it the moment when every cell in my body died and was born again. When my skin replaced itself on a fast track. When the me I’d become ended and the me I was supposed to be began again.
There are lots of ways that can happen to a person. A near-death experience. A car accident. Giving birth. Finding love. Finding lust. Occasionally, smaller catalysts can jump start an internal rearranging.
But this particular catalyst? For me, this one is big. This one is me breaking open and some greater force putting me back together the way that I’m supposed to be.
I should say right here: I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe in soul mates. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I don’t believe in the powers that be.
I do believe in magic.
All this time I thought I didn’t. All this time I was writing about magic and lust and love and I was thinking, “I would really like to believe in these things.” And I was thinking, “At least I’m making them real in fiction.”
That second post is sitting there in my draft folder. Unpublished. It will never be published because it’s no longer true. Not only are the goals no longer true, but the sentiment behind them isn’t either.
For the first time, I don’t think I know what the future will bring. I can shake my Magic 8 Ball ten times a day and believe every answer I’m given. I can ask the Ouija board a question and then walk away before I’ve gotten a response. I can share my fortune and my cookies with the world and know that tomorrow it will all change anyway. And I’m okay with that.
This is all I know about tomorrow: Reply hazy, try again.
And I will.
Long before this year began, I already knew what I wanted it to be. I wanted it to be my year of “yes.” I even did a blog post about it in December. How I was turning 40 this year. How I had done the divorce and the rebound and the internal exploration. How I wanted to start saying yes to the good things, the important things, the scary things. And start saying no to the obligations, the negatives, the non-joys. I’d looked into the crystal ball of my brain, and I knew what I wanted and how I was going to get it.
I’m like that. A planner. No Magic 8 Balls. No Ouija boards. No fortune cookie futures.
I had a second post started, all about the goals I’d set for this year. Finish my trilogy. Teach more. Do more writers’ events. Write x number of stories for x number of anthologies. Submit to a specific list of publications. I had it all laid out in numbers and checklists and plans.
But before I could finish and publish that goal post, something happened.
My atoms got rearranged. Literally. Okay, maybe not literally but it certainly felt like it. Sometime between Christmas and January 1st, something happened that changed me so profoundly I have no words for it. Some, I suppose, might call it a miracle. Being a woman of science, I would call it the moment when every cell in my body died and was born again. When my skin replaced itself on a fast track. When the me I’d become ended and the me I was supposed to be began again.
There are lots of ways that can happen to a person. A near-death experience. A car accident. Giving birth. Finding love. Finding lust. Occasionally, smaller catalysts can jump start an internal rearranging.
But this particular catalyst? For me, this one is big. This one is me breaking open and some greater force putting me back together the way that I’m supposed to be.
I should say right here: I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe in soul mates. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I don’t believe in the powers that be.
I do believe in magic.
All this time I thought I didn’t. All this time I was writing about magic and lust and love and I was thinking, “I would really like to believe in these things.” And I was thinking, “At least I’m making them real in fiction.”
That second post is sitting there in my draft folder. Unpublished. It will never be published because it’s no longer true. Not only are the goals no longer true, but the sentiment behind them isn’t either.
For the first time, I don’t think I know what the future will bring. I can shake my Magic 8 Ball ten times a day and believe every answer I’m given. I can ask the Ouija board a question and then walk away before I’ve gotten a response. I can share my fortune and my cookies with the world and know that tomorrow it will all change anyway. And I’m okay with that.
This is all I know about tomorrow: Reply hazy, try again.
And I will.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Be Careful What You Wish For, You Might Have to Work to Get It
by Kristina Wright
I love making predictions. I'm usually wrong, but sometimes I'm right. It really depends on what I'm predicting. I'm generally an optimist, so I tend to lean toward positive "everything will work out" predictions. Is that a prediction at all or just wishful thinking? is there a difference? Maybe a prediction is nothing more than a wish. Which does make me wonder about all the end of times predictions, as Garce wrote about. Why would anyone wish for the end of the world?
I think my interest in predicting my own future comes from having to write my own obituary for a high school psychology class. I was a smartass gifted student and didn't particularly like our pompous teacher (who modeled himself after Sydney Poitier in To Sir, With Love--a movie he made us watch) so I didn't take the assignment too seriously. I dashed off a couple of lines and turned it in--and got a C-. Not my first in my high school career, but certainly unexpected for a busy work assignment. There was more red ink on the page from his pen then there were words in my obituary. The gist of the justification for the grade was that I hadn't put any thought into the assignment. Which I hadn't. Who wants to think about their own death? But he made a comment to me when I complained about my grade that caught me up short. "If you put this little thought into your future, what will you have to look back on?"
It wasn't as if I had no ambitions at seventeen. I was college-bound and knew I wanted to be a writer. But beyond that... yeah, it was all pretty vague. I mean, who knows what they want to do with their entire life when they're seventeen? In retrospect, I think he was a little hard on me because I had more direction than most kids I knew, as well as having always known that I wanted to be a writer. I think he wanted me to imagine a bigger world and fuller life for myself. He offered me the opportunity to rewrite my obituary for a better grade, but with a solid A in the class already and a busy extracurricular life, I declined. But I did not forget the assignment or his comments. Since high school, I've spent a lot of time contemplating questions like, "Will this matter in a year?" "Where do I want to be by the time I'm 25, 40, 65?" and "What is really important to me?" They're difficult questions to answer because the landscape of my life has changed so much and whatever path I have set out on has often led to me meandering down unmarked side paths-- amazing, wild, wonderful side paths-- that have put me somewhere else entirely from where I thought I was going to end up.
About fifteen years ago, I succumbed to the tradition of writing a newsletter to include with my holiday cards. You know the type-- the ones that rave about all the wonderful things that have happened to the family. I didn't keep it up for long (I prefer to write personal notes in my cards, even if it takes forever), but for a few years I amused myself by writing the following year's newsletter before anything had happened. Then when the holidays rolled around, I would pull out the letter and read what I had "predicted" for the year and make the changes accordingly. It was fun to consider the year in advance that way and also interesting to see whether what I'd written had "come true." Surprisingly, a lot of it did.
Reading a letter written by me talking about my imaginary year was eye opening in a number of ways. For one, it showed me how ambitious I am. Not for wealth or accolades or a size 0 body or any of those "be a better you" type New Year's resolutions, but ambitious to be... happy. To be balanced. To feel complete. To feel like my life is full of good things and good people. To be a well-rounded person who loves and is loved, who has had more joy than sadness over the course of a year, who has set her expectations crazy high--but only for herself. I often think back on that seventeen year old kid I was and realize there's still a lot of her in me. Wishing and dreaming, but afraid to wish for too much. Afraid I don't deserve it, afraid if I ask for too much it will all disappear. Putting my wishes in writing in the form of predictions seemed like tempting fate, but it also unlocked some part of me that said, "You deserve this happiness you're writing about. You deserve it."
When I turned 39 I did a one year plan for where I wanted to be when I was 40. It wasn't so much a list of predictions as goals I wanted to accomplish. But I didn't list them as goals, I stated them as facts the way I had in my fake holiday newsletter. "I won a Nobel Peace Prize." Like that. (Though that wasn't among my goals.) I tucked the list away for a year and pulled it out again when I turned 40, amused to see that some of the things that had seemed so important the year before had totally fallen off my radar. I was also pleasantly surprised to see that I'd met a number of my goals. There was nothing magical about any of it--it was simply a way of making note of what was important to me at the current moment and checking back in a year later to see what I'd accomplished, what I'd forgotten, what I'd failed. Being a rather motivated person (most of the time), I accomplished more than I failed. No magic there.
When I turned 40, I made a 5-year prediction list. That proved to be a little more difficult and not nearly as accurate as a one-year prediction list. For one thing, a lot of my "predictions" were contingent on certain things, so if A didn't happen, neither did B or C. For instance, I said we'd be moving, but that was contingent on Jay's orders in the Navy and we ultimately stayed put. Among my correct predictions were that I would have a baby, edit an anthology, still have my car (which turns 20 this year), teach college, celebrate my 21st wedding anniversary and go to London. Then there were the ones I missed entirely-- I don't have a MFA or PhD and I don't think I'll be able to get either before May when I turn 45. We didn't even move locally, something I was quite certain I wanted. But then the real estate bubble burst and the economy tanked and I decided our house with its reasonable mortgage was just fine. I didn't learn how to play a musical instrument, either. I didn't write a novel, though I started several. I didn't go to Venice with Jay for his 40th birthday because I had a baby.
I turn 45 this year and I am wondering whether to make another 5 year prediction plan. I like dreaming about my "ideal" life five years from now, though I know what I consider ideal now might be different by the time I turn 50. When I'm 50, I will have an eight year old and a six year old-- and while I might have predicted one baby, I never predicted two! If I keep editing anthologies at the rate of three a year, I will have over 20 anthologies under my belt by the time I turn 50. I will have been married for 27 years when I'm 50. These are the basics-- the predictions I can make based on everything staying on track. But what about wild, out there predictions? Should I make some? I'm still pondering over that.
Accurately predicting the future (my future) doesn't mean I have any mystical powers-- or even a particularly good imagination, since I stick to rather reasonable predictions. If I were psychically gifted, I'd have predicted the housing boom and subsequent crash and made the most of it. There is really nothing magic about any of my predictions coming true, but putting them in writing seems to trigger something in my brain. Reminding me what's important, what I really want and where I ultimately want to end up. Granted, I'm not always right and sometimes I forget what it was I even wanted in the first place. But the big things, the really meaningful things, those stick. Those predictions I wrote over the years in faux newsletters and one-year and five-year plans are the wishes I wanted to come true. While I'm guilty of thinking far too often that I don't deserve certain good things, I'm optimistic enough (and stubborn enough) to believe that if I want something badly enough, I can make it happen. And though I didn't get every one of my predictions right, the end result has been the same--I am happy. Sappy? Yeah. Age and motherhood have softened my sharp edges and sarcastic wit (mostly). But at the end of the day--or the end of a year--my wish is to be happy.
So for 2012, I predict... happiness. Children's laughter. Love. The best kind of challenges. Deadlines that make me grateful to be a writer. Meeting new friends in far (and not so far) away places. Writing. Learning. Being passionate. Falling head over heels again with this wonderful thing called life. And while I dislike the idea of writing my obituary now that my own mortality is much more real than it was when I was seventeen, I would like very much if some day one line of it reads, "She was so happy."
Sometime soon, I'll work on my 5 year plan. I don't know yet what will be in there. There are things from my last five year plan that won't make the cut or wishes that I have outgrown or laid aside in favor of new wishes. I'll try to be practical as I was the last time, but maybe I'll throw a couple of wild predictions in there, too. Only if they are things that I really, really want, though. Like a pony. Or a summer cottage. Or Eric Dane, naked. But maybe wanting to be happy, wanting to love and be loved, wanting to live a life that is big and full and passionate and magical... maybe that's wild enough, huh?
I love making predictions. I'm usually wrong, but sometimes I'm right. It really depends on what I'm predicting. I'm generally an optimist, so I tend to lean toward positive "everything will work out" predictions. Is that a prediction at all or just wishful thinking? is there a difference? Maybe a prediction is nothing more than a wish. Which does make me wonder about all the end of times predictions, as Garce wrote about. Why would anyone wish for the end of the world?
I think my interest in predicting my own future comes from having to write my own obituary for a high school psychology class. I was a smartass gifted student and didn't particularly like our pompous teacher (who modeled himself after Sydney Poitier in To Sir, With Love--a movie he made us watch) so I didn't take the assignment too seriously. I dashed off a couple of lines and turned it in--and got a C-. Not my first in my high school career, but certainly unexpected for a busy work assignment. There was more red ink on the page from his pen then there were words in my obituary. The gist of the justification for the grade was that I hadn't put any thought into the assignment. Which I hadn't. Who wants to think about their own death? But he made a comment to me when I complained about my grade that caught me up short. "If you put this little thought into your future, what will you have to look back on?"
It wasn't as if I had no ambitions at seventeen. I was college-bound and knew I wanted to be a writer. But beyond that... yeah, it was all pretty vague. I mean, who knows what they want to do with their entire life when they're seventeen? In retrospect, I think he was a little hard on me because I had more direction than most kids I knew, as well as having always known that I wanted to be a writer. I think he wanted me to imagine a bigger world and fuller life for myself. He offered me the opportunity to rewrite my obituary for a better grade, but with a solid A in the class already and a busy extracurricular life, I declined. But I did not forget the assignment or his comments. Since high school, I've spent a lot of time contemplating questions like, "Will this matter in a year?" "Where do I want to be by the time I'm 25, 40, 65?" and "What is really important to me?" They're difficult questions to answer because the landscape of my life has changed so much and whatever path I have set out on has often led to me meandering down unmarked side paths-- amazing, wild, wonderful side paths-- that have put me somewhere else entirely from where I thought I was going to end up.
About fifteen years ago, I succumbed to the tradition of writing a newsletter to include with my holiday cards. You know the type-- the ones that rave about all the wonderful things that have happened to the family. I didn't keep it up for long (I prefer to write personal notes in my cards, even if it takes forever), but for a few years I amused myself by writing the following year's newsletter before anything had happened. Then when the holidays rolled around, I would pull out the letter and read what I had "predicted" for the year and make the changes accordingly. It was fun to consider the year in advance that way and also interesting to see whether what I'd written had "come true." Surprisingly, a lot of it did.
Reading a letter written by me talking about my imaginary year was eye opening in a number of ways. For one, it showed me how ambitious I am. Not for wealth or accolades or a size 0 body or any of those "be a better you" type New Year's resolutions, but ambitious to be... happy. To be balanced. To feel complete. To feel like my life is full of good things and good people. To be a well-rounded person who loves and is loved, who has had more joy than sadness over the course of a year, who has set her expectations crazy high--but only for herself. I often think back on that seventeen year old kid I was and realize there's still a lot of her in me. Wishing and dreaming, but afraid to wish for too much. Afraid I don't deserve it, afraid if I ask for too much it will all disappear. Putting my wishes in writing in the form of predictions seemed like tempting fate, but it also unlocked some part of me that said, "You deserve this happiness you're writing about. You deserve it."
When I turned 39 I did a one year plan for where I wanted to be when I was 40. It wasn't so much a list of predictions as goals I wanted to accomplish. But I didn't list them as goals, I stated them as facts the way I had in my fake holiday newsletter. "I won a Nobel Peace Prize." Like that. (Though that wasn't among my goals.) I tucked the list away for a year and pulled it out again when I turned 40, amused to see that some of the things that had seemed so important the year before had totally fallen off my radar. I was also pleasantly surprised to see that I'd met a number of my goals. There was nothing magical about any of it--it was simply a way of making note of what was important to me at the current moment and checking back in a year later to see what I'd accomplished, what I'd forgotten, what I'd failed. Being a rather motivated person (most of the time), I accomplished more than I failed. No magic there.
When I turned 40, I made a 5-year prediction list. That proved to be a little more difficult and not nearly as accurate as a one-year prediction list. For one thing, a lot of my "predictions" were contingent on certain things, so if A didn't happen, neither did B or C. For instance, I said we'd be moving, but that was contingent on Jay's orders in the Navy and we ultimately stayed put. Among my correct predictions were that I would have a baby, edit an anthology, still have my car (which turns 20 this year), teach college, celebrate my 21st wedding anniversary and go to London. Then there were the ones I missed entirely-- I don't have a MFA or PhD and I don't think I'll be able to get either before May when I turn 45. We didn't even move locally, something I was quite certain I wanted. But then the real estate bubble burst and the economy tanked and I decided our house with its reasonable mortgage was just fine. I didn't learn how to play a musical instrument, either. I didn't write a novel, though I started several. I didn't go to Venice with Jay for his 40th birthday because I had a baby.
I turn 45 this year and I am wondering whether to make another 5 year prediction plan. I like dreaming about my "ideal" life five years from now, though I know what I consider ideal now might be different by the time I turn 50. When I'm 50, I will have an eight year old and a six year old-- and while I might have predicted one baby, I never predicted two! If I keep editing anthologies at the rate of three a year, I will have over 20 anthologies under my belt by the time I turn 50. I will have been married for 27 years when I'm 50. These are the basics-- the predictions I can make based on everything staying on track. But what about wild, out there predictions? Should I make some? I'm still pondering over that.
Accurately predicting the future (my future) doesn't mean I have any mystical powers-- or even a particularly good imagination, since I stick to rather reasonable predictions. If I were psychically gifted, I'd have predicted the housing boom and subsequent crash and made the most of it. There is really nothing magic about any of my predictions coming true, but putting them in writing seems to trigger something in my brain. Reminding me what's important, what I really want and where I ultimately want to end up. Granted, I'm not always right and sometimes I forget what it was I even wanted in the first place. But the big things, the really meaningful things, those stick. Those predictions I wrote over the years in faux newsletters and one-year and five-year plans are the wishes I wanted to come true. While I'm guilty of thinking far too often that I don't deserve certain good things, I'm optimistic enough (and stubborn enough) to believe that if I want something badly enough, I can make it happen. And though I didn't get every one of my predictions right, the end result has been the same--I am happy. Sappy? Yeah. Age and motherhood have softened my sharp edges and sarcastic wit (mostly). But at the end of the day--or the end of a year--my wish is to be happy.
So for 2012, I predict... happiness. Children's laughter. Love. The best kind of challenges. Deadlines that make me grateful to be a writer. Meeting new friends in far (and not so far) away places. Writing. Learning. Being passionate. Falling head over heels again with this wonderful thing called life. And while I dislike the idea of writing my obituary now that my own mortality is much more real than it was when I was seventeen, I would like very much if some day one line of it reads, "She was so happy."
Sometime soon, I'll work on my 5 year plan. I don't know yet what will be in there. There are things from my last five year plan that won't make the cut or wishes that I have outgrown or laid aside in favor of new wishes. I'll try to be practical as I was the last time, but maybe I'll throw a couple of wild predictions in there, too. Only if they are things that I really, really want, though. Like a pony. Or a summer cottage. Or Eric Dane, naked. But maybe wanting to be happy, wanting to love and be loved, wanting to live a life that is big and full and passionate and magical... maybe that's wild enough, huh?
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