My take on Advice from Mom.

 Around mother's day, there is a lot of advice floating around.  I wanted to do my own list. Much handed down from my mother.  Some learned the hard way. All? take it or leave it!

1.     Regarding babies? If their tummy is full and their bottom dry, they are ok.

2.     Don’t go to anyone’s house as a guest empty handed.

3.     Say yes whenever you can. Mean it when you say no.

4.     Exercise. Just do it.

5.     Your spouse deserves your respect at all times.  You picked him/her.  Make sure what you say reflects your good choice.

6.     Violence is best left to tv, video games and literature.  Don’t let it poison you.

7.     Sit up straight. You will feel better.

8.     Drink a glass of water for every alcoholic one you consume, or just go with club soda.

9.     Always tell the people you love that you do.  Even if it sounds like routine.

10. No one will love you like your mother and father. You will love no one like your child.  Trust me on this.

11. When you feel like smacking someone you love the most, hug them hardest.

12. Make your bed everyday.   Even if you will be crawling back into it. Even if no one but you sees it. It shows your respect for yourself.

13. Keep journals.  It is a form of meditation. And great perspective.

14. Stretch.

15. Nap.

16. Try new things. You were born with a sense of adventure.  Enjoy it.

17. Family matters. Take care of each other. 

18. Animals learn from how they are treated.  Don't forget that people are animals.

19. Your time is only worth what you value it to be. Everyone has the same 24 hours.

20. Give back.  You’ve been lucky.  Not everyone has.

Crazy Dog Lady

If I hadn't specifically checked, I'd assume it was the full moon, because the dogs can't settle down this morning. Or they couldn't, until I finally moved the computer back to the office and opened a file to write. It's as though they know I've made commitments to myself and they are frantic for me to follow through. Dogs.

I read Mary Oliver's Dog Songs last night. She writes like she's an old friend, and I loved the book. I suppose people who love dogs and have known them as best friends would also feel that way. One thing she talked about that made me a little sad was how dogs on leashes walking the sidewalk are not real dogs. That dogs need to run free. I confess that my dogs don't get that privilege. I'd like for them to, but they just don't have any common sense. I take them to the beach and they would run forever after the gulls and pelicans and my voice calling them back would be lost in the wind. They'd run so far I'd never catch up to them. I take them to the dog park, but they hover next to the little dog weight limit (twenty pounds) ... he is a little over, she is a little under, so they are not safe from admonition in either section. The big dogs would have them of course, but the little girl simply cowers in fear, and begs me to hold her. The big boy looks tine amidst the Great Danes and German Shepherds and Boxers. He tries to play, but the big dogs don't take him seriously.

It makes me long for the fields back in Iowa, where we used to take the dog of the moment and let him run. But that dog was Barney, the black lab, and he would not run so far that he couldn't hear me, and would always come back. Or the dog-friendly beaches of Michigan, but that was Millie, the golden retriever, and she'd jump into the cool water and swim until the humans had to go home. You could throw a ball from Michigan to Chicago, and Millie would bring it back to you. And it makes me remember sadly my Scout, the Border collie who never needed a leash, so long as you had a ball or a stick. She was not letting those "sheep" out of her sight.

But my dogs now, sweet little stuffed animals that they are, half golden retriever, with their common sense, and retrieving and swimming, and half poodle, also swimmers and retrievers, with a good dose of clever thrown in, exhibit very few of the traits of their parental breeds. I toss a ball for them and they look at me like I’m crazy. I take them to the beach, either the cool fresh water of Michigan or the sensuous salt of the gulf, and they love to look at the dead fish, and chase the birds, but they are very much not interested in going in. The little one hides behind my feet, the big one pulls away.
But they love to run around their fenced yard, love to walk on their leashes with me wherever I want to go (except please not that new park, they get cockle burs there!) And they don't shed, love brushing and they love my husband and me. They know our kids on sight and love them too, even though none of them live here. And strangers? They will do their tricks... one legacy from their poodle dad... and smile sweetly until anyone who meets them loves them back. I think that is their equivalent to off leash time, or maybe they are really not dogs, but stuffed animals come to life.

Anyway. Dog Songs, by Mary Oliver. Easy, quick little book of poems and sweet sketches.

Easter doodles

I have been busy with company and am traveling now, but hope to be able to catch up with the poem a day before the end of the month.  In the meantime, the puppies want to say hello!

It is also Poem in your Pocket day.  I'm embarrassed to say I'm not dressed yet...  I may have used this one last year, so I'll check later.  But it's handy and I'm in a hotel, so it's going to have to do for now.




Waking

by Stephen Dobyns

Waking, I look at you sleeping beside me.

It is early and the baby in her crib

has begun her conversation with the gods

that direct her, cooing and making small hoots.

Watching you, I see how your face bears the signs

of our time together—for each objective

description, there is the romantic; for each

scientific fact, there's the subjective truth—

this line was caused by days at a microscope,

this from when you thought I no longer loved you.

Last night a friend called to say that he intends

to move out; so simple, he and his wife splitting

like a cell into two separate creatures.

What would happen if we divided ourselves?

As two colors blend on a white pad, so we

have become a third color; or better,

as a wire bites into the tree it surrounds,

so we have grown together. Can you believe

how frightening I find this, to know I have

no life except with you? It's almost enough

to make me destroy it just to protest it.

Always we seemed perched on the brink of chaos.

But today there's just sunlight and the baby's

chatter, her wonder at the way light dances

on the wall. How lucky to be ignorant,

to greet joy without a trace of suspicion,

to take that first step without worrying what

comes trailing after, as night trails after day,

or winter summer, or confusion where all

seemed clear and each moment was its own reward.

More Poems for April

 Prompts from Writers Digest April Poem a Day Challenge


 Self Portrait

Most often I think of myself as
Times New Roman, 12 point font.
With occasional italics or bold
But I’m not an underline type.
As for the exterior
I’m more of a shadows person,
I even walk behind my dogs

But that doesn’t mean I don’t
Know how to Shine
With the glow of hard work
Or the brilliance of joy
Or the polish of Uptown.
I’m a chameleon,
Just tell me what you want me to be.

April 15

The calendar pages scroll forward,
Not like the past when I could x them off
Black marker on paper. Everything now is
Digital.

I put the numbers in the program
Nothing judgmental. I’m just a monkey copying
From W-2 to 1099 and the
Program tells me what to put where.
I don’t need to understand anymore.

But when it gets to that crucial
Tax Due line
I want to pull my physical hair out
And go back to the days
When a little finesse
Could be a tax shelter.

Night

The train whistle is more a blare
Then metallic pounding, wheels on rails,
I know it is midnight
and I’m still awake.
I swallow and my throat sticks together,
All the moisture in my body evaporates,
I’m still so hot.

The shadow at the doorway looms,
I pretend hard I am asleep.
He walks into the room anyway. 
“Are you awake?”
He strokes my hair
and I know
I’ve run out of luck.


Prompt: Violence or Peace

Evacuation

It started with a calm day, hot, humid, summer.
But there was more: an anticipation. A sense of
What was coming.
Get ready, we were warned.  Run from the rain
They said, but hide from the wind. 
We waited until the last minute
When paranoia and the eerie empty feel of the streets,
And the closing of the texmex place around the corner
Prickled our fear.

So we packed up.
We took the dogs and the cats and
Our youngest son, still at home.
We stacked in all the photo albums
And the plastic box with passports medical records
And birth certificates.
“Should we take both cars?” I asked.
“We have insurance.” He said.
It is just stuff and
Stuff is replaceable.

The wind came, and not finding us,
Twisted the trees and played tiddley winks with shingles.
And the rain came, and couldn’t catch us,
but still the carpets were soaked and smelled bad.
Green slime filled the sparkling pool
While the temperature climbed
But the linemen couldn’t.

So we lit candles and perspired
And taught our kid to put together puzzles
Since his beloved Xbox took power.
And when we finally got news
And the count of the dead
We learned that the surge had swept away
Houses, streets, whole villages.
But they didn’t say what everyone knew
That no one would ever know the real number,
bodies might never be found.
Mostly the old ones, who knew that evacuation
Could be like war.

Discovery

We threw a bag together,
leashed up the dogs
and headed south,
Because the clouds looked thinner there.

Needless to say, we got lost.
And it rained.
And while we listened to the Beach Boys
And the dogs slept,
we watched the green get greener
And technicolor wildflowers brush the ankles
Of contented cows, and happy horses.

Then we headed back home,
And the clouds turned into popcorn

Since We Got a Dog (PAD)

Since We Got a Dog

We’ve gotten used to the scent of urine
On the carpet inside the bedroom door
Which we agree to sacrifice to save the rest of the house.
You want hardwood anyway.

We’ve gotten used to getting up with him,
As  soon as the sun peeks in the window
And we stumble to find the leash and our glasses
 and shoes, and the door.

But since we got the dog,
We’ve smiled more, walked more, slept better
And when he looks at you with those big black eyes
You can’t resist, and let him on the couch.

More for Poetry Month

 I'm trying to do a Poem a Day with Robert Lee Brewer's blog.  I'm not ordinarily a poet. Just playing with words.   Come and play too! 


 Call Me Back

It was like the sun had burst inside me,
light and laughter and joy combined.
Knowing, finally knowing
That it was you. Only you.

Leave a Message, the recording instructed
But after the beep, I pressed End Call
Because there are some words
That should never be spoken
 to a machine.


Journey

I bought my ticket with sleepless nights
Endless diapers and pureed squash
Skinned knees, broken hearts, lessons
For dance and art and baseball and science
and lessons in
Being kind
Telling the truth
Respecting others.

They gave me the receipt by growing up
Educated, good, contributing people
With jobs and houses and —lives.
“What will you do now?” They ask.
“Now you are free!” They say.
“Enjoy the world!” They tell me.
They think I don’t know how.
But I listened.  I will be kind
And respect their wishes, and tell the truth.
I’m off.  Farewell!

Opening Day

For Poetry Month, I'm going to play a bit.  See here:

 Opening Day

The kids get out last years gloves
Oil them down, tighten the laces.
Their sliders don’t fit, and
Their cleats give them blisters
And a bit of a shortstop’s strut.
We splurge for new, and
 Practice on spring break sand.
The wind serves up a curve ball,
They field, run, strike out until
One pitch. One swing.
The sweet hollow sound of
A home run.

They don the jersey of this year’s hero,
Hoping he’ll put their name on a foul ball.
Climb the stairs to the cheap seats, right field,
Oil hands with hot dogs, perfume with cotton candy,
(or spicy nachos in Texas)
Tuck in the cokes and
Watch the Jumbo-tron.
The line up is set, the crowd ready.
A cub scout color guard, a Vet holds the flag.
We stand for the anthem, proud.
We Are Americans and
This is Our Game.

loneliness

I know this is a somewhat recurring theme for me, but it seems to be pervasive and I'd like to open discussion on it. I just posted the question on Twitter but I rarely get replies there. So I thought I'd blog a bit as well and see if anything bubbles up.

The thing is, I love working alone. I need the solitude for concentration. Whether I'm working on a legal matter or writing fiction or even blog posts, the best focus comes when there aren't other people around to distract me.

That isn't exclusive to home workers though. When I worked with a firm, I was alone in my office. The big difference was that when I needed a break or wanted to ask someone else's opinion or just wanted someone to have lunch with, there were people just steps outside my door with the same needs. Even when I moved my practice primarily to a home office, I could reconnect with the firm by driving into the office and there was always someone who needed to talk to me, either another lawyer or an admin or someone.

And then there were children to add to the mix, which by nature of the beast brings you in contact a) with their own miniature person selves and b) other parents just as desperate for an adult voice. You don't realize it while you are caught up in the raising of children just how much human contact you have, until you get to this lovely point in life: the empty nest.

When I was younger, I always envisioned going back to the office when the kids were gone. But even if I wanted to, you know, shed the love of comfortable clothes and give up my availability to walk dogs and accept deliveries any time, it is a rare office that wants to hire a woman of a certain age, and a rarer woman of a certain age who's had independence and can envision giving it up to have a "boss."

But that doesn't deal with the loneliness. Is it really part of the trade off?

Spring cleaning

You might remember the story of how I got my cat, as it all played out on OD. First I inherited my daughters Persian when she went to college. Sophie was a great cat, always perched on my desk, traveled well, etc. But unknown to us, she had kidney disease and died when she was about 7. That happened in January, 2004. By the time Mother's day rolled around in May, the family decided I needed a new cat. So my son and my husband went off to Petco where there were pet adoptions, and came home with two. They were siblings, and it was "buy one get one free..." Despite my husband not being a fan of cats, he couldn't resist these two. They were adorable as kittens, always wanting to crawl up on me together. By the time they were 2, they had divided the house and wouldn't speak to each other. He got the family room and the bedroom. She got upstairs, the living room and the office. It was kind of weird. A couple of years ago, we lost the girl. I'm not sure what killed her... it was very fast. One minute she was fine, by the evening she appeared to be shrinking, and by morning she was gone. Snakebite? poison? No clue. Now we just have Tubby... who earned his name as a baby.

The reason I started this story was to explain about "free" cats....with claws. And what they can do to furniture. They had scratching posts and all the other recommendations, but they took a liking to the way fabric on furniture felt. Expensive furniture. I have just "lived with it" for years, moving things out to the spare garage when I replaced them. I had three Ethan Allen Queen Anne chairs, a Pennsyvania House sofa, a "chair and a half" with matching ottoman all with great frames but shredded backs. I tried to get them recovered, but the cost of fabric and labor was more than a new chair. I tried to give them away, but none of the charities wanted damaged goods. I just don't have the skill to repair them myself, so yesterday I gave up. I called the Junk King and had them all hauled away. Along with old mattresses, a broken desk, etc. It was a full truck, equivalent to 4 pickups! When i saw it all in the truck, it occurred to me that I had finally gotten rid of the furniture I bought for the house in Michigan AND the house in Iowa. None of it had been right for the Texas house. It was all sentimental... and all getting old. I napped with the baby that turned 21 on Sunday on that couch!

Now the house feels delightfully uncluttered and as though it can breathe without all that shredded sentimentality hanging around. Might be time to clean out some of the old writing files in my computer, too. I'm very fond of shredded sentimentality, it seems.

Perspectives

I had the opportunity to work the Primary election on Tuesday and was pleasantly surprised to meet a number of people in my party, which is not the majority party, in my own neighborhood. I knew of only one other family of our persuasion before that, neighbors I’d seen at a caucus in 2008. I was also surprised by the religious and racial diversity of those neighbors. Suffice it to say that I was operating from a position I’d put myself in: isolation. It is so easy to fall into that position when you can get so many social needs fulfilled right at your desk. Between my online activity and travel, I really haven’t taken the time to get to know, or be involved, in my own neighborhood. It came at a good time. As my husband and I discuss what we want to do geographically, now that we are empty nesters, we’ve often thought we’d like to move “downtown”… or mid town to be more precise. The cost of real estate and the dearth of actual yards for our dogs and flowers has been the reason we’ve hesitated, especially now that he is winding down on his employment. Our reasons for moving were simple… we wanted to be around more people who we could be friends with. And be closer to writing groups, discussion groups and walkable restaurants, bars and galleries. We won’t find walkable restaurants and bars in the suburbs, but it is possible we have underestimated the community for some of the other things. Time to find out. I am at the beach today. The sun is bright and there are only gentle waves on the ocean, beautiful music to work by. It is warm enough that I will spend some time with my book out on the deck, and take the dogs for a walk on the beach. (You didn’t think I’d leave them home surely!) The weather has been confusing, (especially to my allergies) … last weekend we were in the Eighties for the Dog Parade on Sunday and then in the twenties on Tuesday with the coldest rain I can remember. Here are my pups, dressed in their South Pacific costumes, for the Mardi gras parade. They had a lot of fun meeting new dog friends, and were perfect for the parade, letting little kids pet them and generally loving the attention. I was not at all surprised. I’m off to rewrite my Muslim character today. I have not done him justice yet, but I think I know how to fix that. Another surprise from my election clerking… but it did affirm my central theme of invisibility. It isn’t just me.

Finishing, with a nod to ravioli

-->

Even though it is a gray morning, spring has returned at last.  Temps in the 60s, a bit of rain… after the weeks of plunging into hard freeze zones, we’ll take it. Seems strange to me how sunlight and warmth inspires activity, but there is no use in denying it.  Perhaps it goes back to the days of hibernation.  We want to burrow in when it is cold, but hunt and gather when it warms up.

I’ve set some goals, soft goals, in my mind this week as it relates to writing.  The first one is to get over myself.  I’ve started several pieces that have no endings and rather than doing the hard work to actually finish and submit, I move on to the next thing.

The next thing last week was cooking, culminating in a small dinner party last night.  The main course was ravioli, and since I have all the cool toys, we decided to make it from scratch.  Seems like homemade pasta and the stuff we all boil in water from the grocery store are two completely different dishes.

Making ravioli required a trip to the big box housewares store.  We didn’t have a former/shaper/cutter for it, and just wanted the results to be nice.  I’d seen lots of ravioli makers online that were decidedly low tech: some looked like cookie sheets with holes in them, others finished edges with a pretty crimp.  But, true to ourselves, we went for the high tech attachment to the fancy mixer. 

And if we weren’t our first time, virgin ravioli makers, it would have gone very well. The mistakes weren’t fatal, but if you decide to try it, don’t stack your noodles on top of each other waiting for their turn in the cutter, unless you have put wax paper or something between them. And be careful not to overfill… if you use the Kitchenaid attachment, it is pretty scary to clean.

 Next time the process will take less time, have less mess and result in fewer leftovers.  I forgot to take pictures so will instead post the sites where I got my base recipes.  As I believe one should always do with recipes, and formulas for most anything,  I changed things to make them more palatable for my family.  Here is the ravioli base I used: (I like giving credit where it is due.) http://www.sunnysideuprecipes.com/2010/07/ravioli-filling-3-recipes.html (What did I change? Mostly just left out the pine nuts.) and here is the wonderful marinara sauce.:   http://www.nytimes.com/recipes/1015987/marinara-sauce.html  (halved the garlic on this one, and used lots of oregano. I like oregano)

Cooking is a creative adventure, with immediate gratification.  Writing is also creative, and can have immediate gratification, if I can be satisfied with my work product as it is. The big difference for me is the finishing.  There is an end to the cooking adventure, but knowing when, and how to end a story is a little harder.  I'm working on a story set in the Dust Bowl right now.  Maybe a little more spice will get it to stop tasting like... well...dust.

The ravioli got rave reviews. Time to give the fiction a turn.

Slippers

The cold lingers in Houston, waiting just one more day to remember it is really "springtime" here, and that flowers are blooming.  I was delighted to see the poppies jump out of the pansy beds, waving their cheery heads a foot above the other flowers. 

Today the temperatures go up though, and my self imposed exile to the house will end.  I will miss my dog slippers though...

Instead, they will pull me along the sidewalk as though they are magnificent white horses and I am a recalcitrant carriage. When my joints warm up, I try to walk with rhythm, silently counting out sets of eight like we used to do in aerobics classes, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8; 2,2,3,4,5,6,7,8; 1,2,3,4; 2,2,3,4; 1,2; 2,2; 1,2,3,4 and then start over. Funny how rhythms like that get stuck in my head. Or a song I've spent time sweating to...even twenty years ago, comes on the radio and suddenly my muscles want to step into a grapevine or Charleston or Step up and down and Cross... a history of life based on the exercise dances in the gym.  

Those classes were great places to meet and bond with other women.  The high intensity gave way to low intensity, then to things like Pilates and yoga.  Now I'm much more likely to spend an hour on an elliptical reading Kindle than I am dropping into a Zumba class, but there are times when I choose a machine close enough to the gym door to hear the music.   More often though, I am the Carriage of the Dogs.  But only if it is at least fifty degrees.

I'm editing chapter one of Invisible yet again, pursuant to some great advice I got from two of my adult children.  I knew it was missing something, and they were able to spot the deficiency.  Now if I can just struggle through today, I might be ready to send this one out.  There is a manuscript contest in Texas I'm thinking of entering.  

That reminds me of the contest I won when the Houston Writer's League hosted conferences.  It was a short story, and I edited it to death after it won.  I never sent it anywhere to be published because I wasn't confident that the edits improved it.  I am thinking of posting it here, but it would break my heart to post it online and have no one read it.  The insecurities, the insecurities!

A Little January Flash

I’d just finished returning the last of the unwanted Christmas gifts when I passed the Lancome counter. I looked at the pretty faces of the models in the ads and just felt dumpier. Why don’t they ever have middle-aged ladies with crinkly eyes and disappearing lips in those ads? Easy. No one wants to be that.

I walked to the counter and looked in the mirror. Sure enough, the bags under my eyes were packed and the laugh lines were giggling at me. My gray roots were sprouting and the holiday pounds made my cheeks look like both Chip and Dale could fit in. Good thing it wasn’t a full-length mirror.

“Is there something I could show you?” the elegant clerk asked.

“Oh, I’m just looking. Maybe a lipstick? Something that will stay on. Maybe a new color?”

“Oh yes, we’re just starting to get the spring ones in!” Her nametag read Ladonna, and she had the perfect, thickly made-up skin of a cosmetic counter sales clerk, or a very high class prostitute. Her hair and eyes were dark, emphasized by the smoky gray shadow. I wondered how eyes got that smooth. There were no wrinkles, and no bags. She must live alone.

“These are billed as six hour, but they are mostly just sheer color. I think it would be better to get the creamy ones, with the moisturizer, and then add a gloss over that.”

I looked at her powdery lips: not a glint of gloss in sight. I’d been there before. The upsell because, let’s face it, women at the cosmetic counter are vulnerable. I vowed to be strong. “Oh, no, I have creamy and gloss.” I did. I had literally been there before. “Let’s look at the six hour ones.”

She studied my face, careful to politely glance away from my exposed roots. “Maybe a nice coral?” She started pulling tubes from the display.

“No, I really don’t like anything with oranges or browns. Pinks, plums, lavender even, but no coral.”

“Oh. Well then," she said in a voice that conveyed my delusions. Older women wear coral! But though my hair is dark blonde, my eyes are green hazel and my skin is pale. Corals just make me, and everyone in my opinion, look older. Or clownish. Neither something I strive for.

“How about this one? Nice and bright. Will add cheer to your look.” She swiped a color called Bold Pink across the back of my hand.

The tones was garish, like something you’d wear on stage. “Too bright I think.” I pulled a tissue from the box and tried to wipe it off. Maybe in six hours it would fade.

Ladonna jumped down the palette several shades and pulled another.  She drew another stripe on my hand. “Better?”

This one looked just like Carnation Pink from the Crayola pack. “A bit too much like preschool.”

She pulled a few more samples, and my hand began to look like a rose toned rainbow. I reached for a tube in the middle, number 583 and it looked about right. “Can I try this one?”

“Of course,” she said. “That’s Roses in Love, a very nice shade, though not one of the spring collection.”

I was ready to pay and pocket, but she insisted I try it on. She peeled the outside of the lipstick with a knife and swabbed the waxy stick with alcohol. “I’ll do that again after you use it,” she explained.

I’d never been actually handed the tube of lipstick before, always getting the q-tip dab routine. But I’d purposely only used lip balm before I left home. Figured when all else failed, (it was the mall after all) new lipstick would give me a lift.

I ran the clean tip over my lower lip, then dabbed it on the upper. I had to admit that it brightened me up. What is it about lips that makes them fade away? And hair? It's like there is a drain somewhere and color just seeps away. Then it lands on your arms and chest in the form of age spots.

I glanced at the rainbow on the back of my hand and noticed the freckles there as well. Okay, arms and chest and hands. “I’ll take this one.” I handed Ladonna the tube and she, true to her word, did the disinfecting act again.

I was surprised when the color wasn’t sold out and left the mall pleased that I’d not been talked into anything else. When I got home, I unpackaged the shiny silver tube and put on another coat. Only…
I opened my makeup bag and pulled out the two other silver tubes that I’d bought earlier that year. 583, Roses in Love, all of them. Maybe I’ll go for a bouquet.

Another start: Robert Brewer's Get Started Write Challenge

I've been playing around with a few other blog sites, but each time I think about "my" blog I come back here. Maybe it's time I quit fooling around and commit to a serious relationship with my blog.  I've not really been consistent since the years when I wrote all the sunrises, and I think fondly of those days.  Problem is, when I read them, I realize that they were kind of boring.

So a couple of weeks ago, while trying to get back into routine, I stumbled over a twitter post from Robert Lee Brewer @robertleebrewer, inviting latecomers to the party of his 2014 Get Started Write Challenge.  I like Robert.  I like his posts. So giving over to my groupie tendencies, especially where writers are concerned, I did exactly that. (here's the link:

Robert posts a challenge a day, and most of the days so far have built on previous days, but they don't have to. I've completed about half of the challenges, and have a quasi commitment to myself to catch up the rest of them. Today's challenge was to write a blog post.

So that's the PSA part of this post, because anyone who's interested in writing can learn from the #gswc and also connect with other writers who are interesting as well.

And because I don't want to get too crazy, and make the post unreadable, I'll leave you with this.

Yes, yes it is a sunrise.  I hope it doesn't bore you.

Universal application of Platitudes

In January, I made a decision to try to come up with a twelve step program for writers, primarily because I needed both something to blog about and a way to discipline my own writing.   My first "step" was "Take your time, hear the voices."  Then I went off to India and got distracted with my travel journal. Then I actually finished another draft of a work in progress (Invisible) and then in April I challenged myself.   In April I was determined to walk every day, encouraged by fitbit and an April walkabout, and to write at least a thousand words on 750words.com.  I got the words, but for the most part, they were just garbage, stuff you write when you are going for word count only. I didn't get all the walking in I wanted, but i did increase my activity level quite a bit.  I'm sorry to say that the activity increase was as tied to repainting the entire house, supervising installation of new floors, moving and removing furniture, cleaning carpets... you get the picture.  Whatever works.

Here it is half-way through May though, and all those good habits have gone by the wayside as I participated in "life."  I've had time with my grown up children, which is the best. I've had time with my spouse, a rarity we are getting happily used to.  I've even had time with the once woolly dogs, shorn now with summer cuts that reinforce their resemblance to lambs even more.  (My youngest son's Australian shepherd drives them crazy with the herding "pokes."

And I've been going to weight watchers again, lost a few pounds, but that's what prompted me to do the 12 Step theory, renamed here  Universal Platitudes.  Because really, don't the same rules work for all the things we are trying to do?

Weight watcher's program centers on three tenants:  accountability, group support, and environment.  By "tracking" your food and activity, you become self aware of where your calories (or carbs or whatever you want to count) are coming from.  You see how you spend your calories.

Applying that to writing, it is easy for me to see how 750 words a day can be written, yet no writing accomplished.  It becomes about numbers, and not quality. Weight watchers will let me spend my points anyway I want, so long as i write it down and 'quit' when I reach my limit. (I'm oversimplifying, of course, and the weight watchers folks will be quick to point out their Healthy guidlines. Bear with me as I stretch this metaphor a bit.)  While I can work the program by eating chocolate and taco chips all day, I will never be healthy on 26 points worth of m & m's.  Likewise, if the only writing I "indulge" in is word count words, nothing fit to be read will be created.  Better to slow down, worry about content, character and voice than to just type for words.

Group support is integral to twelve step programs. Missing the meeting is the first chink in the wall it seems, for those inclined to fall off the wagon/diet/self help whatever.  I've found the same to be true with writing. The more time I spend in the company of writers, the more likely I am to want to have new material to share, discuss and compare.  Writing is not lonely: my mind is filled with fictional characters who often just won't shut up... but it is important to shower, dress and talk to living people in the non fiction world.

Finally, environment plays a huge role in the Platitude Programs.  If there is an open wine bottle on the counter, it's going to be tough for the alcoholic to leave it alone.  If there is a dish of candy next to the computer, the dieter will have trouble not dipping in.  If the computer is sluggish, there are no pens or paper available and the desk is a mess with bills and catalogs, it will be a bigger challenge to coax fiction to come out and play.

Can you think of more similarities?

Happy Elephants

A trip to India wouldn’t really be complete without shopping, at least that is what I was led to expect. When we met up with the local people, they discouraged us from going to the old market near the Red Fort, probably the most famous market in Delhi, the Chandni Chowk market, dating back to the 1600s, because of the crowds, high crime rate and the fact that we’d just be overwhelmed.  If local people tell you that you will be overwhelmed when the things they take for granted overwhelm you, my advice is to listen to them.

They encouraged us instead to go to Delhi Heart (we thought) because it was a market representative of the 29 states of India and that vendors rotated bi weekly and therefore were encouraged to bargain reasonably.  So we told the hotel driver, who we engaged for the day because we really wanted someone who could speak English, to take us to the market and to the Akshardham temple, the newest Hindu temple in Delhi.

This driver was very proud of Delhi, and while his English was better than the company driver’s he still had some issues.  Some of his insights:  Too much money in the temples. Too much smart in the Jain religion. And my favorite: Too much Mother Theresa. 
First we went to the temple, and here we were required to leave leather bags in the car, and take off shoes.  It was warm that day, so not an issue and we’d been prepared for both so weren’t surprised. We were a little surprised that there was no fee to enter the temple grounds, and we were very impressed with the gardens, architecture and traditional art.   No pictures were allowed inside I’m afraid, but here are links to the web where you can get a better idea:

Temple  (elaborate… note all the hand carving!)
Lotus garden   (this was very pretty)

There was yet another separate line for women; while cell phones and cameras are not permitted inside, and security is tight.  I had an odd moment when they patted me down and discovered my little fitbit (pedometer.)  They wanted me to “open it”… which of course made no sense as it is simply a clip that slides over a pocket or waistband or belt.  I finally convinced them that there was no danger from it… demonstrating the steps and walking…while my husband and the driver laughed from their “men’s line.”  My husband told me I’d learn to use it as a money clip sooner or later… he had the same device and didn’t raise an eyebrow!
  Our judgmental driver considered this to be an excess of the "jannis" (Jain) particularly (we’d told him our son in law’s family was Jain)... too much money. We spent a couple of hours at the temple, and then asked the driver to take us to Delhi Heart. 

He asked “Which one?” and we explained what our friends had said.  (They said it as though everyone knows about Delhi Heart!)  He explained to us that since the new light rail line was being built, Delhi Heart was sliced in two, so he’d take us to the one he knew best.

He drove us to an area with signs that said “Delhi Haat” and were a line of very old, very dirty shops selling traditionally touristic goods:  saris, pashminas, carpets, marble carvings… and while the place technically met the description of what I’d read in the guide books, the fact that there were only about 5 shops in the area made me suspicious.  Nonetheless, we went inside, and let them show us all grades of pashminas and then they took us to the carpet room.

Now, I love a bargain, and the Indian government subsidizes these cottage industry stores, so they a) take credit cards, b) charge no tax, and c) ship to the U.S (or other countries) for free. So … always needing new carpets (remember I have puppies)(okay, they are a year old now, dogs) we let them bring us bottled water and show us their carpets.

Even cheap rugs are not cheap, these running in the thousands of dollars, depending on size. But the salesman, though very interesting to listen to, fell into what I know now as an Indian salesman’s habit:  he kept showing us more.  If he’d have just stopped, I think we’d have bought something, for the entertainment value at least.  But …when the overwhelming flags started going up, we told him we had three more days in India, and we might be back. And walked away.  What we knew was that we didn’t know enough about what we were dealing on to make good choices. When we got back to the hotel, we went and talked to the dealer in the hotel, who showed us what to watch for and what indicated fraud… and sure enough, I’m certain we were being shown machine made goods, in synthetics.  It was a fun experience though…and we didn’t spend anything on it. 

At the rug vendor.

But we still hadn’t seen what had been described to us as Delhi Heart. So we went to the hotel travel desk and asked for directions.  The Concierge showed us the site on the map, and we engaged yet another driver for the following day.

I’ve not mentioned food or drink. Mostly when we were out and about we avoided it… took water with us, and stuck to eating breakfast and dinner in the hotel, which featured a very international buffet for both meals.  I grew very fond of the Indian dishes, but my husband was less enamored, so this was a good choice for us.  And since our room came with “happy hour” for two hours every night, it was economical too.  Happy hour in India (Delhi at least) begins at 7 pm… they eat very late there.  So by 7 we tried to be at the bar, where they served us our drinks of choice and different chef specialties as “snacks”… a couple of nights this was enough for dinner.  The options there are not “western” and “non western” … but always veg and not veg.  At any rate, I enjoyed the Indian sparkling wine, and Sapphire Bombay Gin kept my spouse happy.  And yes, made it easier to go with the flow, if you will.

Bar in the hotel, felt very British

Thursday, we got up early and met the hotel driver. Once again, we asked to go to Delhi Heart… or Haat as it said on the map.  He took us to yet another slummy commercial district.  This time we were better prepared, and after a quick perusal of the goods, and asked to go to the place on the map.  The driver wasn’t pleased, but we’d been in Delhi long enough to know some of the landmarks, and were quite sure we weren’t close to the place indicated on the map.  We think the drivers and the shop owners have … arrangements… bring the tourists to me and I’ll give you a percentage kind of thing. 

We finally made it to Delhi Haat, which was much more tourist friendly. The place is like a craft market where the merchants from the different Indian states rotate on 15 day schedules and sell their wares.  They do the famous bargaining, but my little bit of experience says that they didn’t really have Indian prices to begin with. We had some rupees though, and they took credit cards as well, so we bought several 100% pashmina scarves and some other trinkets… happy elephants from a puppet maker and some vegetable on hand-made paper paintings.   It was clean, the merchants were nice, and we had fun.

What we have not seen that we were warned to expect were the hoards of child beggars.  A few, when stopped in traffic, noting that we are in a rental car, and a Chevrolet at that.  Kind of like wearing white tennis shoes in Europe… just marks you as American.  The children motioned hunger, but they also laughed and the dancing that they did against the car made their gestures seem insincere. They just looked like kids.  One thing that did strike me was that two of the little girls, who could not have been more than 8, carried babies. One was a toddler, all toothy grins, the other a bald headed infant lolling in the girls arms.  It reminded me of the gimmick in Slumdog Millionaire. And I have to say that slumdog prepared us for most of the images of India, which gives the producers high marks for realism from me.

Let’s talk a little about women while I am typing here, waiting the 8 minutes to fully charge my laptop before we go.  First: I expected to see more women in the craft shops, the hotels etc.  Unless they were in the plentiful Ayurveda salons, they are few and far between.  In the craft shops and bazaars, even more so.  And when we are out in public, I’m barely granted courtesy, never deference, in this country where men rule.  No wonder the women are rising up and being pissed off. I saw dozens of women on the streets and in traffic, often dolled up in the colorful saris but never in the position of prominence.  Lots of women ride the backs of motorcycles, and hold children, but I have not yet seen a woman drive.  The local newspaper this morning recognizes the new voting block in India as the female vote, and the news is full of the demand for better protection under the law, especially for rape victims. Something to research.

We are on the plane to London now, ready to land soon, and so it is time to close out this narrative.  I want to remember the look of India falling away as the plane rose, a million postage stamp parcels in shades of green and brown, and tiny brown villages connected by almost roads scattered like seeds among the plains.  Then the jagged jolt of the Himalayas, darker brown, and empty, with the few settlements squares that look more like the remnants of pallets strewn about the land, and dusted with snow.  Then the snow caps themselves, so cold and empty and extreme.  They seem to separate the possibility that is India from the rest of the world, and I choose to think that rather than isolate the subcontinent, the mountains protect it, saving all those happy, contented people from the anger that seems to be Pakistan, the arrogance of Arabia, and the desperation that I think of when I think of Russia. I want to save them it seems, not from the poverty and stress that comes from being an underdeveloped third world, or emerging world, but from the silly stresses that come from westernization.  The need to fit in, to wear the right thing, say the right thing.  I want them to keep their pride in their heritage, their culture, their food, so that they can always share that lively wonder with sojourners like me. While I want to bestow on them self respect, I don’t want to take away their humbling humility.

I wonder how my market experience jives with that sentiment, and can hear the smiling handsome men beckon to me, “just take a look” “just one moment” and then not know when to stop to give me time to actually buy something.  I want to help, but I want to help in ways that let them earn their profits, not by handing out rupees and money, but encouraging their free enterprise, their joyful spirit, their undying energy. I feel as though I have just “taken a look” and have been sucked in by the entreaty.  I want to see more.

Happy elephants, for luck, from the heart of Delhi.

end of India journal. at last!

On to Agra

These are the days when I feel I’ve seen India. We began early, 5:30, so we could make it to Agra and back in a day. The morning was foggy, so the journey began in a dreamlike cloud.  There were clear things up close, not so much in the distance. When the fog hadn’t burned off by ten a.m., it was clear that it was not really fog, but smog. It wasn’t unusual to see people on the side of the road with their faces covered, not from any religious piety, but to keep from breathing the terrible air.

Side note. It is six thirty a.m. and I’ve been up for an hour and a half.  I got a brainstorm that today should be Muslim research day and wanted to put together a set of questions I’d ask the Muslims I meet.  Silly maybe, but there is no reason not to work on the book while I am here. And there is no reason my Khalid and Davis can’t be from Delhi as easily as from Saudi Arabia. Maybe easier, because there isn’t as much world focus on the extremism here, while there are still hostilities and terrorism.

So the trip to Agra. First, I believe our driver, a nice young man about my son’s age, was lost more than he knew his way.  He often stopped, rolled down the window and rattled off questions to strangers in Hindi. Many of the strangers looked like they had never left the particular corner they were on at the time… that they were in fact fixtures there.  Most often they just waved him on, indicating the same direction he was headed already.  Now all of that wouldn’t be such a notable thing, if we hadn’t spent nearly 9 hours in the car, there and back, when the drive was supposedly a two to three hour jaunt.  The livestock, cows, wild boars, along the road and so many dogs, all an indistinct lab like short hair breed and then the people in all manner of costume, from turban rags to elegant jeweled saris, made it an interesting drive, but the dirty dust of the “road” which was more hole than pothole, left us feeling, riding in the back of what is really a luxury vehicle in India, as though we’d been beaten up, the jostling was that extreme. 

And the slums.  I’ve seen slums, in Rio, in Mexico, Malaysia, and of course in the US… but I’ve never seen slums like these. The best constructed ‘homes’ were made of blue plastic tarps. They had common walls, one tent to the next and they were patched together with garbage bags and whatever else you can imagine.  People squatted, sometimes on old crates, others just on the ground, sometimes around an open fire, inside them as we passed by on this chilly morning.  Surrounding the slums were areas that reminded me more of garbage dumps than anything else, with ridges of dirt as though they’d been plowed up that way.  And yes, not a few people had their pants around their ankles, squatting to take care of their biological needs, right along the roadway, on top of the mounds, along concrete abutments, wherever. Men, mostly, but women too, with saris or other draping wrapped around them, both the butts and their faces the only bare parts in sight.  For anyone who thinks women’s privacy, even at that level, is sacred in India… no.  Biology and poverty seem to be the great equalizers in India.

As we drove along the road in the pre-dawn hours, we nearly hit a black cow, crossing the road.  I wonder if there is superstition about black cows the way there are around cats. My son in law explained when we got back that it was very fortunate we didn’t hit it, and that had we, there was a good chance we’d never make it out alive. All those nice people along the roadside would have, apparently, turned to an angry mob, complete with Mob Justice.

I saw only one cat, a skittish terrified creature that ran past us later in the week as we lounged by the pool. My son-in-law explains that Indians hate cats and consider them terrible omens.  (This doesn’t stop him from being the favorite of my daughter’s sweet gray tabby who lives with them.)

The visuals were overwhelming, but nothing prepared me for the noise.  Instead of driving in single lanes here, cars drive where they want to drive and then honk when they want to pass a vehicle in front of them. Multi-colored Tata (freight) trucks, which I am told are painted that way to ward off evil, rule the road, and since all goods are shipped into the city at night, night time is particularly perilous.  The Tata trucks are not as big as a semi trailer in the states, more like the size of a standard garbage truck, though without the rounding, if that makes sense ness. The trucks are tarped, (unlike in Houston, nothing flies out of them.) I sense pride in the ownership and operation of motor vehicles, and frankly, it is more like race car driving than driving on a highway. Starts and stops are frequent and plentiful, with the constant blaring of millions of horns.   “Honk horn and wait for aside” the trucks have painted on them. And at night, use the dippers.  As best I can tell, that means flash your headlights.

I haven’t mentioned the smell… which wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be.  A kind of smokiness that I assume is from the pollution is the standard, and frankly, you get used to it.  Possibly because the air in Houston has my body already primed to reject it.

As the drive was long, and as we left so early, it wasn’t unusual that our driver wanted to stop.  As mentioned, his English wasn’t great, and he kept saying “repast” to us.  I don’t know if he meant he was offering it to us or just wanted a break, but no matter how many ways we said, “ we are fine” he pulled off the road to one of the myriad roadside cafes, known as dhabba’s.   These are three sided buildings, made of tin and tarps as best I could see, with what looked like an outdoor kitchen and steam tables.  There were plastic tables and chairs, enough to seat a hundred or so, scattered both under the roof and out in the “yard”… a cleared dirt area.  A two stalled Indian style bathroom was a few meters separated from the kitchen area in its own concrete building, with a sink for hand washing outside.  Monkeys climbed all over the roof, light brown thinly furred ones, and they reached down inside frequently, trying to steal food.  A brown dog curled in the dirt in the corner and her puppy, a sweet little girl who came to me right away for belly rubs, wandered the area.

Dhabba: note the "fog," the bathroom building to the right, and the monkey on the roof.

I’d have had to have been starving to eat, drink or use the facilities, but our driver sat down to what looked like a four course meal, and very much enjoyed it.  My husband and I walked around until the owner, who assumed his chairs must be wet, came out with a towel and dried a couple, turning them toward the road so we could watch the view.  We didn’t want to insult anyone, so we sat.  When I described this to my son in law, he got a dreamy look in his eyes.  He loves dhabba food and told us we screwed up by not eating.  He also says every time he comes back from India, he looks like a refugee because he always gets sick and loses weight.  He hasn’t put the two together yet. We were very big on hand sanitizer and washing, and didn't eat any roadside food. We also didn't get sick. Or lose weight for that matter!

When we finally arrived in Agra, I was a little surprised to find the big city atmosphere.  At 1.7 million, it is only the 19th most populous city in India.  They don’t mess around with population in India, and I’m pretty sure the concept of “small town” is lost on them. When my husband first introduced himself to the employees there, he explained to them that he’d come from a small town. They wanted to know how small…. 500,000?  A million?
He grew up in a tiny place in Iowa with 37 other people living there. They shook their heads.  37 people in a house might be remarkable, but it is no town.

At any rate, Agra houses the Taj Mahal, another UNESCO site, so tourism is the biggest industry. In fact, to halt pollution, the city has banned industry, and there is no tax on goods produced by hand created in Agra.  So it is a thriving area of crafts, though I had no real use for the carved marble reproductions of the place.  Thriving on Tourism, there is racket after racket and you have the sense that each level is paying off the next one.  You must park a half-mile or so away from the Taj. To get there, you must ride either a city taxi (three wheeled, open air electric rickshaw thing) or ride in a cart pulled by a camel. You must have a guide.  He meets you in the parking lot, where he explains his fee and the fee of the transport, who is his brother.  He sticks to you like glue, explaining his favorite features over and over. 
He takes your rupees to buy himself and the driver entrance (20 rupees apiece, again) while you wait in line to buy Foreign tickets, (750 rupees) and go through security.  Your 750 buys you not only admission, but a bottle of water and shoe covers… the same thing delivery people put on so they don’t have to take off their shoes.  The Indian line just took off their shoes and went barefoot.

He leads you to the entrance, explaining the structures, the architect and the history. For the most part, you will have already read up on this, so you lag behind and appreciate the craftsmanship and beauty, letting him do his job.  If you hear one more time that it took 22 years to build the Taj, you will try to feed the guide to the resident parrots.

(transportation to front gate)                                                 (driver and the entrance)

The Taj is really a tomb. From trip advisor: 
Where better to go for a romantic vacation than to the great testament of love, the Taj Mahal? Built by the grieving Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his late wife Mumtaz Mahal, the Taj Mahal’s unrivaled beauty explains why it’s regarded as one of the eight wonders of the world. A visit to India wouldn’t be complete without it.

The building itself is nothing short of beautiful, but I expected that.

We are accosted first thing with the guides, who must be hired I fear… though now that I think of it none of the Indians had guides.  Ours was clearly on the take with both vendors and cabs. We road a camel cart the mile into the TM complex from the designated parking areas… more jostling… and spent time admiring the entry “gates” gardens and hearing the story of the mosque and quarters that flank the Taj itself.  The marble for the Taj, and it is all mare only things that aren’t perfectly balanced are the graves themselves. The Taj’s dead wife was laid to rest in the exact center of the complex. When he died, they buried him next to her.  There is no grave on the other side.

Marble of the Taj is inlaid with semi precious jewels, (another item that they want to sell us in the Kasbah we must walk through to get back to the car.)  It is built with several optical illusions, inlay of dark stone so that columns that are flat look three dimensional, etc.  It is definitely worth the trip; photographs can’t capture the luminescence of the marble, the sense of calm that permeates even among the tourists.

(Marble details, including optical illusion columns (those zig zags are flat) and residence built to match the identical mosque on the other side)

View from the back (the back is identical to the front) with armed guard.

I do feel like I’m becoming an expert on Muslim art and architecture though. 

After leaving the Taj, we took the “new highway” out of Agra, which was supposed to get us back in 2.5 hours.  You already know the end of that story.  I soon found that my senses were overloaded. It no longer surprised me to see herds of cattle sharing the roadside, the tiny thin children walking around with no pants, the hundreds of uniformed boys and girls getting off and on busses, the motorcycles carrying at minimum a young man in western type clothing, a young woman in full sari and a child all at once, other motorcycles loaded with plywood, or crates of goods or mattresses, held on precariously by string or just the hands of the men, darting in and around traffic, without helmets or other protection. It didn’t surprise me to see an elephant walking alongside the road.  I am ashamed to have lost my wonder and empathy.

from inside the car. Sharing the road.

More from India

On our way to meet with our local friends,  we stopped by a monument to Shiva,  rising out of a part of Delhi that could only be called squalor. The forty foot high bronze statues, the largest of Shiva, surrounded by flowers and other gods reigned over a lovely park, where we could buy marigolds to leave as offerings, but otherwise cost nothing.  Our hindu driver for the day, M, took off his shoes, flattened his palms in prayer, kissed his hand, and then touched his chest and the earth.  He motioned for us to take off our shoes and get a closer look at the statues.  Clearly the place was sacred to him. We didn’t feel the spirituality but it was really cool. (When we left Delhi the next day, we were amazed to see similar statues dotting the countryside, behind fields, whatever. There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to their location, but they were beautiful.)

We then met up with the India CEO and his wife to see the Kingdom of Dreams and the Bollywood style production of Zangoora, the gypsy prince.  There was no photography allowed inside, and they were very Disney-like… lots of photo ops where they took the photo and offered it to you after the show.  There is a you tube video that was a preview of the show, here: which gives you a taste. It lasted for three hours.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wC2QHQ6juY

Before we went to the show we went through a bit of Culture Gully… felt a bit like an Indian version of Epcot, with shops showcasing each of the Indian states, both in food and artisans.  We ate at one from Lucknow, and tried the kabobs, which are not kabobs at all, but patties of fried mush, whether vegetable or . ick…Mutton. (They don’t eat beef or pork at all in India as far as I could tell. That was fine for  me, but my poor husband really missed his red meat!) We were polite and tried everything… it wasn’t as spicy as I’d expected it to be, but was full of flavor.  We also drank Kingfisher beer, which I liked.

 The production was a truly amazing feat of light and dance and special effects like I’ve never seen, and I’ve seen a lot of live theater.  It was completely three dimensional, with side screens that were used to bring the sets all the way around the audience.  Of course most of the action was from the live actors on stage, but they used many aerial acts as well. Costumes were fantastic, from the belly dance (which is more hip than belly,) to sparkling sequined swim trunks and amazing abs.  And the music and energy were on fire… I’ve never seen a cast so lit up, especially for a Monday matinee.  The production was all in Hindi, and I admit to falling asleep a few times, but I got the gist of it.  Interesting that at the end of the show they performed the same “jai ho” number that ends slum dog millionaire, with just as much energy and fun.  It felt good to watch… all positives.

 Also after the show Qutub Minar, the tallest minaret in India. When we arrived, the entrance near us was already closed, and there was a large crowd waiting for a popular light show to begin.  We decided to admire it from afar, and elected to come back to the hotel, our safe haven of western-ness amid the mess that is Delhi.

An Interlude in India

 I'll get back to the twelve steps soon, but this is where I put my travel notes, and i've just spent several days in the UK and India.  Travel journal being edited, but here are my "I'm home" thoughts.

I've actually been back since Saturday night, but the travel and time changes and all the things that go with coming back after two weeks abroad had all my time yesterday.  My sleep schedule will take a while to get readjusted... it was 11 and a half hours to adjust the time zones. I didn't reset my watch, just remembered that it was half an hour fast, and morning instead of night, etc.

No crises while I was gone. The dogs were clean and fluffy and happy to see us, and seem to be none the worse for wear. The fear is always that they will regress in behavior or get sick or ... all those things we doggy moms worry about.  But they seem to be just fine.

I've kept a running journal of the India trip, and will try to clean it up for posting this week.  Quick impressions for you... India is amazing. All the bad things you've ever seen are there, but if you think that is the gist of the country, you would be very wrong.  It is full of joy.  The people, from the lowliest beggars to the loftiest business people seem to have made peace with their lives and exude an essence of being thrilled to be alive.  Of all the things I saw and did, that is the take home message for me.

The country reminds me of what I think the US must have been like at the turn of the century.  The industrial revolution has sort of passed it by.. infrastructure, except in the biggest cities is non existent.  Their most abundant and greatest asset is their people, and the population continues to challenge well meaning politicians.  We talked to a banker at a dinner one night, and he said that 50% of the people are doing fine, but the other 50%, the very poor, the homeless who give India its reputation, is a problem no one can figure out. And they are trying, because these are not people who don't care.  It is very hard to change what has become an accepted way of life for so many though.

I recognize that I travel in a bubble. We stayed in the same hotel in Delhi every night, mostly because it was a known and India must be taken in small bites.  The first day we ventured out of Delhi, my husband cautioned me that I would now see the "real" India. Twelve hours later, I knew that if I had days like that at the first of the trip, I'd have been booking earlier flights home.

And that would have been a mistake, as I wouldn't have had the time to fall in love with the country. With its spirit, its problems, its pride.  It is humbling for me as a person, and like the best of travel, will make me appreciate all the more what there is at home, and what there is to do, everywhere.

I'm not ready to download all the details from my mind yet, and have quite a bit of work to catch up on, so I'll beg off the travelogue for now, and hopefully sprinkle experiences in as things get back to normal.

In the meantime, namaste.

Mangal Manjusha, Delhi, India, February 2013

12 steps for Writers

Some of the most successful programs for self improvement in the world are what is know as a twelve step program.  Modeled, I think, after the system used by Alcoholics Anonymous since its inception, the programs are outlines for healing.
So like any good netizen, I googled Twelve steps for Writers.  And yes, there are lots of articles out there. Mostly they appear to be comedic, tongue in cheek articles that are entertaining, but not really helpful. There were some that made sense for article writers, maybe even blog writers. But what we are dealing with here are writers of fiction.  Story telling.

So I thought I'd see if i could come up with twelve steps.  Maybe even helpful steps.  Rather than force myself to come up with all of them in one sitting, I'll do what will necessarily end up on the list, and take my time. In fact, let's make that number 1.

1. Take your time.  Hear the voices.

By this I mean that it is great to stream of consciousness write whatever comes to your head.  Most writers I know do ten minutes of free writing, or three pages or 750 words. Or they open a paper journal and go outside and just write the weather.  Remember the sunrises I used to write?  Like that.

All of those are just methods of clearing the cobwebs.  They let you move from the focus on life as you know it, from the kids and puppies and telephone and clock and all the other things that insist, demand your attention. Until you can give yourself a chance to put them aside, it is going to be tough for your characters to whisper to you what they want to do.  Impossible for your plot to show you the interlocking pieces.

And when the characters do speak, or the plot unfolds in your head, get it down on paper, but don't go running to Aunt Martha, your biggest fan just yet.  Let it sit. For hours, days, or in some cases, even years. Good writing doesn't expire.  Later on we'll have a step on revising, but for now, just take the time you need to go a little crazy and hear the voices.

(by the way, if you stumble across this blog and think, how sad, she's writing and no one is reading, don't worry.  I've been around a long time, and I'll get the hang of marketing some day.  I think that may be step 12.)

If you are reading and you have things you think should be included on this list, don't hesitate to comment or shoot me an email.  I think I'm all linked up now.

40 days...

Thanks to the folks at Inprint I'm back in regular writing workshops again.  I don't know that I learn a lot from workshops anymore... I suspect I have enough writing books and critical essays to have earned an MFA by now, but given the number of "drafts" that have taken up residence on my desk, I clearly need the discipline of deadlines. I don't know what possessed me to think that printing out drafts was a good idea, other than the ability to "not edit" while sitting in positions not conducive to a notebook computer, but these pages now haunt me every time I sit at my desk.

So my commitment to myself is to a) write new things for workshop, and b) FINISH something.  So not only have I signed up for another round of workshopping at Inprint, I've agreed to a less formal group with classmates from the last workshop.  That means I will have new eyes for some of the drafts and I will have deadlines to get them moving. Even if they move to the trash or back to a box in the desk that I'll save for the day I have a publisher begging me for anything...

What's that saying I like?  It costs nothing to dream, and everything not to.

Tomorrow I'm with the Old group, and am taking them a short flash piece I wrote in 2009 and a longer one I wrote way back in 2000.  Both of them inspired by the state of Michigan, one winter, one summer.  Since it has been almost fifteen years since I've lived in Michigan, it interests me that this is the work I feel safest with.  Now I've been in Texas longer than I was in Michigan, so it may be time to take some Texan sized risks.  The last two novels I've worked on have major Texas scenes... all i need to do is edit 300 pages before I can get back to them.

at 7.5 pages a day....that's only 40 days.  And nights.  We all know what can happen to the world in 40 days!

Resolved...

January is resolution time.  For writers, that means time to renew our commitment to our characters, our word count, or at least our butt in the chair time.  I'm  no different.  In fact, I made several resolutions, for the year, about writing.  One of them had to do with editing. One had to do with publishing. One even had to do with actually writing.  Here we are two thirds through January though, and the only one I am faithful to is the writing.  Sad to say, I write because I love to write. Not edit, not publish.  Unfortunately, I already have hard drives and baskets and folders full of "writing."  It's time to do something with it.

Challenges are helpful.  I am competitive, and I like winning, so I have accepted the challange from a writer friend to enter a non prize winning contest.  Why? The winner gets their work read on stage. Hmm.  Maybe being read is enough of an incentive to get me to polish up a few things.

Fear is also helpful.  I signed up for another workshop, and have to have stories or chapters reader ready at least two times in the next ten weeks.  That doesn't sound like much, but I've challenged myself to make it "new writing." That's right. no pulling a tried and true and already work-shopped story from the baskets. That's too easy. Those stories are old and the emotion that created them is long gone. I'm no longer attached to them, so when I read them cold, they don't elicit a need from me to fix them, while preserving the passion from which they were created.  Great for editing. Not so great for creating.  And I want the encouragement that comes from having someone read what I'm working on now, and want more.

What gets you to keep your resolutions?

On Democracy

It has been said that democracy is the worst form of government, except all the others that have been tried.  Winston Churchill

Over the years, I've been involved in many facets of Democracy.  I've run campaigns for local candidates, I've volunteered for national ones. I've given speeches, monitored voting counts, hung up posters.  As a political science major in college, I learned more about the process of elections than anyone should, and I admit it left me somewhat.. jaded.  Even back in the 70s the academics believed that politics were about one thing, and that was getting re elected.  I think now they'd agree it is about control of resources and power as well, which can't be accomplished without re election.
I also, as many of you know, participated in some experiments with democracy in the Virtual World of Second life.  One of those projects was a Euro style system, where parliamentarians were elected by factions.  The other was a direct democracy, one person, one vote on all issues. One thing stands out among all those systems, all that experience, both real and virtual that never ceases to amaze me, and that is the number of people who don't exercise their right to vote.

People often say that, in a democracy, decisions are made by a majority of the people Of course, that is not true. Decisions are made by a majority of the those who make themselves heard and who vote-- a very different thing. Walter H. Judd.

There are good reasons not to exercise the right to vote, but most of them have to do with someone doing something wrong. My youngest son was looking forward to voting in his first election this year.  He filled out the paperwork and sent it in with plenty of time to get an absentee ballot.  (He's registered at home, but is at college now, 5 hours away.)  He never received his ballot. That isn't right.  I'm still toying with flying him home after class so he can vote, but that's a bit drastic.  I'll watch the polls.. if it looks like it might make a difference, you bet I'll do it.   Because one thing is for sure: 
Bad politicians are sent to Washington by good people who don't vote. William E Simon.

If you have the right to vote in the election today, please exercise it.  I may not agree with your choices, but I believe completely in the collective choice of all our voices.   We just have to make ourselves heard.

November again.

The sun was relentless today, perhaps mocking the biorhythms that adapted to daylight savings time, and thrust itself into the world like a too long denied lover.  It lights the morning now, silver rays stabbing through the trees and prodding me. There are things I am supposed to do today.

It is November again, and once again I am writing new words. I am taking a break from the relentless editing that haunts me year after year because I write these fifty thousand word novels and then have to do something with them.  I love the new words.  I don’t even mind the editing.  I just have to convince myself that this is what I do now.  I’ve been flirting with it for a long time, looking through the side of my eyes, slipping behind my desk or just opening documents on my computer and typing, always something that can be stopped or interrupted. And that is why I’ve never finished anything, because I never say, this is my job. This is my work. 

For the first time in the 12 years I’ve been doing this casually, I feel that it is okay to say it. I don’t have to say, “and I write” as a tag line to whatever else I am doing.  I don’t have to stand in front of a group and say, my name is Georgiana and I’m addicted to words.  It is socially acceptable, sort of, and mentally necessary. 

I’m going to get out of my way now and go see where my story takes me.