Run away

As in, I am.

For a bit.

I'll be back soon.

Maybe.

Everyday I'll Write the Book

Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay. Flannery O'Connor

Oh goody. Something to look forward to...

I have just spent an evening in the company of other aspiring writers. Some of us have decided to take up the challenge presented by the Office of Letters and Light, a group that sponsors National Novel Writing Month. The contest is meant to encourage hesitant writers to dare to write a novel of 50,000 words in a month (November 1 through November 30). Our group was formed because two friends decided to try it and wanted to bring others along for the developing nervous breakdown experience. The contest leaves no time to edit or to even rethink one's work, merely to see where the writing goes and if one can meet the tight deadline. A great deal of bad writing will be the result, but the point is to get folks to try and to offer opportunities for novice writers to support each other.

I have no idea what I will write, but using anything written in advance is absolutely verboten. One must use original work starting on the first day of the contest. However, we are encouraged to think about it, so I anticipate the anxiety dreams will be even more vivid than usual. Wish me luck. We have a nicely diverse group of folks so far, and discussed some opportunities to meet and work along side each other for that moral support. A couple of members of the group have done this several times, with one "winning" the 50,000 word goal three times.

I was worried before the meeting, but now I am excited. I confess that by nature I am more coward than not, so this will be a first for me. In art classes, I dreaded "critique" day, when other students and the teacher would discuss my work. Most reviews of my work were fair to middling (my work was often too literal for some tastes). In this instance, we aren't judging content, but I can't help but feel my heart creeping up my throat. But what the heck, they're only a few words, right? Right?

Here's the link, for anyone else out there willing to try it. Look under the NaNo Near You to find independent booksellers taking part in "Come Write In" and offering their support. You'll find many other kindred spirits. http://www.nanowrimo.org/

You might want to also check out No Plot, No Problem:A Low Stress High-Velocity Guide to Writing a Novel in 30 Days, by Chris Baty (the Executive Director of the Office of Letters and Light). Don't disappoint me. Make sure you get your copy from either the public library or your favorite independent bookstore.

Consider this my double-dog dare.

Who rang that bell?

My dreams often include a varied cast of characters from my own life, in no particular combination. After another one of my restless nights brought on by a prolonged bout of bronchitis and very little sleep, I dreamt I was working at a vet clinic with the special task of distracting the rabbits from the call of the wild with a magic show. I was less than successful. I couldn't even get a volunteer from the audience. There were bunnies everywhere. The staff was very angry with me, including a familiar voice who yelled at me to "Stop asking so many questions and just put the GAWDAMN whoopee cushion on the chair!" So naturally, I sat up in bed, picked up the cell phone and placed in firmly in the cup of tea on the desk.

“I think we dream so we don't have to be apart so long. If we're in each other's dreams, we can be together all the time.” Calvin and Hobbes

I am a very stylish girl

This is what remains of a big shirt I made from an Esprit pattern in the 1980s. It's clearly been lived in. The fabric has slowly worn away from the stitching.

As a teenager, I was a real clothes horse without a regular allowance. The sister closest in age to me had the hour glass figure, while I had the figure time forgot, so hand-me-downs were a bit roomy. My mother taught me the basics of sewing, augmented by home economics classes and learning the hard way. My projects were always a bit ambitious with occasionally attractive results. I had a good eye for bargains at thrift stores and garage sales, and the patience to alter things to fit. It was the middle of the whole preppy craze, coming on the heels of Annie Hall, so old, threadbare, and rumpled were considered the new old classics. As I got older, I became completely shameless, telling friends their outfits would look so much better on me. The quality of the hand-me-downs improved considerably, in spite of my cheek.

One of my first jobs was at a fabric store during the purple paisley/metallic lace/ginormous shoulder pad craze of the 1980s. The store was the size of a department store. I used to watch people walk in the store for the first time with expressions that ranged from "oh wow" to "oh ralph," it was that overwhelming. I worked in the notions department, which meant helping customers figure out what they were looking at, did they need it, or if something else they already had might work. Objects of pity were the folks who'd stand in front of the sew-in bra display and ask, "Are these the only shoulder pads you have?" At one point, we were selling self-adhesive bras. Customers would walk up to the display, then ask the staff, "do these work" without looking us in the eye, as if we were all demonstrating the product for them at that very moment.

I gave away the clothes I made from back then, but still have a fine collection of fabric I keep adding to, and changing my mind about. Sewing really is the worst hobby for someone as indecisive as me. I never have to make a decision. Sometimes I just take the fabric out, look at it, think about it, fold it, and put it away again. Buttons and trim are just as bad, taunting me with the possibilities, yet suffering the same fate as the fabric. It's like playing Barbies without the dolls.

I have a regular desk job now, but work one day a week at a friend's fabric store. I spend most of the time showing people who are new to sewing how to get started. My friend and I don't get to sew as often as we'd like to and realized that every time we talk about it or plan to, the opportunity to do so becomes ever more elusive, like we'd cursed it. Yesterday we decided to only refer to it in passing as the "Scottish play" in reference to the superstition of mentioning Macbeth in a theater.

This is the crazy season, where everyday feels like a full moon. I get through the madness by pretending each customer is a performance artist and I am part of the floor show. The owner looks on me as the costume engineer, helping customers figure out how to make costumes on the cheap using glue, staples, and tape to hold the pieces together. Sometimes, I manage to convince them to try actually sewing it together.

Last year every college girl and three or four of her closest girlfriends had the original idea to go as "Pocahontas," "an Indian princess," or a "Native American." The guys all wanted to go as Max from "Where the Wild Things Are." Once, I had to convince someone who had the great idea of making his own straight jacket that maybe it wasn't such a great idea after all. I merely asked him, "How are you going to hold your beer, and how are you going to hold your beer?" He went as an accountant instead. The best homemade costume I saw last year was someone as a hamster on a wheel. I hope more folks take the DIY approach. Someone answer my prayers and go as Mildred Pierce. I know where you can find the perfect shoulder pads for it.