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If at first you don’t succeed, set the bar lower

caravanofcomposition 4 Comments

Okay, that sounds a bit pessimistic. But hear me out. If you wanted to become a high jumper, you wouldn’t set the bar at a height impossible to clear, right? You’d start low and get really good at each level before moving up to the next. If you are learning a new skill, you’d start with the basics and then work yourself up to the more complicated elements. And maybe you’d fail a few times, or a few million times before you could do the thing you set out to do, and maybe that feeling of failure lights a fire under you and forces you to try harder.

But you know what else is super motivating? Success.

I have participated in Camp NaNoWriMo three times. It’s an online contest of sorts that grew out of NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, where to win you must write 50k words in a month. Camp is more laid back (as camp should be). You set your own goals and have a cabin of fellow writers to cheer you on and make references to roasting marshmallows and making s’mores. It’s fun. It’s encouraging. The first time I participated, I agreed to join a large cabin – some writers I knew, some I didn’t. There were virtual crafts, write-ins, and shout outs on Twitter. At the time I was revising my second novel and thought two hours a day seemed a reasonable goal. But I started the month off on a road trip, clocked zero hours of revisions for the first few days, and rapidly became discouraged. There’s this great STATS feature, which tells you your daily progress, how much you should do to reach your goal, and if you continue at your current rate you will finish…. in 2020.

The second time around I was working on a new novel, and decided 10k was reasonable. It wasn’t. Our cabin had only three members, and we had some amazing discussions about plotting and staying confident in your work. I made more time to write, but the words weren’t flowing and again I felt discouraged by the ever distant finish rate.

Third time’s the charm. Between April and July, I worked to unclog the stuff that wasn’t working and brought the first chapter to my critique group. They loved it and told me to keep going.

Let me stop here for a second. I know some of my blog followers aren’t writers and they are probably skimming through this post because blah, blah, blah she’s carrying on about writing again. Look. Your words can make a difference in someone’s life: your child, spouse, co-worker, employee, friend. A stranger. Be kind. Encourage someone today. It might be the very thing they need to keep moving forward.

When I decided to join Camp NaNoWriMo this past month, I thought about my goal. I didn’t want it to be too high and get discouraged. July was busy, people. BUSY. But I didn’t want it to be too low and seem insignificant. I thought about what my friend Kate had said a while ago, about setting micro-goals. If I could sit down every day and write something, 100 words, I would keep moving forward on the story. I set my overall goal for the month at 4k, and did my best to write at least 100 words every day. I didn’t write every day (I missed about half), but when I did, it was always more than 100 words. Sometimes it was only a few more, sometimes a lot more.

So I set the bar lower, but at a reasonable, attainable height. And it worked. The project is at 12k and I’m excited to keep writing.

And it feels pretty good to see this:

camp win

Are you trying to accomplish something and feeling overwhelmed? Can you break it up into smaller, more manageable micro-goals? Find a way to earn success. To celebrate the mini victories and stay motivated.

You got this.

Passing on the torch… or not…

caravanofcomposition 5 Comments

I love to cook. Our household has its share of dietary challenges, which means a fair amount of time and effort is required for meal planning and prep. I’ve been a vegetarian for 26 years and recently eliminated dairy. Oldest prefers an “everything plain” diet and actively describes certain foods (grapes for example) as his “arch nemesis”. Youngest is anti-fake meat (he makes gagging sounds if tofu is presented on his plate), and he is weirdly specific about the things he likes.

Example: All sandwiches must contain pickles, lettuce, and ketchup. And caramelized onions if they are on hand. Not regular onions. Caramelized. Because one year we had a big batch of onions from the farm share and I decided to spend the 45 minutes of cooking time required to caramelize them. They were crazy delicious. Now if someone puts onions on a sandwich he will ask, “Are they caramelized?” like he’s some sort of snobby food critic.

It’s okay to occasionally lie to your children.

Thankfully hubs is happy to eat whatever he doesn’t have to cook, and will prepare meat for himself and the kiddos once in a while so that I don’t have to. In my perfect world, all four of us would be on a veg-based diet, but that is simply not reality. So we compromise. Or try to anyway.

Declaration: I will prepare the same rotation of kid-friendly meals if they agree to try something new once a week without saying, “EW. What’s that?” upon arrival at the dinner table.

It works.

Most nights.

Lately, things have gotten a bit complicated in the van household. Oldest is working toward his cooking merit badge for boy scouts. As part of the pre-requisites, he is required to plan, shop for, and cook ten meals. Three days worth of breakfast, lunch, and dinner, plus one dessert. As of Wednesday afternoon, he still has four meals left. He leaves for camp on Sunday.

I have been nagging reminding him for weeks.

Maybe I come on too strong in the kitchen. I like things a certain way and have been known to default into, “here, let me do that” instead of being patient with the boys. I can’t say I blame them for wanting to stay away. But cooking allows for a certain amount of creativity, and like writing, when I’m in the zone, I’m in the zone.

Do not disturb. Mommy’s washing kale leaves.

Seriously though, when he decided to work on the cooking badge, I was excited to pass along some of my tricks and ideas. Instead, the pile of cookbooks I offered sat lonely in a pile, and he hid in his room for hours, “researching cooking methods” instead of asking me for help. “Let’s go shopping!” I offered. Shrug. “Want to try making X?” Shrug. “Don’t go waiting until the last minute to get this done!” Skulk off to room for more “research”.

In retrospect, perhaps I should have had a more open-door policy in the kitchen when the boys were younger. They used to enjoy helping me, but my, “Not like that, like this” attitude is exhausting, I’m sure. I want to change, and am trying to. Last night youngest wanted to cut veggies and I let him, without hovering or criticizing. Of course when dinnertime came and I asked if he wanted to try what we made he responded with, “I just like to cut vegetables. Not eat them.”

This morning oldest made blueberry chocolate chip pancakes for his merit badge. And while his flipping skills need a bit of work and I was left to scrub the chocolate covered griddle, the food turned out tasty and it felt good to work side by side. Of course we’re still arguing about what’s left to be done and how he shouldn’t have procrastinated, but, well, at least he comes by that trait honestly.

I want my boys to have basic cooking skills, not just so they can earn the Eagle required merit badge, but so they can survive on their own and perhaps even learn to enjoy experimenting with food. To understand why I feel the way I do about cooking (FOOD=LOVE). And maybe someday impress their friend or partner with a giant plate of caramelized onions.

Then and now

caravanofcomposition 2 Comments

My high school reunion is this weekend. 25 years. A quarter of a century. A long, long time ago in a place right around the corner from where I now live. (Apparently you CAN go home again.)

Hubs and I had fun at my 20th. We drank, we mingled, some pranksters switched their senior photo name tags, and I had no idea who they were. It felt like high school 2.0. Not in the improved sense, more in the “everyone is behaving the way they did back then but now we’re in our 30’s” sense.

I’m no longer really friends with any of the people I hung out with in high school. My then-bestie graduated a year ahead of me and lives down in North Carolina. Several of my good friends were also in her class, and we’ve lost touch over the years. Others have either fallen off the grid or drifted into new adult circles. It’s strange how many people from our high school are still friends with each other. Not me. I shed that skin like a snake in spring and am happy to have a fresh set of friends who can’t tell embarrassing stories about me. Okay, they CAN tell them, but at least the stories happened recently and not before my prefrontal cortex had fully developed.

I’ve been thinking a lot about THEN VS. NOW. How much do we change, really? When are we our most authentic selves?

Last night our friends were over, and we sat out on the deck, listened to Barenaked Ladies, and laughed about the ridiculous things our children do. One friend and I reminisced about CFNY, a radio station out of Toronto that was THE radio station of my teen years. Back then I made a mix tape by listening patiently, pressing record when my favorite songs came on, and inevitably catching the DJ promo over the first few bars. (In case you’re wondering, yes, I do still own that mix tape and all my other mix tapes despite the fact that I no longer have the ability to listen to them thanks to my new tapedeck-less minivan. Pardon me while I weep a little.) Now, I can go to YouTube or library streaming and cue up my faves. I’m listening to The Lightening Seeds while I type this and feel transported to my angsty sixteen-year old self. “Don’t sell the dreams you should be keeping.” Yup.

crucible

circa 1992

There are days when I miss that version of myself. Young and free of wrinkles and adult responsibilities. Look at this girl. She is happy, in her element, ready to take on the world. I didn’t give a crap about what people thought about me. Okay, maybe I did. But I was in theater (this photo was taken backstage during our performance of The Crucible — I may have let being the lead get to my head) and loved being on stage. Loved the attention as long as it meant I got to be someone else.

I still do. Our babysitter came to expect strange costumes and makeup whenever she came over as we’ve been known to attend a themed event or two. Or ten.

What else has changed/not changed? Then: the majority of my wardrobe came from my brother’s closet (see jeans above) and the thrift store. Now: everything I’m wearing today came from a second hand clothing store and my shoes and purse were my mom’s. I’m not cheap (okay, maybe a little), but I’ve never put value in things. I’d rather spend my money on experiences and my time doing anything but shopping.

Then: I loved playing soccer. Now: I watch it. Tried to coach it. Desperately miss the days when I could run without my knees aching. Practice yoga instead.

Then: I felt safe with my group of friends, but never really fit the suburban mold. Now: Same. We came back here to raise our boys; it’s a great little town and I have good friends who I adore, but in my soul I know this is not where I belong. Where that is exactly, I’m not sure. Hopefully I have a few more decades to figure that out. In the meantime I try to take advantage of every opportunity to be my authentic self. The one who makes crude jokes and laughs too loud, who isn’t afraid to speak her mind or dance alone on the dance floor while singing off-key, who is fiercely loyal to the point of getting burned.

Then: I may have appeared confident on the surface, but I worried all the time. Still do. Only now I have the courage to push past the fear and anxiety and go after the things I want. 25 years has at least given me that, along with gray hairs I will be dyeing tomorrow just in time for the reunion. Hey, it’s still my authentic self. Just a bit more improved. Version 2.0.

Happy Camper

caravanofcomposition 6 Comments

I love camping. Fresh air, campfires, afternoon naps in the sun. The blissful escape from routine.

Back in the days before kids, hubs and I camped all over the state. We weren’t very adept when we started out—on our first trip we forgot pillows and other essentials and had to drive to a nearby mega store. (Incidentally that was not the only time I forgot pillows on a camping trip and had to drive to a store to buy them; somehow pillows are not high on my list of necessities for sleep).

I remember trying to cook in the pouring rain, hunched over the propane stove, umbrella in one hand, utensil in the other, and then eating our meal in the car. After that we purchased a simple canopy, which took off down the hill in a strong gust of wind and retrieved right before it landed in a nearby creek.

But the misadventures were part of what made camping great, the stories I tell when people ask why I love it. During a visit to Letchworth State Park, we arrived to discover the campsite was full. The ranger directed us to a nearby campground which turned out to be one of our favorite places to stay.

Enter children.

When our oldest was two, we took him to the above mentioned favorite campground. He had a blast despite the rainy conditions. However, I fretted for most of the weekend and did not enjoy the mountain of muddy laundry on Sunday night.

Next we tried to camp on the beach. Readers, you should NEVER CAMP ON THE BEACH. A strong wind collapsed our tent in half on itself (there is no way to fully stake it in the sand), the lack of distinguishable sites meant our neighbors were all on top of us, and when we got home after leaving early because of previously stated reasons, SAND WAS EVERYWHERE.

EVERYWHERE.

At first I laughed. “Hey, everything’s sandy, like me!” Two years later I used one of our sleeping bags as a prop in a play and my student commented on the sand still stuck in the bag. I had stopped laughing.

That ended camping for a while. When our youngest joined scouts, we started going as a family to overnight cabin trips, and took the boys to summer scout camp. The camping bug returned, and I remembered why I loved it. This despite the constant rain during summer camp, a car that smelled like wet feet, and a kid so covered in mosquito bites I needed to dump him into a bathtub full of calamine lotion.

Through scouts we found a great group of friends with similar aged kids who also loved to camp. Moms who don’t mind getting dirty and being without makeup or running water. We took them to our favorite spot and had an amazing weekend. But camping with two kids is a lot of work. The prep, the execution, the cleanup. I do most of it on my own. Also, to be perfectly honest, I’m not a huge fan of sleeping on the ground.

So when an opportunity came along to buy a small cottage on the lake, we jumped on it. Hubs calls it glamping because it has all of the things we love about camping—nature, fire pits, no technology, without the things we hate—sleeping on the ground, washing dishes in a plastic tub, dealing with drunk neighbors. I love waking up early and watching the sunrise. Sitting around the campfire and playing board games with my family. Curling up with a good book and taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon. No TV, no video games, the responsibilities of life left at home, at least for the weekend.

Camp NaNoWriMo kicked off on Sunday. We were out at the cottage, and despite the sweltering heat I was able to get back into my WIP and make forward progress. Last week I took the first chapter to my critique group and they loved it. Told me I needed to keep writing. When camp started I set a modest goal and made a commitment to myself to sit down every day and write. So far so good. We’re back out at the lake and I am sure my muse has found me here. (She likes to go places with no wifi—who knew?) Our friends are coming up for the holiday and I hope they love it as much as we do.

camping

Ready to write on the first day of Camp NaNoWriMo

Sometimes I think the secret to life is as simple as this: find what makes you happy and do it. Adjust as necessary to accommodate children and bad  backs.