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September book report

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Last month I discovered that middle grade audio books sometimes come with fun sound effects and musical accompaniment.  We took a small road trip over the holiday weekend and even though I did relent and allow the boys to watch videos part of the way, I made sure to get kid friendly audiobooks just in case. And now I think I’m kinda hooked.

Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Saenz
We started with this one, and I’m glad the boys switched over to movies because despite the case saying it was a family friendly audio, the themes and some of the language would have been a bit much for my youngest. Definitely a 12 and up read/listen. I enjoyed the story, and hubs said it was an accurate portrayal of how boys feel at that age – specifically in terms of how they think about their relationship with their father.

Pop by Gordon Korman
My son read No More Dead Dogs last year (and I did too, as I once promised to read everything he’d been assigned to read) and we both enjoyed it. Pop was a fun listen; it’s about a young football player who moves to a new town and connects with his older, somewhat quirky neighbor. There are some nice layers to the story, and the boys enjoyed listening on the drive home. Korman is an excellent (and prolific) MG writer – check his stuff out!

See You in the Cosmos by Jack Cheng
Okay, so here’s where the audio books got really fun. Main character Alex narrates the story into a “golden” iPod that he plans to launch into space. Every time someone else spoke into the iPod, a different voice actor was used. And there were sound effects. My boys thought that part was awesome. They only listened to part of the story as post-summer life began and we all returned to our respective work/school lives. But they heard enough to become invested in the characters, especially Alex. Some elements were a bit unbelievable, but we definitely enjoyed joining him on the journey.

Stop Pretending: What Happened When My Big Sister Went Crazy by Sonya Sones
I’m working on a new piece – a novella written entirely in verse. One of my critique group ladies mentioned this book as a model, and oh, it’s good. Finished it in an afternoon. If you read it, but sure to read the backstory too (it was the afterward in the ebook version) about how the book came to be. I will definitely be checking out more of her work.

Tomorrow There Will be Apricots by Jessica Soffer
Sadly, I only finished one physical book this month. It has not been easy to carve out quiet time to read in the past few weeks. But on the nice days, if the boy behaved himself at school, I’d plop myself on a park bench and anti-socially drown myself in a book. I added this one to the list based on a “books you should read” article a few years back, and then noticed a good friend had enjoyed it. It is beautifully written. I loved the interwoven relationships and her unique similes and metaphors. I did struggle a little at time because of the adoption story line – there was negative language and difficult scenes which were a bit of a trigger for me. (For those who don’t know – my sons were both adopted.) But overall it was a lovely book that expertly dealt with the ideas of fueling passion, fitting in, and finding one’s purpose.

That’s it for now. Stay tuned for next month’s reviews. Happy reading everyone!

 

 

How’s your book coming?

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Ah, the ever present question in writing circles: How’s the current project coming along? Whether you’re working on an initial draft or revision number (enter ridiculous number here – in my case anyway), fellow writers and basically anyone to whom you’ve mentioned that you’re working on a book want to know how things are going. And that’s great. It helps keep the motivation up when it may be dragging, and can be a supportive part of an often desolate journey.

But when things aren’t going well, it’s a question that makes me want to bury my head in the sand. Or, as my son often does when he gets home from school, turn my thumb sideways and then point it down. Although truth be told, he often turns it back to sideways or up; he’s like the scales on a diet show – was it a good day or bad day? Stay tuned to find out!

Can you tell I’m avoiding the question? Really though, how is the current project going? It’s experiencing long periods of drought with the occasional burst of creative genius, followed abruptly by bouts of frustration and/or hours of staring into space, willing a solution to magically appear out of my fingertips.

Here’s the problem. My book tells two stories. One is mostly true (based on my grandmother’s memoirs) until it becomes completely not true. The other is not true, but loosely based on a real event. I had a million ideas and took this giant bowl, poured them all in, and hoped for the best. Then I spent many, many hours rearranging post-it notes that have long ago lost their stickiness and revising until the two stories more or less came together. They came together, I’m just not entirely happy with things yet. So, following some helpful feedback from my amazing critique group, I went in with a knife and sliced the poor thing up some more.

I have a tendency to start projects and not finish them. It’s kinda my M.O. Back when a popular drink was putting six word memoirs on the inside of its caps, one of my teacher friends decided to do that as a class activity: Write a six word memoir. And could I please write a sample for her to use? Hubs was quick to offer up this one: HAS BIG IDEAS, NO FOLLOW THROUGH

Yup. I’m working really, really hard at changing that, says the girl who stalled on revisions all summer. And I try not to dump the contents of some cabinet or other onto the floor and then decide partway through that I don’t feel like sorting through all of it. I mean, I totally packed up that box of memories after I… only… went… through… half. Crap.

Back to the WIP. When I see my writer friends, especially ones who have read through the story, they say encouraging things like how they thought it was good and that I should query the darn thing already. But then I have moments where I worry that I am not honoring my grandmother’s memory properly and maybe I shouldn’t fictionalize the second half of her life, but honestly she went on to have kids and they had kids and she baked a lot of cookies and pies and they were delicious. Not quite the page turner I’m hoping for.

So where do I go from here? Well, I ignore the curled up, note covered pages of the manuscript on my desk, the notebooks and scraps of paper with random ideas piled on top, the now neatly arranged sticky notes on the back table (after they spent several weeks on the floor, getting occasionally slept on by the cat), and this:

memoirs

A copy of Grandma’s memoirs, the ones she was working on when she died, edited and bound by yours truly in the days leading up to her funeral so that I could pass out copies to everyone in the family. And do you know what I found last month while cleaning out the basement? An original copy of the first section, with a note to me, date November 17, 2001 – right before Buffalo got hit with a terrible snow storm (I was living in South Carolina at the time – Grandma mentions that bad weather was predicted). A note that explains how excited she is to be writing down the story of her life.

And then there’s this:

grandma

That’s me and Grandma, in July 2001, looking over some pages while visiting her cottage. She counted on me to help her with the writing, to teach her how to use word processing. And even though she’s gone, I know she’s counting on me to get this right. But the problem is, I don’t know exactly what that means.

So I stall. Procrastinate. Work on other things. This story is my heart, and maybe part of it is that I don’t want to face the inevitable rejection that comes with querying, but it’s mostly that I am afraid of getting it wrong. Of somehow hurting her memory.

Now you know why, if you ask me how writing is going, I get a faraway look in my eye that is a mix of frustration, determination, and sadness. My grandmother was amazing, and however the story turns out, I want to make her proud.

Thanks for the memories

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We’re gathered around the small backyard fire, fingers spread to absorb its warmth, and I watch as a woman’s childhood crinkles colorfully in the flames. Stick figure families, die cut snowmen, grade school report cards. One by one licked by fire and turned to ash that floats above our heads like burnt snow. What made her decide after thirty plus years to burn all of the papers so carefully horded? My sister in law snapped photos of half-burnt chalk drawings and texted them to her friend, the one who had offered up her memories as kindling. It’s not like you can take all of this with you when you die, someone reflected. And why would you want to pass it onto your children? What are they going to do with a poem about cows?

Still. I found it painful to watch all of the papers curl up and reduce to nothing. I’d never met the woman, had no connection to this pile of her past, but it left me thinking about my own. Back home, I’ve made yet another commitment to reduce the amount of crap in my house, this time inspired by a college friend who has decided to move into a tiny house. She’s letting go of her material possessions systematically until she is down to the bare essentials. I admire that. I picture myself in a tiny house someday, surrounded only by the things that give me immediate pleasure. A library book. An empty journal. A pen that writes in purple ink. A single mug, filled every morning with hot tea. A fuzzy blanket. I do not need five of everything, and I certainly don’t need a house full of things I never look at or use. But letting go isn’t easy, and for me the reason is often two fold. 1. Will I need/want this someday? and 2. Can I find a new home for this? Someplace where it sill get a second chance for use.

Following the phone call with my friend, I set out to make yet another schedule (which I stuck to for exactly one week) and started in on the basement. I made wonderful progress at first: Giant bag of old blankets and towels for the SPCA! Recycled several bins full of old gift boxes! Donations brought to the local Salvation Army! And then, the memories. Pandora’s Box, so labeled because it contains all of my journals and angsty teenage poetry, and once opened sucks several hours of my life reminiscing about the drama that once surrounded me like a storm cloud. How can I part with that? I managed to get rid of several, particularly cringe worthy journals I’d written in middle school and the folders containing my papers from the first two years of college. (It took me a while to discover that hey, maybe I do need help becoming a better writer.) But now, in classic Sandi fashion, the living room looks like the 80’s exploded (I found an honest to goodness trapper keeper in there) and I’m stuck trying to figure out what to do with the stack of my elementary school report cards and four shoe boxes full of letters.

Conversation with hubby:
Me: “I just don’t think I can get rid of all this.”
Him: “And where exactly are you going to put it when you move into your tiny house?”
Me: *contemplates* “One day, when I’m retired and have nothing to do but sit around and read all day, I’m going to build a fire, then read each of these letters one by one and burn them.”
I think this is brilliant. He scoffs and walks away.

We all struggle with this, some of us more than others. Some of us hold onto each and every childhood drawing until we reach our 40’s and then suddenly decide our friend should take it away and burn it all. Some of us admire a thing, then immediately find a new home for it (in the recycling bin hopefully, and not the landfill). Some of us bust it out every few years, get weirdly emotional about that past, then box it all up again. (Hey, there’s no judgement here.) I think, hm, I could use this particular turn of phrase in my writing someday, or, yeah, it feels good to read the comments of my rhetoric professor who said I had great potential as a writer. Or I find stuff like this, written in April 2000, four months before I got married and most likely after a long night of re-reading old journals.

I must always leave something behind… so on late nights, as this one, when nostalgia shakes in my skin, I can look back on the days of naivety and passionate ramblings. I must always write, even when the passion has seeped out of me and there are no more passing fancies to idolatrize; the ink must flow from the pen until it finds inspiration. I must always dream – of greater things, of unsolved mysteries, of unrequited love, and look to these dreams for the magical message they convey. I must always love and hate myself, nurture and challenge myself, rescue and abandon myself – with equal intensity; it keeps the spirit strong.

A little dramatic, perhaps a little cheesy, but the theme is clear. There are certain things that make us who we are, and although no, we cannot bring them with us when we die, if we connect with them on a level, no matter how strange it may seem to someone else, we should find a way to keep them in our lives. And yes, this is me justifying a bit of clutter. And yes, I do still want that tiny house someday and there won’t be room for all my crap unless I seriously get a grip and let go.

But not today. I’m not ready for the flames just yet.

Row, row, row your boat…

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…not so gently into the swimming area.

I spent this past weekend at cub scout camp with my youngest son and a handful of other scouts and their parents. The weather was great, our boys had a blast, and I thoroughly enjoyed having someone else cook, serve, and clean up after me at every meal. Despite my fear of various living things (snakes, bees, giant hairy spiders, etc), I love being outdoors and feel a renewed energy after spending time in nature.

The weekend was a lot of fun with one minor exception, which from this point forward will be known as the great rowboat debacle of 2017. Let me back up. Last year at camp my husband and oldest son were enjoying a lovely time canoeing when the boy decided to make a quick shift from one side to the other in an attempt to get away from some antagonistic boaters and promptly tipped the boat and its human contents into the lake. Later that day I overheard a bunch of parents laughing about “The dad and his kid who fell into the lake” and I proudly declared them as my family. Because why not. They are the type that can laugh about these sorts of things.

I am not. At least, not right away. In the moment, I panic. And usually cry.

During open boating time, youngest and I decided to take a lovely spin in the paddle boats. He could reach the pedals this year! Success! Then I suggested a different vessel. Canoe perhaps? No way, daddy and brother tipped over last year he announced. As if I had forgotten. Kayak? Yeah, they don’t look quite as steady as our never-before-tipped-over inflatables back home. How about a row boat? Yeah, great idea.

Or not.

During lunch the staff members sit with various packs and visit, and that afternoon we had a silver sunglassed lifeguard at our table. He seemed witty and relatable and laughed at my jokes. So I was pleased to see him at the boat station and felt comfortable announcing that I had no experience on a rowboat and could he please give me some tips? Sure. Don’t let your son make any sudden moves and if he does, make sure you’re sitting in the middle of the boat. Yup, we figured that one out after what happened last year. Anything else? I asked as I clumsily slipped the oar pins into their holes. Nope. Just a shove out into the lake.

Yeah, I’m not very good at rowing. Something about the going backward thing, coupled with the fact that I’m pretty sure our boat or oars or something wasn’t even because it appeared as though my one arm had super human strength and I could not for the life of me get the boat to travel in a straight line and every time the boy tried to help me correct it from his perch at the front of the boat it just made us travel in circles and eventually I heard this: “STAY OUT OF THE SWIMMING AREA.”

And that’s about when the panic set in. Because each time I tried to correct our course I spun the boat in more circles and continued my path toward all the unsuspecting swimmers like that horrible scene in JAWS. The yelling continued, to which I responded “CAN SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME?!?” And a guy on the dock tried to explain that I needed to pull my arms toward me and not away from me like that was my only problem, and some of my friends stood near him laughing at my complete inability to navigate small craft, and all of this just made me panic more and I felt the tears build up, and oh shit.

I cannot panic in front of my child.

Moms are supposed to be strong in the face of adversity, and parenting with anxiety means that not only do I need to figure out how to stay calm for my own well being, but also for my kids’. Thankfully one of the lifeguards guided me toward the swimming pier and then another one swam the boat back. I felt terrible that she had to swim through the tangling seaweed that surrounded the boat dock, but at least it made for an interesting story to tell her friends. The boy and I waited for her to complete the task (she had borrowed my life jacket for the swim over), and I tried to maintain composure and a sense of dignity despite wanting to break down and bawl right there on the beach.

It was a simple mishap, silly really, but sometimes things like that aren’t easy for me to process, and when they are coupled with a lack of sleep and being away from home I have a hard time maintaining a steady emotional state. Later, when my friends returned to the campsite and jokingly told me the video was already posted to YouTube (I was on the phone with my mom who actually tried to find said video… Lord knows what she typed into the search engine: cub scout mom adrift on rowboat?) I told them I had legitimately panicked and had to keep myself from crying (again) while they laughed. Not meanly. Innocently. Like, it’s funny when something stupid happens, don’t take yourself so seriously kind of laughter.

And so I did my best to embrace the incident, to brush off the ripples of panic and fear that try to imprison me on a daily basis. Because what else could I do? And when I told my husband the story, he nodded, and didn’t seem surprised at my reaction. He gets me. Has come to understand what it means to live with someone with anxiety. I can laugh about it now, but in the moment, only dread. But I’ve learned to recognize the triggers and how to get myself out of a situation and find calm. The boy and I left the beach and went to the camp store to buy some gum. He held my hand and we talked about frogs.

Tonight, my friends will come over for drinks on the deck and maybe it will come up, and we’ll laugh about it, and it will all be good. Until next year, when back at camp, we visit the boats again. Perhaps the kayaks? I’ll wear my swimsuit just in case.