Tag life

Reflections

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December 31, 2018. Tomorrow I will write the annual letter to my future self and set forth goals and intentions for the year to come. Today I reflect on the year behind us — the good and the bad, accomplishments and setbacks, the things that fueled my soul and the things that made me cry.

This year I went on two writing retreats and attended my favorite writing conference. Weekend trips are the perfect way to re-energize, take time to focus on my writing, and connect with some of my favorite people. I’m thankful for each opportunity and hope they will continue in 2019.

Several friends welcomed new book babies into the world, some for the first time, and other friends bravely shared their words and ideas. Writing, in its rawest form, is a solitary activity, but we need each other for encouragement and feedback. It is not easy to ask someone to read something you’ve written. I love that I’ve been able to see friends go from sharing pages to holding their book in their hands.

As far as my own writing career, it has been an exciting year of anticipation. My debut verse novel comes out in 32 days; the early part of 2018 was spent in edits, the later part in preparation for launch. I queried a previously written novel and got some helpful agent feedback. Unfortunately I can’t quite figure out how to fix the issues with a story that may have bitten off more than it could chew, and there’s been a fair amount of time spent staring at the screen. In the meantime I started a new project, but lack of time/focus and too many excuses has left it pretty neglected. I kept my commitment to the blog (although posts tapered off a bit late in the year) and created my website.

I attended both my high school and college reunions and spent time contemplating the whole getting older thing. I’m not exactly where I thought I’d be in life, but I’ve learned to embrace divergent paths.

Life has certainly had ups and downs this year. We said goodbye to our beloved cat, Mia, but welcomed new two kitties into the house who bring joy to the family. We enjoyed quality family time this summer, but struggle as our oldest enters into the next phase of his life. There have been personal setbacks and heartbreaks, but also a handful of miracles.

Over the past few days, I’ve watched videos about how to reflect, set intentions, and reach your goals. I think it’s useful for all of us to take time this week and appreciate what we’ve learned/accomplished in the past year. To give ourselves credit. And then maybe, instead of a list of resolutions we’ll never keep, we should make promises. Promises to be better versions of ourselves.  To peel away the layers of other people’s expectations that have built up on our hearts, just peel them away until we get to the core of what makes us each unique.

I’m still figuring that out. But I’m happy with 2018 and look forward to what the new year will bring.

Happy New Year, everyone. See you in 2019.

 

 

Mixtapes in the modern age

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Back in the 90’s I was the queen of mixtapes*. If you were someone I cared about, you had a personalized mixtape, complete with decorated cover. I had have a notebook where I kept track of the songs on each tape. Yes, I still have the notebook. And a box full of mixes I made for myself. Just in case, ya know, tapes make a comeback. Or I figure out how to time travel.

mixes

file under: stuff I should get rid of but can’t seem to bear the thought of never seeing again

Life is different now. You want to hear a particular song? No problem. Exercise while listening to a specific style of music? No problem. Make your own virtual playlist? No problem. Gone are the days of hours spent waiting to hit record when your favorite song plays on the radio and getting stuck with the DJ’s voice on the opening chords. Not that I don’t love my mixtape titled, ALTERNATIVE ’92, which contains authentic Toronto DJ intros from the era.

There are endless playlists out there and I can listen to any song I want whenever I want (except of course when I’m stuck at soccer practice with no signal and forced to play only what is downloaded onto my laptop or listen to whatever ear worm lodged itself in my brain during the car ride). BUT. There are also endless choices. And that makes me feel a bit like when you stand in the grocery store aisle and have to decide between eight different kinds of coconut oil.

Back in the day of my mixtape notebook, I had a limited collection of CDs. I knew all of the songs — knew their lyrics, knew roughly how long they were (as one was limited to 60, 90, or 100 minutes per tape). I knew artists names. My CD’s were alphabetized, and still are, because of course I also have two giant binders full of CD’s I never listen to. I’ll spare you the photo evidence.

Now? I google the lyric to a song that’s stuck in my head and think, that’s who sings it? Or I see band names on the library playlist site and have no idea who they are or what they sing, but then I click on them and oh yeah, I actually do recognize their songs. Normally, this is no big deal. Listen to what makes you happy, I say. Pick the playlist to fit your mood.

Except. The marketing team who will help promote my book asked the authors to create a playlist. Songs that inspired us while we wrote or that might fit the mood of the story/character. Cool, I think. I definitely use music to help me write. It keeps me focused. It drowns out the noise of hockey pucks slamming into the board mere feet from my head (no one said writing at a sports arena would be easy). It helps me write emotional scenes. When I wrote the climax of my first novel, I played “Say Something” on repeat. The Smith’s “Asleep” provided the perfect mood while delivering devastating news to one of my characters in book two. So what did I listen to when I wrote Second in Command? Would it be worthy of a publicized playlist?

Let’s search the downloads from my laptop, which looped continuously as I wrote during soccer practices last year. A few Calvin Harris songs and various other electronica faves. Some Lord Huron. A whole lot of Sia. (Her lyrics are highly motivating. I love “The Greatest”.) Random stuff. Music I knew I could play in the background that had enough beat and rhythm to keep my fingers moving. Did it fit the mood of my story? Not usually. Would it be the same thing my main character would listen to? Doubtful. I asked my 12-year-old son to help make the playlist, and his suggestions did not exactly align with my taste. Hubs said, No 80’s music. Sad face. I know, I know. Surprisingly, there isn’t much of that on my computer. That’s what time traveling mixtapes are for, people.

So I turn to the Internet of Endless Choices. And I’m overwhelmed. My list, started on a small scrap of paper, has scribbles and rewrites. I decide, then un-decide. I text my sister, the person responsible for first introducing me to music and the joy of collecting one’s favorite songs. I visit the library music page. Who are these artists? I feel old.

There are some blank pages at the end of my mixes notebook; perhaps I should try that. Maybe I can unlock the hidden playlist muse or something. Or I could stop procrastinating with this blog post, and as my husband said yesterday, “Just pick the songs and be done with it.”

Stay tuned. I’ll link the playlist on my website once it’s live.

*the blog keeps telling me I’ve spelled “mixtape” incorrectly, but I googled it, and its’ a legitimate word that originated in the 70’s.

Hall-uh-ween

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Fall is my favorite season, and Halloween my favorite holiday. But this year, I haven’t been feeling overly festive. Today is Halloween, and there isn’t a single decoration outside. Well, except for the pumpkins, which were carved with limited enthusiasm.

We’re all feeling a bit un-fallish this year, I guess. Youngest went off to school today — his last elementary school Halloween — with no costume. Partly because he said, “I don’t really care” and partly because it’s not actually done yet. I felt like The. Worst. Mom. Although he was all, “There are kids in my class that don’t dress up because of their religion.” Maybe it was a show of solidarity?

So why have I become the Grinch of Fall? Well, the weather went from screaming hot to iceberg cold without that happy medium I love so much — you know when there’s the tiniest bit of chill in the air, just enough to have to wear a jacket, but not enough to shiver. One of my exes coined a phrase in the 90’s that describes it perfectly: “I love it when you can see your breath and wear flannels.” (Ah… flannel shirts… can we bring them back please? I loved pairing a nice pair of second hand men’s jeans with an oversized t-shirt and plaid flannel button down.)

The rainy cold — it’s too miserable to go to a pumpkin patch/get lost in a corn maze/take our annual trip to Ellicottville where we climb between trees and ride the mountain coaster over and over until my son gets tired of me screaming in his ears — has been a serious bummer. My favorite thing to do in fall is walk through the woods and listen to the crunch of newly fallen leaves, to breathe deeply, to appreciate the way things slow down and die off in preparation for winter. Not only have we missed out on family fun, I haven’t had much quality leaf crunching time.

The other big difference this year is our lack of house spirit. We’ve earned a bit of a reputation in the neighborhood for being the scariest house around. What started as a string of motion sensored Mike Myers lights and a zombie costume stuffed with leaves morphed into THE TUNNEL OF TERROR, a covered entrance to our porch full of scary decorations and grown men in costume jump scaring small children. (We had our babysitter help pass out candy at the entrance for those too young/too scared to go in.)

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2015 Tunnel of Terror

It was EPIC.

It was also a ton of work and involved very labor intensive set-up and take-down, which often occurred in the wind and rain. Hubs actually took the day off last year to set up — shame on you, Halloween, for happening in the middle of the week! After a paltry showing of trick-or-treaters last year (I guess there is such a thing as “too scary”) and a muddy and miserable take-down, hubs decided to take this year off. Also, it’s Wednesday. Halloween obviously did not get my “stop happening on weekdays” memo.

I can’t lie, it’s been nice not having the front windows blacked out and a non-stop sea of leaves traveling into the house. But it’s also sad. Kids on the bus were asking youngest when we were putting up the tunnel. And my damn Facebook memories keep popping up with pictures and videos from past years. Hubs still plans to dress up and scare the neighborhood, but he said any decorations are up to me. It’s raining. Again. And I still have a Halloween costume to make.

Which brings me to my last bit of melancholy. I love dressing up in costume. Putting on a different persona for a night and letting go of all the day to day mundane. In past years, hubs and I have acted in murder mystery dinners, went on Halloween wine tours, and gone to themed dance parties. This year? Nothing. It’s my own fault, really. I could have pushed the issue. Got tickets to an event and dragged him along or gone by myself. I could have randomly shown up at work in costume just to see what would happen.

Halloween isn’t over yet, despite the fact that two days ago I couldn’t find a single piece of candy corn among the rows of Christmas candy. Hopefully the rain will stop and I’ll find the motivation to pull out some yard decorations. Perhaps I’ll put a quick costume together for tonight’s trick-or-treating. Blast some 90’s dark wave music to help get things in the mood.

And there’s still hope for fall. This is Buffalo, after all. She likes to keep things interesting.

Weekend retreat

caravanofcomposition 5 Comments

The idea of coming together with other writers — some friends, some strangers — for an entire weekend away from the stressful realities of life felt both exhilarating and terrifying. It is something I need: space to think, to read, to write, without distractions and in a place that promised inspiring scenery. At home, I try to carve out time to write but there is always something else that pulls at my attention. The house, the cat, the never ending list of things I should be doing. At a retreat, there will be peer pressure. I will be forced to sit and write.

I will also be anxious. Anxious about the unknown, the societal expectations of such things, the way my brain doesn’t always filter what exits my mouth. The pressure to produce something wonderful, something that will make the trip worthwhile.

I drove down with a local friend, and hurray, we only had to turn around once. There were five other women there, three I know from the Pennwriters conference and two I met upon arrival. Everyone was nice. Our porch had a view of a beautiful lake, and we sat and enjoyed complimentary cottage wine.

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Sunset wine. Photo inspired by my Lake O cottage neighbor, Phil

We shared a wonderful meal together. Eventually, I heard the nag in my head asking for a break. People don’t always believe I’m an introvert. They see me stand in front of crowds, comfortable in theatrical performance. That’s the thing: it’s theater. It’s me putting on another persona, someone confident and in control of her speech and surroundings. It’s not small talk with others, deciding what to reveal about who I am and what I believe. I’d rather tell stories, sing repeat after me songs off-key, explain the way something works. Otherwise I’ll just listen if that’s okay.

And it usually is. For a while. Then I need to be alone and in the quiet. And the great thing about other writers is that they get that, they understand. Most of us are introverted or at least need to go into that space of stillness and quiet in order to tune into the stories in our heads.

I slept, more or less. As much as one can in a strange place with unusual noises (like a toilet grinder that sounded like an angry monster) and light coming in from under the doorway. I missed the sound of my husband’s breath and the feel of a cat at my feet. It was lonely. But in the morning we woke to coffee and pumpkin bread and the stillness of the lake. The air was cold and full of fall. I wrote, I read, I took a walk in the woods with my friend. We climbed into a tree stand and talked to chipmunks. I felt relaxed for the first time in weeks.

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Findley Lake

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Took a lovely hike just beyond this outhouse

We gathered in the common area and wrote, a collective of creative energy. I worried about my story but tried to let the words flow without judgement. When we weren’t writing, we talked and laughed and ate amazing food. A group of us went on a mini adventure and embraced the idea of taking the time to do what makes you happy. I am thankful for that time, for the beautiful place, for a family that supports my passion and gives me space to pursue it.

I am thankful for other writers who are not afraid to share in their vulnerability. We are all on our own journeys, yet we are all committed to words, and I love how that bonds us. Love that I can spend the weekend with people other than my family and feel safe and comfortable.

Bonus: amazing food

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Pasta with pumpkin sauce, sauted mushrooms and onions, ratatouille with vegan mozzarella, and homemade herb focaccia. YUM.