Confessions of a Reading Mom

A note came home from the teacher yesterday.  It said my son was reading in class instead of doing research.  I was stunned.  He was reading?  Reading?  Yes!  At first I didn’t understand that the teacher meant this to be a bad thing.  That this was a “I’m sending a note home to your mother” note.  After all, I had written her emails, set up meetings, spoken to her in the hallway . . . all to discuss possible tactics to lure him into a book.  I thought she meant it as a note of success!  

Apparently not.

The truth is my son had to explain to me that this was a reprimand.  I totally didn’t get it.  The note was in his homework folder.  I thought his homework was to do the research since he hadn't done it in class and he could forgo the usual homework of reading for 20 minutes.  

But no.

I am a rule follower.  Always have been.  But NOT ‘always will be.’  The older I get, the more I realize that the rules, though intended to guide and order, also confine.  Sometimes rules are needlessly self-imposed.  There’s a whole other world out there if you step outside them.  I’m a little late to the game in realizing this.  For my son, that world includes a book called Just Annoying.  It was a book I’d picked out for him . . . hoping . . . fingers crossed . . . that it might capture his interest.  (The author has another book titled The Day My Butt Went Psycho.  And I will get it if there’s a chance it can open my son’s heart to reading.) 

I’m not going to tell my son to break the rules.  I’m not that kind of mom.  But right or wrong, I said, clearly and concisely, eye to eye: I’m not mad about this.  

Now go out there and read!

I have a book hangover

Last night was nothing new.  I looked over at the clock and it said 10:37.  Late, but not too late.  The next time I looked up from my book the clock said 11:11.  Too late to ensure a good morning.  By the time I finished the book it was 12:30.  

Instead of catching zzzz's, I read Catching Fire.  All I can say is that I’m glad I waited to read the second Hunger Games book.  The third book is already out.  If I had to wait a year to find out what happens next, I would have been a mad reader.

Instead I am merely a hungover reader.  One who is wise enough to know it is a good thing I do not have the third book in my house.  And since my eyes are protesting over too much screen-reading, I will have make a trip to the physical bookstore to get it.  It will be at least a few days before I can get there.  Enough time to start catching up on sleep.  But really, do you ever catch up?

Fortunately, I do know who Katniss ends up with.  And that’s a good thing.  Because otherwise, I would have been a very mad reader.  (But I won’t tell you unless you ask.  Because one reader’s good thing is another reader’s book ruined.  And a book lover would NEVER do that to a fellow bookie.)

Book it to the hen house

Stranded on a desert island, I’d want books.  Well, first I’d want water but after that books.  Okay -- water, food, shelter, and then books.  Without books, I think I’d end up lost in made-up stories swimming through my solitary but well-entertained mind.  (Note to self: when stranded on a desert island and sans books, scribble stories in the sand to prevent insanity.)    

 If you can relate to any of this (well, maybe not the scribbling sandy stories part), check out The Little Read Hens on Facebook and here.  We’re book lovers, and every Wednesday we chat about books on Facebook.  Our inaugural discussion is The List.  You know that list of your five favorite people, dead or alive, that you’d like to invite to dinner?  We’re taking a slightly different approach.  We’re talking about fictional characters who, if they knocked on our doors, we’d lead them to the boudoir instead of the dining room.  

So come join us in the hen house on Wednesday and share your list of favorite leading men . . .  whether they’re charmingly bespectacled intellectuals, fanged night dwellers, or anything in between.

Hope to see you there.

Path of adventure

Sometimes you have to trust that the path of life will take you where you need to be.  Actually, you should do that all time because there really is no other path to walk.  It’s not like you can hop over to the next trail and walk someone else’s life for awhile.  Your life.  Your path.    

Nowhere is this clearer than in a labyrinth.  I learned that the other day.  I’ve always been intrigued by labyrinths.  There are some around here, mostly in churches, but I’d never been to one.  So during my last hour at the Serenbe Inn, I followed their not-exactly-to-scale map to get to the labyrinth.  The path there went under an arbor, over a wooden bridge that crossed a small lake, and into a woods dotted with Greek statues.  For a moment I thought the first statue was a person, a strangely slender person of unusual skin color.  I admit I was a little on edge.  I was worried about someone else being around.  I didn’t want a witness for my first time walking a labyrinth.  What if I didn’t do it right?  Plus I was having some difficulty with the map and had made a couple of wrong turns.  But it led me true, mostly, and I found the entrance.  

Serenbe’s labyrinth is laid out with stones and you can enter to the left or the right.  I had to make a choice.  Already the labyrinth was mirroring life, and I really didn’t like it.  What if I choose the wrong the way?  Was there a correct way to start?  Was it like a bike path and there were unwritten rules somewhere?  I looked around.  There were no instructions anywhere.  A little podium of sorts stood close by, but there was nothing on it.  I was pretty sure the instructions had blown away.  

I choose left.     

I walked the first loop of the labyrinth only to find that it brought me surprisingly close to the center.  This was bad!  I’d just gotten started and I was almost done.  Left was surely the wrong way to begin.  Take the wrong road, make the wrong choice, and the (meditative) path of life is short!  There was so much I hadn’t explored.  But just before the center, the trail turned and turned again.  

The labyrinth worked -- twisting and turning, following a path to the center, a journey within.  While my thoughts didn’t dissipate and leave me with a peaceful mind, they did become clearer.  After all there was nothing to do but walk . . . and occasionally glance around to make sure no one else was coming . . . a steady rhythm jostling thoughts into order so they become easier to examine even if they don’t melt away.

The center still came too soon.  I plopped down on one of the five stone blocks in the middle like it was a natural part of the process.  I now know it’s not.  When I got home I googled labyrinths.  I’m pretty sure Serenbe’s labyrinth is laid out like the one at Chartres, but a traditional Chartres labyrinth has no seats in the middle and has only one way to enter: left.  I’d chosen correctly.  I was so proud of my natural labyrinth walking instincts.  Okay, so pride has no place in a meditative walk.  I know.  I need practice. 

After a few minutes of sitting in the center with my thoughts, I walked out following the path I’d taken in.  That is part of the journey, to take out into the world what is discovered within. 

(Strangely enough, that is exactly what the novel I just finished writing is all about.  Walking the path of life, listening to the voice within, finding your true self . . .  all with alien gods and true love mixed in.  I know  . . . I can hardly believe it either!)  

I want to go back to Serenbe just to walk the labyrinth again.  And for the food, too.  And the quiet.  And that table on the lakehouse porch I claimed for own.  Okay, basically for the overall fabulousness that is Serenbe.  

When I go back I’ll head to the labyrinth first.  I’ll be sure to pack my tennis shoes just for that.  You should too.

For when you walk the path of life, wear comfortable shoes.

THE END

It's done.  The first draft of my third book.  This one is a sci-fi romance.  The title is still undecided.  Shamaness?  Soul's Breath?  Soul Possession?  That's just a few from a long list.  

Building the world took a long time.  So did the plot for that matter.  I finished eight days past my original (self-imposed) deadline.  (I hate missing deadlines, but I thought I was going to be later than that.)  

It's a relief to be done and to know that I pulled the plot together.  At least I think I did.  We'll see how the second draft goes!

Celebrated with frappuccinos with the kids.  (Sans coffee for them, of course.)

YAY!

Pardon the Proselytization

I like to think I’m pretty good at vocabulary.  I’m okay with that not-so-humble opinion since I have plenty of other opinions about myself that fall far below humble and make up for that boast.  Yesterday I learned a new word while reading some old photocopies from an unknown knitting book.  There are no clues to the title or author on the copies else I would give credit.  Until yesterday I had never read past the first page of the copies, even though they’ve been in my possession for a least fifteen years.  (Fifteen!?)  Here’s what I read: 

The tendency of sweaters to Ride-Up-At-The-Back and Droop-At-The-Front is a knitter’s (and a wearer’s) bugbear.

Bugbear.  It’s a new word for me.  (Along with the phrases Ride-Up-At-The-Back and Droop-At-The-Front.  The capitalization is the original author’s.)  Starting now, I’m going to find as many reasons to use bugbear as I possibly can.  I’m also going to teach it to my children because that is what a good mother is supposed to do.  

Perhaps you already knew about bugbear?  It could very well be that my knowledge of words is not what I thought it was.  

I was so tickled by my newfound word that I planned to read the quote aloud to my darling friend and fellow knitter when I met her for coffee, but I forgot.  Typical.  But maybe that’s for the best.  Really, I don’t have many friends who read aloud to me.  So maybe I should stifle my urges to read aloud to them?  (I’m so sorry, CBC friends.)  

I might have forgotten about bugbear completely except that as I was typing a text message yesterday, iPhone incorrectly autocorrected my word to . . . uh huh, that’s right . . . bugbear.  

It was a message from fate.  I was meant to learn a new word.  And in case you didn’t know the word either, I am here to spread the bugbear gospel.  From the New Oxford American Dictionary:

bug • bear |ˈbəgˌbe(ə)r|

noun

a cause of obsessive fear, irritation, or loathing.

• archaic an imaginary being invoked to frighten children, typically a sort of hobgoblin supposed to devour them.

ORIGIN late 16th cent.: probably from obsolete bug [bogey] (of unknown origin) + bear ² .

But really, there’s no need to be obsessively fearful about Ride-Up-At-The-Back and Droop-At-The-Front.  That’s a waste of energy.  If you want to be obsessively fearful about something, worry about the poltergeists that are surely in my closet and have been ever since I was six years old and I saw Poltergeist, the movie.  And really, don’t let your six year old watch Poltergeist.  (In the interest of full disclosure and so my mother doesn’t feel like she has to jump to her own defense, it was the babysitter who put the movie on.)

So there you go.  Either you, too, learned a new word or you learned that the Queen of Laundry doesn’t know as much as you thought she knew.  

I hope you have a bugbear-free day.  (That’s eight times I’ve used bugbear.  Oo!  Nine . . .)  And may you never Ride-Up-At-The-Back or Droop-At-The-Front.

Plotting . . .

. . . not to take over the world but to write a sci fi romance.  Almost as risky.

Literary Fiber. It's good for you.

I love to read.  I really love to read romance novels.  And if they have a bit of magic in them, all the better.  Romance novels are like eating chocolate.  Delicious, smooth, sweet, blissful.  But sometimes you need something with a little more protein, a few more vitamins, a bit more fiber.

Here's my reading list for my 2012 dose of literary fiber.  (Not including monthly supplements from book club books.)

The City and the City by China Mieville

Embassytown by China Mieville

State of Wonder by Ann Patchett

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norell by Susanna Clarke (I'm trying, but oh my goodness, the footnotes are killing me.)

1Q84 by Haruki Murakami

Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell

Arthur and George by Julian Barnes 

Let's talk about the new year

The number one domestic performance improvement needed in my household in 2012 is . . . (insert drumroll) . . .  to have all of my Christmas shopping done and all of my children’s presents wrapped BEFORE they get out of school for winter break.

Someone remind me of this.  Please.

Midnight Joyride

I got a new car today.  It's sitting in the garage.  Shiny, black, crisp, and clean.  Would it be really wrong of me to slip out while husband and kids are sleeping and take her for a drive?  

Maybe not really wrong, just a little wrong?  But the longer I sit here, the more tired I'm getting, not to mention I'd feel so guilty and worried someone would need me that I'd be too nervous to enjoy the thrill.  Probably best to just dream about turning up the music as loud as I wanted, listening to whatever I choose, or telling her to adjust the temperature when I get too hot or cold.  

She talks, listens, and obeys.  I don't speak a lot of her language yet, but she has no problem understanding what little I do know.  And as soon as I find a break in the Christmas craziness, I'll study up.  In the meantime, I have to figure out how to get out of the lunch plans for tomorrow.  A trip to Sonic.  My son has been so curious to try it out.  That's not quite the joyride that I think my crisp, clean car needs.  We might have to just dream about that too.  

I'm here.

I haven't been here in a long time.  I've thought about the blog, came up with a few things to say, even wrote some drafts.  But they were never quite up to par.  (And why is it that golfers want to be below par but the rest of us want to be above par?)  So I'm going to have to lower my standards if I want to show up here on a regular basis.  

So here goes.  

Okay.

Lowering some more . . . 

I'm making supper as I write this.  And I am SOOOOO burnt out on cooking.  So burnt out that the only cure is for someone to put supper on my table (this includes buying all the groceries, cooking, and cleaning up) to feed me and my family for one month.  Or maybe a week.  But no less than that.  

Of course, tonight I chose to make German meatballs and noodles for supper.  What was I thinking?  What's wrong with simple hamburgers?  I'll tell you what's wrong with that.  I forgot to buy buns.

There.  That's pretty low.  

P.S.  I like the word burnt much better than burned.  Also, dreamt.  Way better than dreamed.  But more on that later.  Probably much later.

We're going about this all wrong . . .

My face is beginning to droop and cave in on itself.  Oh it’s not like my skin is going to be dragging behind me as I stroll the aisles of the grocery store.  Nor is anyone going to mistake me for being the grandmother of my children rather than their mother.  But it has begun.  And I don’t like it.  No matter how much anti-aging cream I use, it is inevitable.  Vampirism isn’t REALLY an option no matter how many shows or books there are about it;  therefore, I will get old.  You will, too.

If you’re not aging, then you’re dead.  Those being the choices, I’ll take the former.  And since my time is finite, I don’t want to waste it cringing in front of the mirror at the rapid changes in face.  Therefore, I need a change of attitude.  

So here it is.  The new attitude.  Wrinkles are a gift of life to be embraced and respected.  

That’s probably not a new attitude actually.  I know that at some point in someone’s history, the old crone was revered for her wisdom.  So when did that go out of style?  I demand that we bring that back immediately and as Queen of Laundry, I do feel that I have some authority to make that demand.  (I humbly beseech you to use the authority of your own Queenship, whatever it may be, to bring about this important change for the good of all people in all Queendoms, but mainly the Queens.  And really, what’s good for the Queen . . . )  

Let us all strive for the goal of being old crones.  If that was our goal, think of how that would change our lives.  We would all go out and revel in all that life has to offer, the good, the bad, the scary, the joyful, so that when our faces are crinkled like practice paper for beginning origami artists, our life experiences will have earned us oodles of wisdom.  

With such a goal, who would waste time on wishing for the return of their youth?  There was never a more fruitless or unwise wish.  Because it’s not coming back no matter how much you wish or how much money, time, or pain you spend on it.   Wrinkles are a visual representation of our endurance.  They form a facial resumé and we should sport them proudly.  Are you with me?  I hope you are nodding and jumping out of your chair in excitement because this will be so much easier to tackle as a group. 

 Oh look!  A new indicator of wisdom just showed up.  My smile line is getting deeper.  Share in my joy!

When the weather warms back up, we can meet at the pool under the umbrella.  We’ll peek out from under our broad brimmed hats and UV coated sunglasses at the inexperienced tanned youth in their bikinis.  We can watch as they endeavor to hurry up their own wrinkles so they can look like us and we will know that someday those smooth young ones will learn the wisdom of patience.   And before we venture away from our shaded umbrella to cool off in the water, we will douse each other in a spray of SPF 45, not because the last thing our skin needs is more sun damage that will lead to more wrinkles, but because our earned wisdom prompts us to take wise action.  And we’ll have the wrinkles to prove it.

Her Majesty . . .

I’ve always wanted to be a queen.  Actually, that’s not quite true.  What I really wanted to be was a princess.  Queen sounds like it comes with an awful lot of responsibilities.  Princess, on the other hand, sounds eternally young and much more carefree.  It’s a title that comes with pretty dresses, a tiara that’s not so heavy it weighs you down, and a castle that someone else takes care of.  Alas, no one has offered me a crown.  

Therefore, before I run out of time, I am adding a new life philosophy to my personal list:  If no one offers you a crown, come up with your own way to get one.  At this point, the days of my youth feel like they are so long past me that I’ve lost my opportunity to be a princess.  I feel as if I have no choice but to shoot for queen.  Happily, there are several openings for queen around my house.  They are not, however, the choicest of positions.  Queen of Laundry is currently available, as noted by the numerous and ever-growing islands of dirty clothes piled on the laundry room floor.  They will soon form a continent.  Her Majesty rules a very big kingdom. 

As queen, when my children say to me, “Mom, there’s no more underwear in my drawer,” I can reply, “The Queen of Laundry did not deem it fit that she should place the clean underwear in your drawer.  It remains in the clothes basket at the foot of the stairs.  Kindly fetch it yourself.”  And what could they say?  You can’t argue with a queen, especially not one who supplies you with clean underwear.  

Perhaps thinking of myself as so-crowned might make me want to do laundry.  However, that would have the effect of decreasing the size of the my kingdom, thereby decreasing the size of my responsibility, and maybe demoting me to princess.  I can clearly envision the results of that princess dream coming true.  There are many chocolates involved and large stacks of juicy novels on the table next to where I recline.  I am gracefully draped in a silk gown, empire-waist, with my hair in a lovely do that keeps my beautiful locks out of my line of vision of the juicy book.  So if you would be so good as to excuse me, I must go tend to my kingdom.  I’m washing my princess dress first.

Devious Creature . . .

I have to edit my story.  It’s not my favorite thing, but if I get in a groove, I can do it and even enjoy it.  Actually the story needs more than simple editing.  It needs rewriting.  And I like writing.  So I just need to hunker down and do it.  But the groove is elusive and I have to work hard to find it.

My difficulty in finding my groove is mostly due to this little creature living inside my head.  It likes exactly the same things I do.  It also dislikes all the same things as me.  The creature is devious.  Way more devious than me.  It is sneaky beyond any person I’ve ever met or any character that I’ve created so far.  It is the creature who, when I sit down to edit, gives me a whole bunch of fascinating story ideas that I could be writing instead of reworking what I’ve already created.  It is the creature who, when I am folding laundry, suddenly remembers the Hershey Kisses that are waiting in the cabinet.  Thank goodness this creature has me, otherwise it would be lying in MY bed right now devouring a delicious novel with a growing pile of crinkled foil wrappers next to it.  Wrappers that eventually would be discovered by my children or my husband.  (It is inevitable that I would fail to find all those silver wrappers and throw them away.  Creature is not very neat.)  And then I would have to take the blame!

But I really can’t complain about her.  I love her.  She gives me my best story ideas, introduces me to new characters I have yet to meet, lets me have some fun.  She gives me hours, even days, off and insists I take vacations in my bed with books and chocolate as my companions.  

She probably deserves a name better than Creature.  Even if you disregard for a moment the definition of the word, the actual sounds in the word “creature” do not make a very pleasing noise.  I can’t think of a good name for her though.  Whenever I call her Creature, she perks up with an innocent expression that even I, who tend to give most everyone the benefit of the doubt, can see through.  I like her like that.  I like her deviousness.  Maybe I should call her Devious.  I like the sound of that word better.  But I don’t think she really cares.  She doesn’t concern herself with this type of thing.  This is my thing.  She already knows who she is and she does not need a label for herself.

Why would she when she is so happy getting to do so many things her way . . . such as writing this instead of editing . . .  Devious Creature.

Here goes nothing . . .

Right now I am filled with a whole lot of admiration for every single person who ever had the guts to climb out on a shaky limb and give their dream a shot.  Tomorrow I’m going to a conference where I have an appointment to pitch to an agent.  I’ve never done this before.  (Actually, I have.  But we’ll just pretend that other time didn’t happen.)  This is the first time I’ve ever ventured out and tried to market my story.  

This is a lot scarier than I bothered to imagine, mostly because it makes everything that I’ve been doing REAL.  I’ve been taking serious strides toward this for over a year.  It takes a lot of striding in order to create a novel.  But you can baby-step it, one word at a time.  Tomorrow is a giant leap.  I’d like to imagine that I have the well-wishes of all the world’s giant leapers.  Even if I don’t, I’m just going to pretend that I do.   

And so, dear reader who is so kind to read my blog, if you are pondering taking a giant leap for yourself, know that you have all my best wishes.  

Love,

Your Fellow Giant Leaper

What's in a name?

Anise is not my real name.  That’s not to say that I’m not really Anise.  It’s just the name I have chosen for myself instead of the one that was given to me.  It’s the one I’d like my books to be published under.  (And I do plan to get published someday.  Yes, I can see it now . . .)  Is it jumping the gun to come up with a pen name now?  I don’t really know.  But I do know that it has made my daughter feel a little better about my publishing goals.  One weekend while I was sitting at the dining room table writing, my daughter said to me, “Mom, you’re not seriously going to publish these stories, are you?”  I replied that yes, that was the general idea.  “But then we’re going to have people knocking on our door to see you.”  As unlikely as that is to happen, I decided to get serious about choosing my pen name because I surely do not want my children to be disturbed by their famous author mother.  

While trying to choose just the right name for myself, I began to ponder a bit obsessively over what a name really is.  Here's what I decided:  a name is a string of sounds pronounced all together and designated to mean you, that may or may not have a family history behind it, chosen with great care by someone who loved you, but didn’t yet know you.  Perhaps you could argue that you knew your baby when you named it.  But short of being able to see the future, no one knows how that baby is going to develop, what his/her passions are going to be, what kind of personality is going to blossom within, how their individual futures will shape their souls.    

A name is a label that we use to identify ourselves.  Our brains are wired to label and so everything in our world must have one.  What would you chose to label yourself?  Which meaningful string of sounds best defines you?  It’s not an easy question to answer.

I feel like my husband and I have done a pretty good job naming our kids, but our daughter has already experimented with calling herself something else.  For that matter, my mother has also raised the possibility of renaming herself, independent of any of my influence.  Maybe this line of thinking is just in my genes.

Here’s why I chose Anise Rae.  Anise rhymes with my first name if it’s pronounced the way I intend it to be.  Despite all my philosophizing above, my real name carries my history and I can’t shake it and I don’t really want to.  The sounds that make up the word “Anise” are softer, kinder, and convey more gentleness than my real name.  Right or wrong, I do see myself that way, but in the real world there is a limit to the usefulness of those traits.  Hence the name Rae.  Rae sounds strong and tough for a girl and I could use a little extra toughness.  It is also like a ray of light and how wonderful to be a beam of golden warmth to the people around you.  (Yes, I can see it now . . .) 

Who AM I?

If I took a survey of my friends and family about who they think I am, I'm fairly sure I'd get a few standard responses.  I would list those likely responses, but you can guess what they are.  Guessing those answers is probably more entertaining than me telling you anyway since I'm an average human living a life that makes me a regular sort of happy.  

That life includes the part I live in my head, one of my favorite places to be, hanging out with the characters who live there.  (I would say “people” but “characters” sounds a bit less insane.)  And there are quite a few of those characters.  They have fabulous adventures, interesting lives, and can do really cool stuff.  (Some stuff that isn’t even humanly possible.)   

Members of that cast go with me everywhere.  In the shower, in my car, in bed while I'm trying to fall asleep at night. . .  although they don’t show up at the grocery store.  I wish they would.  I might not abhor that chore as much if they were pushing their own carts right along beside me. (Hmm.  I wonder what they'd have in their carts.) 

Everyone does have this cast of people in their heads, right?  Otherwise, what do you think about all day?  I can't imagine living in there by myself.  How boring that would be.  How lonely.  Regardless, I can’t stop them from sprouting up and moving in.  They dwell in my mind and their population increases faster than I can write them down.  

But I am working on that part.  Shaking them lose and sending them out onto the page where they can have their own lives and my head doesn’t get over-populated.  

So who am I?  I am a gardener of characters and I’m working on my harvest of stories.  

Probably not what my friends would say.