Okay, I’m in on the Meme.

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At Chautauqua this year, Yolanda Leroy…her name is prounounced LEE-roy. I’d always flaired it up in my mind, having never actually said it out loud and just having read it in market guides and mind-pronounced it as luh-ROY…anyway, Yolanda LEE-roy of Charlesbridge Publishing said that writing is a lot like training for a marathon. There are the training runs, which you don’t really have to be proficient in, you just have to do them. They help you build up the resistance to go the 26.2 miles on race day.

I ran the Chicago marathon in 2002 so Yolanda LEE-roy was speaking my language. One of main things running through my mind during the marathon was “I did what it takes to finish.” I had trained well. I had done the tough stuff. I had slogged away by myself for hours in the blazing sun, just staying on my feet to finish numerous training runs. When I crossed the line in Chicago, I was more proud that I had done what it takes to get there than the fact that I had endured the marathon itself.

I’m training again now. Training to run the Disney marathon in 2006. For some reason, I feel less prepared. In a little worse shape. I keep trying to remind myself that it just comes down to these daily runs. Just staying on my feet for the duration of each individual run. Just teaching the muscles what they are in for. Then on race day, the endurance will be there.

It is kind of like writing in a way. It all comes down to those daily “runs” on the computer. Just putting it down on paper. BIC for the duration. And when it comes time for the marathon itself…the final revision…the strength/endurance/knowledge will be there. The writing muscles will work.

So here’s to my butt on the road and my butt in the chair for the next 4 months. I’ll keep you posted on the training (and the results) of both.

I ache the day, the summer day,
the too-warm, slick and sweaty day,
a day too hot for even rain,
a day laid low, that hovered
close, that fell in drifts
and choked my soul.

It smothered him then slipped away,
away from heart and labored breath,
away from me to snowy death,
away, away,

I ache that day.

wrote: At the top of a piece of paper, write the words: “I’m sorry.” Free write for five minutes (or more if you are on a roll). Go with whatever comes to mind, and don’t worry if your thoughts shift mid-sentence. Let stream of consciousness guide you. Make a list, write a paragraph, do whatever feels right. If you don’t feel like getting personal, try the exercise from you main character’s pov. He or she might surprise you!

This is vaguely in the voice of the mc of one of my novels:

 

I’m sorry.

Sort of sorry, anyway. I mean, I can’t be completely sorry for something that isn’t my fault. I’m sorry it all happened but what can I do about it now? Other than tell you I’m sorry? I hate that word sometimes. Sorry. What does it really mean? No one really means it. You don’t. Ever. You say it sometimes but then nothing changes. Mabye that’s why I can’t mean it either. If you really meant it, it would change you. It would force you into action over the thing that went wrong, even if you’d had no control over it in the first place. But you’re not sorry. You’re never truly sorry. When do you ever try to make things right? I don’t think you’re ever sorry at all. Deep down you’re happy things went wrong, wanting it all to somehow make me grow up, make me a man. “Life’s tough,” you say. “Gotta face it or run,” you say. Well, when did you ever face it, tough guy? When did you ever look it square in the jaw and try to lick it? ‘Cause if you had, you’d know sorry. You’d be sorry for what’s happened now. Not just helpless. Not just pathetic.

Sorry? Yeah, I’m sorry. Sorry you can’t let yourself be sorry.

 

Slivers of almond celebration for Thatgirlygirl.

Happy Birthday!

 

 

Youth was green
like tender shoots sprayed
with chartreuse,
limed with strokes of light,
reaching toward the hope of sun.

Innocence waned
then turned its face,
casting knowing eyes toward
cooling clay, growing more
at its core,
its hoping ever
greener still.

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CASS AND ANNE MARIE!!!!! (and to D, my son)

Fifty people came to my house last night. For a wedding rehearsal dinner. I’m singing in the wedding. And I cleaned, made flower arrangements for 10 tables, found 10 new tables when original table deliverer called to say that he would in fact, NOT be delivering the 10 tables he had promised and been paid to deliver, baked and frosted a carrot cake, made 50 servings of lemon pie, and practiced for said wedding. The wedding is today. It’s also my son’s birthday. So today holds forth shopping for a bike and various goodies for presents, making ANOTHER cake and frosting, having a semi-rushed party, showering, shaving my legs, fixing my hair into some interesting, attractive coiffe that’s a bit more dressy than the normal way it just falls nonchalantly to my shoulders, putting on the dress (shopped for and mentioned last week in my blog), practicing the music again for said wedding and then finally actually being a part of said wedding ceremony.

Oh, and did I mention that I woke up this morning hoarse and with a raging sore throat? Anyone have any suggestions?

I have a friend. In fact, I have several friends but I am thinking of one in particular. We are as different as water and syrup. Not so different, you say? I concede that one is essentially made up of the other with a lot of sugar thrown in and then heated until thick. But I’ve still got a point.

My friend is the water: a clear, life-sustaining, thirst-quenching kind of person. I’m the syrup: a sort of sticky, sweet, slightly dark substance that is an absolute MUST with some things but that to be honest, too much of makes you sick. Pancakes with water poured over them are mush. Pancakes with syrup are to die for but not exactly something you want to eat for every meal. Or you might. But then you’d get tired of them after a while. Either that or your arteries and pancreas would stage a rebellion.

Here’s the thing. Together my friend and I balance each other perfectly. Her clarity balances my slightly sticky darkness. There is almost nothing I enjoy more than getting her opinion on things. We almost always disagree. It’s fun, really, to find things, the most basic of things, about which we can find a way to disagree. The subtleties of difference in our opinions fight their way to the surface to sun themselves in the light of day. It makes our friendship so satisfying. It’s impossible to be around her without being challenged to think.

We’ve changed each other, I think. And no, I don’t think I’ve become a watered-down version of my syrupy self. But I think we’ve both grown to appreciate the properties of the other. We call it disagreeing beautifully.

If you look back through my water/syrup analogy, you’ll find places where it doesn’t hold up. Don’t look too hard. I really should have used two more opposite things. Things which both have negative properties that could be drawn out to make my point in a more umm…pointed way. Truthfully, if you go back and read this again, my analogy doesn’t hold up at all. You’d probably disagree with me.

But I rather enjoy that. 🙂

Have you ever noticed how easy it is to twist someone’s words because of your own experience? You know, where you think a person is saying one thing…you’re just dead positive they’re saying one thing…but another person, because of their different life experience hears it differently.

I’m going to a wedding on this coming Friday. Weddings are very formal in Brazil…long, flowing Oscary red carpet entrance type formal. So I needed a new dress. (Complication number two is that I’m singing at the wedding so I wanted something attractive but not gaudy.) So during my search these are the comments I heard from salespeople:

Literal translation from the portuguese:  “You know, a woman like yourself who is large all over wears that style dress very well.”

What she meant: “Your hips and bust are well-proportioned.”

What I heard in my insecurity: “You are large all over.”

 

Literal translation from the portuguese: “You will be able to wear this dress again and again because it will not ‘mark’ the occasion.”

What she meant: “You’ll get a lot of use out of this dress because though it’s beautiful there is nothing gaudy about it.”

What I heard in my insecurity: “Honey, you really should choose a dress that doesn’t call attention to yourself.”

I’ve learned how to read comments from Brazilians that are really, truly meant as compliments but at literal value feel very backhanded. But sometimes my insecurity still shows…at least to me. I try not to let it show to those making the comments. After all, I know how much it hurts to be misunderstood. They’re just trying to get me to buy the dress, not offend me. So slowly but surely I’m learning not to read too much into people’s comments. After all, it’s my life experience/culture vs. their life experience/culture and how much can I truly expect for those two sides to be fully compatible and understood in the span of a 10 second comment.

What I don’t get is when people are snarky and deliberately degrading in anonymous comments in response to certain blogs. It hasn’t happened to me, but I’ve seen some attacks in the comments section of others’ blogs. I guess it goes both ways. You still have to give grace and consider the other person’s life experience when reading their comment. But it seems that if the commenter had considered the blogger’s life experience in the first place rather than just assuming they knew it, it might not have gotten so ugly.