Another Absolutely Uninteresting Update, or I Avoided Ranting Again! (Mostly.)

Yesterday, I skipped the writing in favor of attacking a rapidly growing of errands and lunch with my husband (something that doesn't happen very often...lunch with my husband, I mean.)  We had our usuals at our favorite downtown lunch place, Luna Rosa.  I'd post a drool-worthy picture of my go-to order (Mandarin Bliss Salad, add London Broil), but I was too busy scarfing down the mammoth-sized plate of yum to take a picture.  We also shared a little dessert because you CAN'T go there and not get their artisan gelato.  I believe yesterday's, "Caramel By the Sea," may have even surpassed their classic, "Caramello," and that's saying something.  Same story on the photo of the creamy goodness that was dessert.  Bonus was that we got to sit and eat a peaceful lunch together and chat without interruption or having to remind anyone to lower their voice or lean over their plate before shoving a forkful into their mouth.  I think we both even managed to get out of the restaurant without wearing any of our (or anyone else's) lunch.  Grown-up lunch FTW!

So all that to say that today is Day 4.  I may have skipped a day of work, but overall I'm sticking pretty close to my writing schedule, something that was aided by Kiddo's teacher, who gave me the day off from kindergarten volunteering today.  (YAY!!!)  Don't get me wrong -- I adore those sweet kiddos -- but some days it just feels like trading in your one child (work enough on her own) for twenty-two kids with the same questions, ploys, tactics.  (Who knew so many children shared that annoying habit of pretending not to know answers to their work in order to, I don't know, get out of work? assert a measure of control? see if they can make steam come out of my ears?  It's a mystery, but one I don't feel led to investigation on a large scale most days. ) So I'm grateful that it's nearly eleven thirty, and I'm not on my way to being sneezed on, stepped on, and otherwise assaulted by kindergarten germs.  To Kiddo's teachers: I salute you.  I praise you.  You are tops. You win all the awards in my book.

But for now, you'll have to settle for these homemade paper flowers.

Aside from my strict writing schedule, life continues on much as it usually does. We're still a one-car family temporarily, though the past two weeks have been a blissful relief as some friends allowed us the use of their vehicle when they were out of town.  I still have to sit through gymnastics today and sit with "the moms," pretending like I have even the vaguest idea of what's going on or what constitutes appropriate waiting area conversation.  (So far, it seems like the list includes: gymnastics, PTA, clothes shopping, comparing kid stories.  Basically, I'm screwed.) Still find myself avoiding as much political news as possible (for the sake of my own sanity.)  Still avoiding most American television. Still reading, though I've been rewarding myself with lighter-than-usual fare in hopes of lifting my spirits, which haven't exactly been floating sky-high recently.  It's difficult to maintain one's gloomy demeanor when one is reading PG Wodehouse.  I mean, I can't imagine Jeeves would approve of sulking (though passive-aggressive facial expressions might be tolerated/encouraged.)

Though I like to think he'd approve of my choice of hot beverage.

For now though, I'm back to B&N with my hot tea (no London Fog today) and Hamilton in my earbuds trying desperately to drown out the abysmal (and frankly, puzzling) music they've got cranked in the cafe. And in case, you're not yet impressed by my self-control and discipline, I'd like to point out that they now have the new #Hamiltome in stock, and I didn't immediately buy it and ditch my work.  I am a regular ascetic.  

Absolutely no plan for how I'm going to get out of here without buying this.

I imagine I'll finish the super-short Wodehouse tonight, so now comes the tricky task of deciding what to read next.  Not sure I'm ready to dig back into heavy-duty fiction yet, so I may pick up one of my Mother's Day gifts.

Decisions, decisions.

I'm going to keep it short today.  Blog less, write more, write like I'm running out of time, and any other clumsy Hamilton references you can think of. #WORK!

Reading, Writing, and Ralph Ellison

It's Day 3, and I'm working from home today.  Yesterday was easier than Friday, and fingers crossed that today will continue on in that direction.  My story-in-progress is, in fact, progressing, and I've been managing a minimum of two hours of solid, non-stop writing.  Actually, tomorrow could have gone on longer if my stomach would have cooperated.  (Apparently, a sugary tea latte and a Kind bar aren't enough to sustain me.  Who knew?)

My workspace today, lovely but surrounded by more distractions.

The king of distractions when he turns his "sad eyes" on you. 

Margot (aka Kitten Murderface, Aaron Purr, Satan, El Diablo, Bad Hat, Devil Cat, etc) is a distraction for all the wrong reasons.

But despite the frequent breaks to redirect our extremely evil feline away from destruction, I am plugging away, actually looking forward to wrapping up today's blog post and getting to work on my story (while comfortably ensconced in a spot where emergency nourishment is just down the hall.)  But before I do, I want to talk briefly about my most recent read. (Warning: We are leaving the frivolous world of cat pics far behind.)

Yet another entry in my "Books You Should Have Read in School" category.

Ralph Ellison's classic, Invisible Man, was on my list of catch-up books for a while before I spotted a pristine copy at the used bookstore a few months back.  I snagged it and parked it on my TBR shelf ("to be read" for the uninitiated.)  Aside from some very big picture stuff, I knew almost nothing about this book.  But I knew it was important, and that it fell into the embarrassed-I've-never-read-it category (along with a list of books so long I burn with shame.)  So finally, two weeks ago, I picked it up to read, knowing nearly nothing about the plot or characters and only a vague idea of the subject matter.

I wasn't prepared.  Somebody should have warned me.  First of all, this is not a plot-driven novel.  Secondly, this is not a character-driven novel.  The narrator/protagonist is a slippery fish whose personality and desires are almost impossible to nail down.  His beliefs and ideals flip-flop like said slippery fish throughout the book.  Thirdly (third of all? the third thing? these ordinals are getting out of control), this book is mostly people having philosophical arguments with the narrator.  I am not exaggerating.  This book was a slog.  And at nearly 600 pages, it was a long slog.  I kept having to give myself little pep talks to get through it -- especially when the protagonist hits his umpteenth betrayal by someone he trusted.  This book was a bummer.

But here's the thing: Read it anyway.  

Last year, I read Ta-Nehisi Coates' Between the World and Me, and it was mind-blowing in all the right, heartbreaking, life-changing ways.  Everything Coates said about the devaluing of the black body in America echoes so perfectly what Ellison calls the "invisibility" of the black man in America (even though I read the Coates book first.)  Read the Ellison and forget that it was set in the last century because, you know what?  It might as well be set today.  Sure, today we make more of a show of not using racial slurs and pretending that there is equal access to jobs and amenities, but the heart of it all remains unchanged.  Time and again we are sold the lie that America is a land of equals, that privilege is a myth, that educated and liberal white men can fix the problems of minorities.  We are told that racism is over, that people are playing the "race card," that whites can experience "reverse racism."  White liberals congratulate ourselves (I'm indicting myself too) on our open-mindedness, our ability to understand something that is beyond our experience.  We talk and talk, and we don't listen.

I'm not going to make some big proclamation or conclusion about finishing the Ellison book (aside from being really relieved to have reached the end for a whole lot of reasons.)  I don't believe it is my job to decide what it all means.  My job is to humbly listen, to read and listen and try to understand, to support those who do know, who have lived the experience, when they try attain positions of power, platforms where they can effect change.  My job is to police my own behavior, my own thoughts, to weed out any remnants of that pernicious subtle prejudice that is deeply rooted in all of those with privilege.  

For those readers who have gotten this far in my post, I'm probably preaching to the choir, but I'm going to say it anyway.  Don't post comments here about your disbelief in white privilege.  Please don't embarrass us both by telling me that you've had a hard life too.  This isn't a hardship contest, and that is not what privilege is about.  If you think it is, then you have a fundamental misunderstanding of the concept.  If that terminology is a stumbling block for you, set it aside.  Read the book anyway.  Read Coates' book (it's super-short, a one-sitting kind of read, though I recommend going slowly and taking it all in.)  I'm not looking for affirmation, praise, a fight, or really anything other than the hope that more people will read and listen and really think about what they see and hear, especially as we approach the election.  Think a little less about talking points and hot-button issues and really listen, not just to what your preferred candidate is saying, but also to what his/her supporters say.  What kind of America/world do they want, and what kind (read: color) of people does it include?  Worry less about your own entitlement and ask yourself what this country needs.  

Don't have any idea what this country needs?  You read and you listen and still don't have any answers?  Neither do I.  And as far as I'm concerned, that I just means I need to listen more.  Maybe being in the middle of uncertainty isn't such a terrible place to be.

Read Less, Write More (a Mid-Year Resolution)

Day Two of my new summer writing regimen, and I'm back in the B&N cafe with a London Fog and my laptop.  While I certainly don't plan to work from here every day this summer, I find that when I'm trying to reboot my discipline, knowing I can go somewhere I enjoy and get a drink that gives me a caffeine boost (and tastes delicious) gives me a little extra incentive to get moving when that hateful alarm goes off at six thirty (one of the parts of Kiddo being in school that I won't miss.)  Also, it can be helpful (when my discipline/attention span are struggling) to work in a space with no distractions. Sure there are people milling around and chatting (well, not this early, but they're coming), but at home it can be difficult to resist the call of the laundry or the cat or -- let's be honest -- the sofa.  Here, there's nothing to do but keep my butt in the (very uncomfortable) chair and write.  So until I get back in a rhythm, I'll be here trying to stretch out one tall London Fog and make myself invisible.  Like Friday, I am using my blog post as a way to write my way into my work for the day. Fingers crossed that I'm soon at the point where I can do my fiction writing first and use my (fun...well, fun for me, anyway) blog stuff as a reward for my hard work.  But I'm not there yet, and that's okay for now.

Enjoy this image because the wifi here is dragging this morning.  It's all your getting.

As often happens when I sit down to blog on a semi-regular basis (as opposed to when I have a specific bone to pick), I don't have a specific topic in mind when I break out my laptop -- unless it's to puzzle over why Google Play is so convinced I need to listen to Saint Saens' Bacchanale EVERY time I use it.  I'm seriously having youth orchestra flashbacks.  So today, let's talk about writing, my writing (or lack thereof.)  It may not be the most riveting topic, but if it helps with my accountability, then I'm willing to let you suffer through.  (Aren't I a sweetheart?)

Five years ago this summer (how is that possible?) I completed my MFA program after a consecutive six-year run of college (undergrad + grad).  It was with a strange combination of triumph and profound sadness that I attended my final commencement.  I'm one of those weirdos who likes to be in school.  Nay, I love it.  If I were rich, I would be student for the rest of my life, taking tests, writing papers, meeting deadlines, reading dense prose, and turning in creative work with pride and trepidation.  Alas, I am decidedly not rich.  And so I exited the academic world (as a student, anyway) and returned to normal life.  It is also worth noting that during my MFA I had Kiddo, who was eighteen months old when I graduated.

For six years, I read and I wrote constantly.  I was disciplined.  I was focused.  I was so very happy. Of course, there was a part of me that was relieved about the end of deadlines and class schedules (mostly the parent of a toddler part, I'm sure), but  I was totally blindsided by the writing paralysis that struck me almost the moment I was handed that diploma.  For at least six months, I couldn't write.  I was sad, bone-deep sad, about not being in school.  I was terrified to write without the safety net of my brilliant faculty mentors.  There were no more deadlines beyond those I set for myself.  And on top of everything else, my brain felt like it was slowly turning to sludge as I cared for my toddler (the preschool programming on tv probably didn't help that.)

I did manage to eventually shake free of the paralysis (mostly anyway), and I've had spurts of productivity (though that productivity has not included sending out my work.)  I'm blessed with writing friends and mentors nearby, and toddlers do eventually become preschoolers that allow for more free time (Preschool FTW!).  There is no way to plan, however, for the time-wrecker that is illness.  Nothing can make you feel defeated (and totally brainless) quite like being laid up in bed and heavily drugged.  I've yet to figure out a way to work through that fog.  And don't even get me started on motivation when you're life is constantly interrupted by illness.  It can all feel so pointless as you work/live with the constant fear of sickness lurking just around the corner.  It all becomes a bit of a self-defeating circle.

But, this summer I am trying to put all of this out of mind (hoping this post serves as a bit of a mind/memory cleanse) and start yet again.  Ass-in-seat every day (or least every week day.)  Never mind the times Ive tried this and been defeated.  I can't think about that.  It just leads to more paralysis, more guilt, more feelings of worthlessness.  Basically, an environment completely unconducive to writing.  Hence the whole B&N habit and my long post about nothing. (On an unrelated note, Google Play just gave me yet another youth orchestra flashback with Capriccio Espanol.  What's going on today?)

Lest you think that I've been sitting around feeling sorry for myself the past few years, au contraire.  I may not have been writing with anything that resembles regularity, but I've been reading the hell out of some books.  And not just any books.  I like to have a plan (no surprise there.)  There's the Books You Should've Read in School category.  Also, there was #readwomen2014 and an overall conscious effort to read more diversely in general.  I read with a purpose, an eye to the writing, dissecting the work to see what makes it work (and doesn't.)  A couple of years ago, I even started keepimg track of the books I read.  No idea why I wasn't doing that before; it's such a me, achievement-oriented thing.

In addition to my ongoing reading plans, I have a writing plan for this summer.  I should have three stories ready to start sending out by the end of summer (if I stick to it.)  One story has been in editing stages for somewhere in the neighborhood of three years (so very sick of this story), one is an old story I want to overhaul and make something of, and the third is a new piece that I'm working on right now (well, when I'm not writing this blog entry.)

So that's where I am with my writing just now.  It remains to be seen how many London Fogs and Kind bars will have to give their lives in aid of my goal.  Now, it's time to get to some fiction writing, and when I just can't write anymore (or they throw me out of the cafe), I'm prepared for that too.  I've got Ellison's Invisible Man in my bag (another check off my missed classics list) with only 130 pages to go.

I'm Back (and Grumpier Than Ever.)

It has become clear that I am incapable of maintaining my blog through a semester of teaching.  Between the hectic schedule (we're temporarily a one-car family, which is INSANE), the teaching, the grading, the parenting, the regular life stuff, and ever-present health issues, my good intentions fell down, paving whatever road I was on (we know which one), and I haven't written ANYTHING since January.  I mean no writing.  No fiction, no editing, no blogging, just reading for class and reading freshman papers. (No comment.) It's not been great for my state of mind, but I try to keep my head down and plug away.  The good news is that I posted final grades this morning, and I am a free woman till August.  Actually, I have almost a month until Kiddo is out of school, so I have three-and-a-half weeks of uninterrupted writing time, and dammit, I'm going to make the most of it.  So on this, my first day of freedom, I hauled my lazy, depressed ass to Barnes & Noble, laptop in hand (or in bag, as the case may be), loaded up on sugary goodness (London Fog and a GF marshmallow treat) and got to work.

Why, yes, I do have a filter addiction.  But it's so pretty.

I glanced through my notes and opened up a blank document on my Mac and freaked the *%#@ out. White space is infinitely scarier, more intimidating, when you've been neglecting your craft for months.  I feel like such a slacker.  So I decided to compromise by starting with a little blog entry (instead of ending with it as a reward as I'd earlier planned.)  For some reason, a blank blog screen is so much less frightening.  I think maybe it's the whole give-yourself-permission-to-write-badly thing.  I'm usually much less focused on perfection when I'm tapping out a quick note to my blog buddies.  (Sorry, nothing personal.)  But, it is writing and totally counts, especially on this first day back in the old writing saddle.  My computer is out, and I am practicing ass-in-seat with every ounce of self-control I have left.  (I probably have some to spare today since I didn't use any when ordering in the cafe.)

So what has been going on since January, you ask?  (It's okay if you didn't.  This is just about my continuing to type, remember?)  Well, Kiddo turned six, our cat has morphed into the literal spawn of Satan, I survived another semester (with a brand-new subject), I skipped another Valentine's Day, we killed another vehicle, I read (though not as many books as I'd like), I discovered the skinny London Fog at Starbucks, and I bought a new handbag (not something I do very often.)  Oh wait, I forgot the most important thing: I became completely obsessed with Hamilton.  My six year old now has a preternatural knowledge of Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, and the Revolutionary War in general.  (I read Sarah Vowell's Lafayette and the Somewhat United States during that time as well, which only deepened the whole 18th century America obsession.)  I've also gotten really skilled at muting out the worst of the four-letter words in the musical's soundtrack whenever Kiddo is in the car.  We don't need her going to school and singing about the "Mother@#%*ing Democratic Republicans," now do we?

"Work" indeed.

Health-wise, I've remained in a bit of holding pattern.  Lately, I've been dealing with a med change that hasn't gone exactly as planned (mood swings and electrical-feeling brain zaps, anyone?)  Good times, but I haven't been hospitalized or had a major illness since February, so we're definitely calling that a win.  I still get frustrated by the way in which my health issues limit my lifestyle (and that of my family), but I don't suppose that is going anywhere any time soon.

So, while some things may have changed over the last few months, one very important thing remains the same:  I'm still a grumpy, cranky, get-off-my-lawn old lady who really wants a t-shirt that says, "He's a Komondor.  Yes, his hair is supposed to look like that.  Yes, he can see.  Go ahead and take your picture if it means you'll leave me alone.  No, I can't eat that.  No, I won't ever be joining you at a church event, as every single one is centered on food and people don't take no for an answer.  No, I don't want to talk about my Celiac, and I'm so happy that you once met somebody with a tummy ache which you're certain is the same thing and can be cured by juicing.  And stop thinking it's funny/cute when you (a grown man) tell my child she's going to marry you when she grows up."  

I know.  I'm a freaking ray of sunshine.

I hope this won't be a lone post .  No, I know this won't be a lone post.  I'm committed.  I have plenty to say; I just have to plan so that every post isn't an angry, cranky rant.  For now, though, I've put off that white space long enough.  My fingers and brain are warmed up, and the caffeine from my London Fog is circulating.  Time to get writing.

That's My Girl

Class starts Wednesday, and I have a mountain of lesson prep to do (not sped along by the hour and a half I spent on the phone with Mom this morning, something we almost never do), so this will be a short entry.  Just wanted to share a quick Kiddo anecdote for your Monday morning.

As you know, I love books.  I love the written word.  And we have worked hard to make Kiddo a voracious reader.  She was reading on her own at four, and she is quite unstoppable now, reading anything you put in front of her.  She loves books, and I couldn't be happier.  Today, her appetite for reading netted her some recognition on the morning school tv broadcast, and I got to see her accept the AR (Accelerated Reader) trophy on behalf of her class.  Needless to say, she was incredibly excited.  (She was also the only girl top-reader.  Way to represent, Kiddo!)

But as proud as I am of her love and skill for reading, I think my heart swells even more for her obsession with writing/creating stories.  This girl loves to tell a story and has a story for every occasion.  She writes them, illustrates them, and then demands staples or binder clips to hold together her latest work of genius.  I deeply admire her complete lack of inhibitions with regard to her writing, and her assumption that everything she writes and illustrates is a masterpiece that will garner accolades from everyone who encounters it.

So here's the story with all the feels:

The other day when I picked her up from school, I was listening to one of my bookish podcasts, a recommendation request show called, Get Booked, from Book Riot.  The hosts were talking about a fantasy series author who used to write straight literary fiction but switched to fantasy after a request from his little girl to write "a book about a little girl who saves the world."  I don't remember the book or the author.  I probably wouldn't have remembered what they said at all if not for what happened next.

We got home and after the usual homework and settling in, Kiddo disappeared to her room to work on something that involved copious amounts of printer paper and markers.  I happened to walk past later, and she called me in.  Waving a page she was still writing on and illustrating she said, "I'm writing a book about an ordinary girl who saves the world.  Your podcast inspired me."

Have you ever just wanted to squeeze your kid until their little eyeballs bugged out?  It was one of those moments where you look at your child and think, Yep, she's mine.  She elaborated, "I was listening to you podcast, and when they said that about the book about the girl who saves the world, I just loved it.  So, of course, that meant I had to write about it.

Well, obviously.

Writing Less, Grading More

Remember back at the beginning of the semester when I couldn't wait for all the writing time I would have on my day's off from teaching, you know, while Kiddo was in school?  Wasn't that ADORABLE?  I am nearly thirty-eight years old, and yet I somehow didn't see the schedule onslaught coming.  Tuesdays and Thursday are my "off days," my days with no scheduled classes.  So what am I doing besides writing on those two, long, glorious days?  Let's see...

Every single doctor's appointment that I ever have has to be on Tuesday or Thursday because my school schedule interferes on the other days.  Thursday morning/afternoons I spend helping out in Kiddo's classroom at school.  Every Thursday.  I thought the whole idea was for me to get a break from kids.  (Wasn't that an adorable assumption, as well?)  One Thursday a month, I get to go to a literary lunch at school, which is nice, but it's also me not writing.  Either way, both events end with me hauling ass to Kiddo's school to be first in car line (a separate post in itself) so that we can go to gymnastics (my own baptism by fire in the uncharted waters --for me-- of forced conversation with mom strangers.)

So that leaves the occasional Tuesday when I don't have anything scheduled.  (Every other Tuesday, I am interrupted by the cleaners, but that's a bit of a first world problem, isn't it?  Well, let's be honest, this whole rant is.)  Tomorrow should be an unscheduled Tuesday (mostly), but I kind of want to cry when I think about the rest of the week, about all the writing I'm not doing.  Oh well, I'll figure it out, you know, about the time the semester ends.

Anyway, the above is why I've disappeared from blogging much lately.  It's difficult for me to even collect my thoughts enough to put words down for a quick update.  I'm afraid my rare profound thought/comment is reserved for my students (they're probably still waiting for me to come up with something.)  School is going relatively well.  Freshmen are still freshmen, and I still could really use a scheduled nap.

On the good, good news front.  I got a cold a couple of weeks ago!  How is that good news, you ask? Well, the good news is that I got a regular old run-of-the-mill cold that remained exactly that, ran it's course, and then went about it's merry way infecting all I came into contact with.  It did not turn into bronchitis or pneumonia.  There were no ambulances or steroids or stern lectures about staying hydrated.  Just a cold that my immune system (and lungs) dealt with in a very routine way.  It was just so incredibly normal and mundane and like everybody else.  As far as colds go, it was nice.

On the best news ever front, fall break is coming, and I'm off while Kiddo has to slog away at kindergarten.  I am determined to get something done besides reading/grading papers during the break (and I don't mean housework/organization projects!).

Must. Write.

This picture has nothing to do with my post.  Just including it because it's Kiddo's, and it's awesome.

Mommy Doesn't Feel Like Crying

So many things to write about, so little time.  What an excellent problem to have!  It's been a crazy few weeks, and a few even crazier ones are ahead, but I'm feeling positive.  Why this sudden burst of rose-tinted perspective, you ask?  Because of two things on the near horizon: #1 Classes will be starting back in less that two weeks for me, which means lots of teaching and writing.  I can hardly wait.  #2 KINDERGARTEN BEGINS IN LESS THAN A WEEK!  (I'm sorry.  Was I shouting?)  Seriously folks, I'm going to sucker punch the next well-meaning head tilter who speaks to me in the third person: "How is Mommy handling kindergarten coming up?  I bet she wants to cry."  Just stop.  The only crying I feel coming on is for joy at all the extra time that is opening up for writing and work.  Also, my sweet little, high-energy, chatterbox will have a new outlet for all her high-energy chattering.  Hallelujah for silence.  Quiet, how I have missed you.  Think I'm terrible yet?  Too bad.  This mama is ready for kindergarten (both literally and figuratively) and proud of it.

In upcoming blogs? (If I can ever get these freaking lesson plans done.)  Our new family member, Margot.  (A kitten.  NOT a baby.)  My annual pilgrimage to Frederick (and of course, Wonder Book.  Can't wait to tell you about one of my super-cool finds.)  My current favorite reads (there have been some doozies, let me tell you.)  And an update on how the first days of school (Kiddo's and mine) turned out.  In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves....I'll give you a topic: Parliamentary Procedure -- Aye? or Nay?

Random pic of me attempting to work with help from the Big Dog.

Go Set a Watchman - My Thoughts

Oh the media feeding frenzy that has been the release of Harper Lee's "new" book.  So many articles and podcasts and social media debates, and yet I still looked forward to the book's arrival on my doorstep, July 14th.  Multiple friends have asked me for my thoughts/opinions on the book.  I finished reading it last week, but I've been trying to let it all settle in my mind, make sure that my thoughts are actually mine and not the opinions of some well-read journalist, academic, or blogger.  There has been so much controversy over the backstory/origins of this book and its murky "discovery" by Lee's lawyer, a lack of clarity that hasn't been improved by the publisher, Harper Collins, that I think people were caught off guard when the book was at least as controversial as the release itself.  I will not be attempting to untangle the moral ambiguities of Go Set a Watchman's publication.  I was ambivalent about the book's history before it's release, and reading it did little to settle my stomach.  What I can do is tell you my thoughts after reading the book all the way through, but I must warn you that there will be spoilers.  (The book isn't super-plot driven, so spoilers may be a bit of an overstatement.)

First let me me say that I really love To Kill a Mockingbird, though after reading a lot of articles and rants about the new book, I realize that I must not be as in love with it as a lot of readers are.  There is so much anger out there about Lee's portrayal of some beloved characters, but for some reason, I just never felt like the characters in question were infallible.  I heard a podcaster yesterday say that To Kill a Mockingbird was a book about how white people think about racism and civil rights, and I think that's accurate.  Though I haven't heard or read much of anything from black readers on either book, I'm guessing that their feelings toward Atticus Finch (in the original book) are far more complicated than those of the average white reader.  Yes, Atticus works tirelessly to defend a black man on rape charges in pre-civil rights Alabama.  But throughout TKAM runs this idea of a helpless black community.  Atticus is their white savior.  Without him, they are defenseless, and it is clear that gratitude and devotion are required in return.  While Atticus does nothing wrong, per se, in TKAM, the tone of the book infantilizes the black characters, indeed the entire black population of Maycomb.   The reader is left less with a sense of Atticus' defense of equal rights for all than with a portrait of a man helping the helpless.  

Before you, dear reader, begin your adamant defense of the original Atticus Finch, please hold on.  Yes, legally speaking, African American's were mostly helpless in the face of a corrupt system at the time and place of the story.  Frequently, the only way a black person could be saved from an unfair trial or lynching was if a white person spoke up.  I am merely suggesting that being willing to do the right thing in defending a man unjustly accused of rape is simply that, the right thing to do.  It doesn't make you an activist, and certainly doesn't preclude you from being a racist.  So, I guess what I'm saying is that the revelation about Atticus Finch in GSAW (SPOILERS) didn't wreck me the way it seemed to so many people.  Maybe Atticus Finch really was originally a racist.  Maybe not.  What I do know is that the more complicated, deeply flawed Atticus seems far more believable for that time and place than the paragon-man-ahead-of-his-time Atticus that we read about TKAM.  

Now that we've got that out of the way, let's move on to another big picture question about GSAW, which is: How should I read it?  This book is supposed to be Lee's earlier incarnation (a first draft as it were) of TKAM.  Her editor supposedly read it and told her close but not cigar.  She followed the advice to move the story back twenty years and try again.  The result is the story we read in TKAM.  So do I read GSAW as a first draft?  Is this just an interesting look at the stages of writing?  That alone would be enough to make me read it -- getting a chance to see Lee's process, the evolution of a book.

Another option is to read GSAW as if it were published back when it was written in the sixties.  Certainly, many of the ideas put forward in this book would have been controversial, even revolutionary, back then.  The idea of a young, white woman championing the rights of black people in the deep South would have been surprising to say the least.  From this more distant perspective, the book becomes more of a study of racism in America, or at least, a study of white people confronting racism.  And it is chilling how so many of the arguments used by Atticus and his other essentially white supremacist colleagues can still be heard today (Confederate flag debate, anyone?).  There is no way you can read GSAW and not find yourself re-examing the status quo and your own prejudices.

What you can't do with this book is read it as a straight up "sequel" to TKAM.  This is in no way a sequel.  Without the input of Harper Lee herself (which we're unlikely to get), we'll never know if she decided to change Atticus' personality when she did the re-write or whether she really saw the TKAM Atticus as becoming this pompous bigot.  Without the added clarification of Harper Lee interviews, we cannot make any assumptions of sequel-hood.

I know this post is spiraling out of control lengthwise, but I have two more things to talk about with regards to GSAW.  The first is the racist content.  There's just way to get around the final message of the book, which seems to be that racists are people too.  This is a very dangerous message, and I find it far more disturbing that a woman who has been lauded for decades for her racially progressive novel wrote these thoughts down and tried to get them published fifty years ago than I do that fictional character, Atticus Finch, was once in the KKK.  Throughout the book, black people are infantilized to an absurd degree, even by the supposedly liberal protagonist.  While in a way this all makes the book more believable for its time period, the final thought the reader is left with is that Scout was somehow at fault for being angry with her bigoted loved ones, the suggestion that open-mindedness means giving equal-time in your head to racist drivel.  This is really troubling stuff to read, and I was left far more unsettled by the conclusion than any other part of the novel (even the brief domestic violence that is also portrayed as an okay thing to do to calm an hysterical woman.)

Paragraph after paragraph and I still haven't "reviewed" the book.  I did attempt the read the book for its own merits and tried not to place it side-by-side with Lee's classic original.  This was extremely difficult, but here's what I found.  Not much happens in GSAW.  This is not a book with much of a plot.  There are pages and pages and pages of arguments, ping-pong dialogue, with the venom flying back and forth sometimes at breakneck pace.  If only the book were paced a bit more quickly.  While some of the dialogue and Scout's personal asides were funny/entertaining mostly this is just Scout getting angry and nostalgic in turn for a couple hundred pages.  And that's about as compelling as it sounds.  Maycomb is still its own character in the novel, and I love that.  Scout is still irrepressible and smart.  Also great.  Everyone else seems inconsistently and a little vaguely drawn.  Of course, all of this would be about right for a first draft.  

Overall, I would have to say, I think Go Set a Watchman is important, and I'm glad I read it.  Do I like the way Harper Collins portrayed it as some long-lost sequel?  No.  Do I think it should have been published while she was still living? No.  Have I already loaned out my copy?  Yes.  Am I loving all the debate and discussion online about A BOOK?  Absolutely.  Go check it out for yourself.

Things That Are Making Me Happy

In lieu of another rant on what's making me grumpy today (and there's plenty), here are some of the things that are making me happy (in between the grumpiness):

My little workspace

Yes, that's my dog.  Yes, he looks like a rug.  Ha, ha.  Never heard that before.

While I do sometimes pine for my bigger desk upstairs (if you could see my other desk, you'd get that pun), I am so grateful for my sweet, little workspace that's been squeezed into the guest room.  I can be near Kiddo while still being tucked away.  And that makes me happy.

Weird Stories

This book opens with a story about a woman who dresses us as Bigfoot so people can "hunt" her.  And that kind of weirdness makes me happy.  Also, I met Ms. van den Berg when she came to Converse a few years ago (okay, more than a few years ago), and she was talented and gracious. Somehow this book sat on my shelf, untouched until now.  (Blame grad school.)  Anyway, I read her latest, Find Me, earlier this year and COULD NOT put it down.  Really enjoying her short stories as well.

Perler Beads

Kiddo has discovered the magic of placing tiny little beads on a tiny little pegboard and then melting them to smithereens with an iron (I do that part, obvs.)  While all those itty-bitty holes do make my scalp crawl just a bit (that's a thing, actually, called trypophobia.  Don't Google it.  The images are terrifying), I'm loving the free work time I get while she carefully makes two-dimensional cats and turtles.  

Book Riot Podcasts and YouTube Videos

Okay, I'm pretty sure I mentioned this in an earlier post, but I am just so obsessed with my new bookish "friends."  I've also found at least one other bookish YouTuber that I'm enjoying called, "climbthestacks."  Check them all out!

Gluten-Free Truffles

L to R: Lemon Heaven, Triple Mocha, Hazelnut Gianduia, and Chai Something-I-Can't-Remember

The days of Godiva boxes for Valentine's Day may have ended with my Celiac diagnosis, but the chocolate goodness is back (and actually MUCH better) at The Chocolate Fetish in downtown Asheville.  Such a beautiful shop, with helpful staff, and a really lovely selection of GF truffles!  Yum!

And last, but not LEAST...

My Tiny Empty Picture Frame

No, I haven't lost my mind.  Well, maybe I have, but this isn't evidence of it.

I believe I mentioned in a previous post that I am reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird.  If you've read this amazing book on the writing craft, you'll know why I now have an itty-bitty picture frame on my desk.  If not, drop everything and go read it.  I'm not doing the work for you!

The Tease, or Tarantino Writes a Novel

Like many readers, I enjoy suspense.  More than anything, I want to be so wrapped up in a story that I neglect household chores and family members.  Page numbers should be a shocking revelation (as in "I can't believe I just read 100 pages.  I wonder if dinner is now cooked to cinders?" NOT "Just 80 more pages to the end.  I can do this.")  The conflict in question doesn't have to be big, just compelling.  There doesn't need to be a hipster glasses-wearing zombie lurking outside your favorite dive bar hoping to get his last sip of IPA from you...the hard way.  (Though somebody please write that.)  But I do have to wonder what is going to happen next and give some cares about how this affects the characters in the story.  (Turns out the zombie was actually hopped up on caffeine from his previous victim, an espresso drinker, and gets impatient, moving on to a vintage clothing store where he manages to find the perfect ironic plaid western shirt for his next Zombies Anonymous meeting.  "People are friends, not food.")

But seriously, I'm all about some surprising but inevitable endings, and I can hang with perspective shifts with the best of them, but here's the thing:  I (and I imagine most readers) have a limit.  Remember that terrible show, Lost?  I didn't watch it.  Well, that's not entirely true.  My husband insisted that I was missing out, and so I relented and watched the last season and half.  (I'll never get those hours back, unfortunately.)  One of the most irritating parts of the show (and that's really saying something) was that on the rare occasion that something mildly interesting was happening on screen, the writers would laugh maniacally (in my head, anyway) and switch to some scene with two lovestruck people staring into each other's eyes, while looking inexplicably well-groomed (except for the three grains of sand stuck to their prominent cheekbones because, you know, realism.)  It wasn't so much about building suspense as it was just pissing me off.  Here's what you could be watching....PSYCH, just kidding.  Back to Love in the Time of Smoke Monsters.  So, why, with such a fine example of poor pacing and annoying cliffhanger music (Psycho meets Jaws meets the Law & Order musical gavel bang) readily available on streaming would you write a book that utilizes these same devices?

I've run into a string of these books lately.  Two, in particular spring to mind, and interestingly they're both dystopian/speculative fiction.  J, by Howard Jacobson, follows several characters through their sad and narrow lives in a mysteriously altered England (I think?).  I was really excited about this one.  The description was just bizarre enough (a guy who always held two fingers over his mouth when saying a word with the letter "J" in it, a post-event world--not necessarily an apocalypse--in trouble, characters with murky pasts) to lure me in, but the execution of Jacobson's concept (SPOILER ALERT) of living in the aftermath of a second Jewish holocaust was oblique at best and completely mostly opaque.

Here's the thing: if you do decide to use a shifting perspective, to dole out information like you're rationing food for wartime, you'd better have one hell of a revelation at the end.  Like a Luke, I am your father, he's been dead the whole time, Keyser Soze kind of revelation.  You can't leave your reader in total murkiness once you've built up that much suspense.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm fine with ambiguous endings.  What I'm not fine with is making it clear that the narrator has the answers, had some sort of revelation, but instead hands you a your-simple-little-reader mind-couldn't-handle-it kind of vagueness.

Which leads me to Area X, (Jeff Vandermeer) a mysterious place, a mysterious trilogy.  There was so much bizarre creepiness, delightfully icky and disturbing detail.  It was a book about unraveling the mystery of Area X.  It's a sprawling narrative with lots of characters, lots of time covered, and a whole lot of different perspectives.  It's dystopian, speculative, sci-fi with literary fiction level writing.  So why did I have to drag myself through the last 150 pages?  Because the explanation (at least as much as ever gets resolved in the book anyway) is strung out between so many different journal entries, interior monologues, and angry dialogues that stop and start the action too many times to count.  Yes, dear writer, we get it: You know the answers.  We don't.  But you don't need to keep slapping us in the head with this fact.

All this complaining and now I have to admit that this sort of dividing up the narrative to increase the suspense thing can actually work.  Enter All the Light We Cannot See, the latest Pulitzer winner for fiction.  (Anthony Doerr)  This guy does the shortest, quickest little chapter/perspective shifts I've just about ever seen.  So why does it work?

For one, he limits the number of people he follows.  While there are a few forays into the minds of some less central characters, Doerr focuses the majority of his chapters on the two main characters, flipping back and forth between their lives sometimes after only the briefest of snapshots.  But you don't have so many of those moments where you're suddenly taken completely out of the story to follow a seemingly unrelated character.

Another thing that makes his book work is narrative structure.  Within his date-stamped sections, he follows along fairly chronologically, so that each little tidbit furthers the action and the plot.  The reader may be shifting perspectives, but ultimately it reads more like a shift in camera angles than a fade to a different scene, especially as the conflict escalates.  Though admittedly, the quick back-and-forth of his structure took a few chapters to relax into the rhythm, ultimately the braiding of perspective felt organic, as we learned how these two characters' lives came to intersect so briefly.

Which leads me to my last point.  There needs to be a reason for doling out information in such a piece-by-piece way.  Doerr needed to show his characters in a parallel fashion so that the moment when they all converge makes sense and is powerful.  While with Jacobson and Vandermeer, it just felt like they were either figuring it out as they went along, making up backstory as needed, or just enjoyed teasing the reader with tidbits of useful (or not) information.

So, the moral of the story? I hated Lost.  Like really hated it.  Like can't understand why everyone is so freaking in love with JJ Abrams kind of hated it.  Also, don't watch Lost.

Promises, promises.

Needing All the Stuff, or Hurry Up Birthday

I'm working from Barnes & Noble today while Kiddo bounces her little heart out at summer day camp.  When I dropped her off this morning, there was nary a backward glance after she spotted the bouncy castle and inflatable bouncy slide.  There will be one dirty, sweaty little girl in my backseat come one o'clock.

I've set up camp in the BN cafe, but I'm managing to do everything but the work that I actually need to do.  So much procrastination.  But it's not my fault.  It's difficult to concentrate when you want all the things.

Especially the Wonder Woman mug.  I NEED the Wonder Woman mug.

Also in my current Must Have Now list are:

Stone Mattress, Margaret Atwood

Saint Maize, Jami Attenberg

In the Country, Mia Alvar

Summerlong, Dean Bakopoulos

Born with Teeth, Kate Mulgrew

Too bad that I'm all out of gift receiving opportunities until October.  Anyone for a second Mother's Day?

Writing a Piece in Peace

What do you get when a confirmed introvert gives birth to a raging extrovert?  The longest three weeks of summer ever.  But summer day camp is back this week, and I'm not sure who was more glad to see its arrival, me or Kiddo.  Poor little girl was so over spending long days with just me inside the confines of our four walls, and I desperately needed a break from all the togetherness and talking.  So. Much. Talking.

So it's back to working without interruption.  (Yay!)  I have lots to do over the next few weeks: lessons to plan, writing/editing to do, perhaps a little blogging here or there.  And of course, lots and lots of reading.  (I'm still reading the Southern Reach Trilogy.)

The Big Dog says petting him doesn't count as an interruption.

I have some new bookish obsessions of late.  The first is a bit of an addiction to Book Riot podcasts.  While I've been a Book Riot fan for a while, it's only recently that I've been listening to some of their podcasts.  My favorites are the original podcast, which is kind of a grab bag assortment of books and reading and publishing industry chat, and All the Books, which is a new and upcoming release recommendation show.  There are two other podcasts that I've also listened to, but these are my favorites.  Later in the year, they are adding a recommendation request podcast hosted by the completely awesome, Amanda Nelson, managing editor of Book Riot.  (She also does some great videos on the BR YouTube channel.)  So basically, go enjoy Book Riot.  It's fun, informational, and they cover pretty much any type of book you might be interested in, from literary fiction to graphic novels.  A judgment (and snob) free zone.

My other obsession is my new shirt.  I LOVE bookish gift, like shirts and mugs and other useless items, and drooling over them online is a favorite pastime.  I decided the other week, however, to stop drooling and order this t-shirt.

Photobomb!

Of course, I'm aware that a very large chunk of the population (pretty much everybody more than a few years younger than me, a rapidly growing demographic) has no idea what this shirt is referring to, but in a way, that's half the fun. It's like my own little sartorial secret.  Plus it wins me extra points with my librarian friends, so that's a bonus.

I'm finally reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird.  (Yes, I'm a slacker.)  Somehow I made it through a writing BFA and a creative writing MFA without ever reading this craft book.  Really enjoying it so far, if for no other reason than I love Anne Lamott, who is A) cooler than anybody has a right to be, and B) spells her first name in what should be the only acceptable spelling.  

So that's all I've got in the reading/writing department.  May have a more serious blog post in the work shortly.  Unfortunately, life isn't all podcasts and short stories.

Guilty as Charged

I like to believe that I went into this whole parenting thing about as open-eyed as an introverted only child can be.  It wasn't something we rushed into.  We dated for two years before we got married and then waited seven more years before having a child.  In that span of time, we settled into marriage, built a house, switched jobs, lost jobs, left jobs, finished a bachelor's degree and started an MFA.  We worked out kinks in communication and developed a comfortable daily shorthand that required little talking.  I was prepared for (or at least knew to expect) sleep loss, chaotic and sporadic housekeeping, new schedules, tantrums, extra laundry.  But there was one thing that nobody prepares you for; nobody even mentions it.  Guilt.  So.  Much.  Guilt.

It starts almost immediately.  Yes, I was the lunatic who decided to get pregnant while completing my MFA.  This meant hours of writing and reading and apart from my (mostly sleeping) newborn.  My husband took a shift in the night feedings so that I could be alert enough to work after the six am feeding.  I was letting my sweet baby down.  I was letting my hard-working husband down.  I was writing really awful stuff.  Talk about jack-of-all trades, master of none.  I was doing exactly nothing well.  But all I had to do was get through the program, and then I would be free to be mother of the year.  Or at least, a guilt-free mom.  Ha.

Then I graduate.  I had a master's of fine arts degree and an online journal to birth and a writing camp to plan.  And while my Little Bit was sleeping through the night, there was still that push/pull of guilt if I'm not writing/working and guilt if I am.  Enter preschool.  After two years, I had finally had enough.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd written, and I felt like I was quickly losing touch with my sense of self or even the ability to have a coherent, cohesive thought.  I told myself that preschool was vital for her social skills (and it was), but there was still that underlying guilt about the relief I felt when I dropped off Kiddo twice a week.

Still I limp along.  Writing and working one week, buried in housework or sickness or appointments the next.  4K meant four mornings a week were my own, which seemed an embarrassment of riches at the beginning of the school year, and nowhere near enough by the end.  My work was sporadic at best and non-existent most days.  Teaching comp at my alma mater is a welcome break from the mommy identity, but mostly it just serves as a reminder of what I'm not doing.

Preschool ends.  There is an adorable program and celebration and new bike with training wheels and a flashy helmet.  A week into summer break, and I'm already losing my mind.  So many words, and none of them on my MacBook.  My five year old does not believe in unexpressed thoughts.  I can barely manage to wade through the deep torrent of words that obliterate even the memory of quiet.  Week Two is just as bad.  I want/need to escape.  Trapped doesn't begin to explain my feelings.  I know I need do something or I'm going to lose my mind.  And making all of this worse?  The deep-seated guilt that washes over me every time I look longingly at the clock or calendar and wish for school to start or at least a weekend.

In case, you didn't already know, I like writer, Sarah Bessey.  A lot.  She has so many wise and beautiful things to say about God and family and life.  This post in particular has stuck with me lately, reminding me of the importance of doing good work, of allowing our children to see us doing said work.  Sure, I am Kiddo's mom, but I am also a writer, a teacher, a reader, and a whole lot of other things outside of Chief Maid, Cook, and Entertainer.  As I clack away on my laptop today (and have been doing nearly daily for the past two weeks), I am nowhere near guilt-free.  Kiddo still comes in my office and pleads for me to play with her every few minutes, and when that doesn't work, she gets crazy-inventive with excuses to poke her funny face in my door.  I tell myself that this time every morning won't kill her, might even be good for her.  I remind myself of the resentment I feel when I'm not able to work and counter-productive feelings of frustration and guilt that follow.  And I keep typing.  Or try to.

I finished another draft (#5) of my most recent story today.  Even as I typed the final words, part of me was feeling guilty that it took so long to get it done.  See?  The guilt is everywhere.  Even the dog likes to lay it on thick when I'm chained to my desk.

Sad dog looks sad.

Unfortunately, guilt isn't limited to the self-inflicted kind either.  Every day as I scroll through my Facebook feed, I am awash in articles reminding me (and all parents) that time is short, kids grow alarmingly quickly, and everything must be homemade, amazing, and entirely kid-focused.  (And organic.)  Because we can't feel bad about our parenting skills all on our own.  Needless to say, I skip right over those internet gems now.

And that was Kiddo Hug Attempt #543.  That's her lowest blow, I think.  I'm just interrupting you for the thousandth time because I wanted to give you a hug.  Who am I kidding?  While no one may have warned me about parental guilt, Kiddo definitely got the memo.  I am so screwed.

Write Harder

I'm trying this again.  My last attempt to write an entry ended in unpublishable ramblings that managed to capture exactly nothing of interest.  My fiction writing tonight could probably be classified similarly, but at least I wrote -- something I've seriously struggled with lately.  Struggled with to the point of despair.  Like maybe I've been kidding myself all along.  Like I just don't have enough drive to do this.  Like I still feel the physical need to write, still suffer near physical pain when I don't, but lack the discipline to actually put ass-in-chair and do it.

It's all so weird, really.  I've always been the queen of discipline and order.  Procrastination, fear me!  Even my mind lacks the order it once had, drifting along incoherently, unable to focus on longer projects, unable to comprehend relatively simple concepts without intense effort.  Much of this loss seems to coincide with the addition of a child to our family.  Pregnancy plays havoc with brain cells, and part of me has never fully returned to my original level of mental quickness and acuity.  Chronic illness may also play a part.  I just don't know.

Here's what I do know:

I crave solitude in a way I never did before.  Don't get me wrong.  I've always been a loner who avoids large (or even small) groups and noise.  But this characteristic has intensified into an deep need, a necessity.  Quiet has become an intrinsic requirement.  My resentment toward interruption is all out of proportion.

My ability to think/write creatively has taken a major hit.  Yeah, I know.  If you don't use a muscle, it atrophies.  But it seems that when I put pen to paper these days, each thought is more inane than the last.  Originality?  An unreachable goal.

My time is not my own.  Even when it is.  Once you become a mother, you are always a mother.  It doesn't matter that your child is sleeping peacefully in another room.  Your brain has been rewired, and part of it will always be present with that other little (or not so little) person, wherever they are.

While I still love to read, there is guilt for reading when I could be writing.  I tell myself that reading is vital to developing my writing, but lying to myself is hard.  A lot of writing has been avoided by reading that book by that author that is just so necessary.

My mom identity does daily battle with my writer/teacher identity.  I have no idea why these two won't co-exist peacefully.

I have become the Queen of Excuses.  My writing sucks because I don't write, and I don't write because of, well, So. Many. Reasons.

I'm seeking accountability.  I have avoided many events and connections lately because of my non-writing status.  There's an overwhelming feeling of fraudulence that I just can't shake.  And apparently, the accountability of seeing fellow writers is something I need to make myself try to overcome everything and focus.  I'm tired of drowning in fuzzy, crowded thoughts.  I'm tired of the lack of mental clarity that medication leaves behind.  I'm tired of interruptions and noise and sickness and excuses.  I'm tired.  And still I must write.

Update, or Back From the Dead

So I'm not dead...though a few days I considered it.  More sickness, well, my eyes are sick anyway.  Went to the dermatologist for a recurring rash around my eyes.  Following his advice, and now I look like I'm somewhere between a bender, pink eye, and leprosy.  And have for a month.  Because it's not enough to be perpetually sick, losing my hair, and taking more pills in a day than most people take in a month.  I have to also have red, flaking lizard skin around my eyes.  That hurt.  A lot.

In between frightening small children and strangers with a glance and applying moisturizer by the quart, I've also been finishing up my first full semester of teaching.  It's been such a great experience (glitches and resistant freshmen notwithstanding), and it feels so so good to have all of those essays graded.  And the most exciting news (and that's saying something because having seventy five essays graded and done is pretty exciting) is that I get to teach Intro to Creative Writing in the fall! This is such a great opportunity, and I have to confess that I had trouble sleeping the night after I found out because I couldn't stop planning my syllabus.  I'll be teaching another section of Comp as well, so that'll keep me busy during my first school year with Kiddo gone full time.

Yep, I said full-time.  Kiddo is starting Kindergarten in the fall.  We went to the orientation at her school, and she is so excited (in between her bouts of mourning for her preschool teacher and friends.)  I too am very excited about all the alone time I will gain the fall, but I'm not going to lie: That school seemed so big, which made Kiddo seem that much smaller.  I have to keep reminding myself who we're talking about here.  Kiddo is unstoppable.  A school full of kids twice her size won't daunt her.  

Today is her last day of preschool, and I'm trying to crank out some work at BN before the summer of together begins.  Kiddo will be going to day camp a bit over the summer, but mostly she'll be home with me.  I'm not teaching over the summer, so I'm determined to get lots of writing done and stop being such a slack ass.  I've even given up teaching the kiddos at church on Wednesday nights in hopes of limiting my exposure to germs.  Let this be the summer of writing and writing some more and NOT GETTING SICK!

R & R (Reading and Resting)

It's happened again.  I've lost more than a week of my life to serious illness.  I can't understand how a span of time can progress at such a tortuously slow pace, only to seem like a blink of an eye has skipped you ahead days or weeks from where you left off.  Now, I'm left limping and wheezing my way back to normal life and trying to find order amidst the chaos that sickness has made of my schedule and plans.  Papers all graded?  Lessons planned out?  Laundry caught up?  Ha. ha. ha.

The good news is that I've had help -- dear friends to care for my child while I was carted off to the hospital via rickety ambulance, parents who fly great distances to do my laundry and chauffeur me to doctor's appointments.  Of course, the appointments lead nowhere, as is too often the case.  More pokes, more blood, more meds, but no answers.

I am looking forward to getting back to my class.  We lost a whole week due to my illness, and I'm anxious to make up for lost time.  I'm especially looking forward to the following week when I have spring break and Kiddo goes back to school (her spring break is this week.)  That means a whole week where she goes off to pre-school every morning, and I can finally get some writing (and let's be realistic) some grading done. I'm less excited about the grading.  Mostly, though, it will just be a lovely time of being alone in my own house every morning.  I'm really excited about that.

One of the worst parts of being really sick is that you can reach a point where you're too sick to read. (Hard to imagine, but it happens.)  So, I started Kazuo Ishiguro's The Buried Giant just as I was coming down with this loveliness, and then I stalled out on a slow start that wasn't helped by my slowly simmering brain.  I'm glad to say, though, that as I have started to feel better and picked the book back up, it has gotten better.  It's definitely different from anything else he's ever written (understatement), but so far, it doesn't seem to be that revolutionary a fantasy novel, with its Arthurian quest storyline and slightly removed, nearly comical narration (think Princess Bride's narrator, only more serious.)  So, I'm enjoying it, but mostly I'm excited about finishing it so I can read All the Light We Cannot See, by Anthony Doerr, which is burning a hole in my bookshelf.

Well, that's all I've got for now.  I've got a book to read and a bed to hold down.  Tomorrow it's back to serious class prep, and Tuesday, it's back to work.  You'll know me when you see me.  I'll be the girl in the bubble.  Seriously, please don't breathe on me.  Just don't.

Books, Bugs, and a Busted Weekend

Greetings on a Wednesday, aka the first time this week I've had any one-on-one time with my MacBook in a week.  Life has been hairy the past week or two, and I am ready for a breather that's probably not on the horizon.  I've really been feeling the mommy squeeze lately.  Apparently, Kiddo's fifth birthday flipped some sort of I-need-your-undivided-attention-ever-waking-moment switch that has left me feeling frayed and frazzled, and I've lost some of my downtime/writing time to my class schedule (not that I'm complaining about teaching, but more about that later.)  So the weekend was looking promising with a church-planned Daddy-Daughter Dance on Friday evening, a lie-in on Saturday morning, and drinks and books with my best friend on Saturday night.  The solitude and adult companionship was soothing, but I was still feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated come Sunday morning.  A quiet morning alone was required if my sanity was to remain intact, and my husband was very accommodating, not returning from church and lunch and shopping until late, but any ground I might have gained in the sanity department was about to slip away come evening.

We are officially the scourge of preschool.  Kiddo got lice somewhere, and we discovered this lovely fact Sunday night.  Cue hours of frantic cleaning, laundry, treating, and combing.  Somehow, my husband and I managed to avoid the infestation, but Kiddo was not so lucky.  She's been a trooper through all the bad smelling shampoo and hours of combing, but I am so totally over the whole drama.  I did somewhere between eight and ten loads of laundry in twenty-four hours, all while still running the household, making meals, and helping Kiddo handmake fifteen Valentine's for her preschool party.  I am so over being Mommy at this point that after one too many pokes and prods and tugs Monday afternoon, something snapped and I actually said, "Stop touching me!"  Of course, Kiddo thought this was hilarious and a game of Poke Mommy ensued.

Okay, not really, but it felt good to say it.

Not all is bleak and buggy, however.  I am now halfway through week two of my Comp 101 class, and it is going so well.  I have eighteen wonderfully smart and engaged students that make me happy every class period.  Their first outlines were due yesterday, and I was so pleased with their work that I feel nothing but anticipation for reading their first papers (due tomorrow.)  I imagine this enthusiasm will flag a few papers in as nobody WANTS to grade eighteen freshman comp essays, but nevertheless I remain optimistic and grateful for such a respectful, well-prepared class.

Gold stars for everyone! (Except you.)

All of this drama and hard work has seriously cut into my reading time.  I'm still only, like 300 pages into 1Q84 despite it being an amazing read.  I did, however, manage to finish A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband Master.  (As a library book, it got priority.  It's .20 a DAY now for late charges. Yikes.)  I really, really loved this book.  I recommend this book.  Read this book.

Rachel Held Evans writes books about faith and doubts and women and equality and all those things I find so important and interesting and some other "i" words that I haven't thought of yet.  She does write from a progressive perspective, so don't go into her work expecting Donna-Reed-Joins-the-Women's-Ministry.  I love what she has to say about so many things (here's her blog) but I have to admit that after reading the introduction to this book, I was a little skeptical.  Sure I agree with what she has say and how she views women and their roles in the Church, but that doesn't mean I want to read an entire book mocking the beliefs of more conservative women.  The idea of someone outside of the evangelical tradition (though she grew up in it) participating in all of kinds of ultra-conservative practices and roles seemed problematic at best, and cruel and mean-spirited at its worst. Yet, she somehow manages to avoid having any of those issues.  She honestly and openly explores fundamentalist (and even some Orthodox Jewish, Mormon, and Catholic) definitions of "Biblical Womanhood" and spent a year trying to live these different principles, whether she agreed with them or not.

Honestly, I'm not sure how she managed to write about calling her husband, "Master," or refusing speaking engagements, or many of the other things she tried while still managing a mostly neutral (and definitely respectful) tone.  The book was definitely funny as she attempts things like cooking her way through a Martha Stewart cookbook and making her own clothes, but her humor is always self-directed.  With the exception of the cooking, she's just so bad at most of the things she tries.  Her self-deprecating tone lightens what would otherwise be a very serious book.  (If you are a fan of Half the Sky -- the book or the film series -- this book is for you, as well.)  Women are suffering.  Women are being told they are second-class citizens.  Women are being kept out of positions of leadership in the church and undervalued.  Women are being abused and killed and sold.  But throughout the book, Evans just keeps emphasizing that women are not the problem.  Women are the solution.  How can you not love that?  

So, overall, I'd put this title right up there with my favorite, Jesus Feminist.  Okay, Jesus Feminist is still my favorite, but this one is a close second.  Now, I just have to find copies of some of Evans' other books as our library system only has this one book.  In the county-wide whole system.  Don't get me started.

Here's hoping this week calms down and gets better (and quieter.)  I've managed to get caught up on my Downton episodes (I was two behind), and we watched the new The Walking Dead last night, so I should be free to read my little heart out tonight after Kiddo goes down.  Tomorrow is going to be a big day, so I must rest up for the sugar-induced frenzy that Kiddo will be in when I pick her up from her Valentine's Day party at preschool in the afternoon.  But for now, my dryer has beeped, which means Kiddo's sheets are clean and ready to be put back on her bed (again.)  After that it's on to lesson plans, errands, and just being mom.  If you need me, just DON'T.