How many things can you start in a day? Or not?

I had plans to get my chores done today and then start the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month – a challenge to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November).  As I’d done with my previous novel, I was excited to get into it, and to get off of my ass for a bit.  I’d gotten into the habit of walking on the treadmill while writing, averaging about 4 miles on a good writing day.  So, when I got home from doing my chores, I figured I should have lunch first.  That’s where it all went downhill.  I think the sofa and my butt have something going on.  As soon as I sit, I’m done for.  I try and tell myself that today will be different but it never is.

After lunch, I grabbed the computer and went to town…on everything but my writing.  Cleaned out my inbox from crap that I’d saved from over the weekend.  Wrote a blog post on my ingenious new pumpkin recipe.  Posted to Twitter which made me want to cruise Twitter for awhile.  It made me think that maybe I should just not start NaNoWriMo today and I should go for a bicycle ride to get some exercise.  Maybe I should just go to the treadmill and start writing.

There’s always yard work to do.  I got up because I heard the Rice Krispy Treats calling me.  I read through the note sent to me from NaNoWriMo that mentioned having a snack – like a Rice Krispy Treat.  Damn them!  I traded my neighbor for the treats over Halloween.  I have two left in the pantry.  I can hear them rustling.

Then I remembered I needed to get the guacamole made for dinner.  Taco Salad Monday.  I know, it doesn’t go together very well but it’s what we do on Monday so we have some sort of football food, that’s not too horrible, to counterbalance the weekend gorge-fest that we usually have.  While I was there, I decided to separate and freeze the multi-pack of boneless, skinless chicken breast I bought.

I thought what a great way to get started writing then to write a blog post.  Here I sit.  On the couch.  I wonder if it’s too late to get started writing.

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Balance – Selling vs Writing

When is it too soon to start the next novel?  I know many authors and probably even more readers that would say “right away”.  It’s strange to write and write and write and then stop.  I wanted to pick up with my next novel and actually did start writing it and then realized that my self published book wasn’t going to market itself.  That turned into a daily exercise of searching for writing opportunities to become published to an actual magazine, paper, blog, anything really.  That combined with begging people to write reviews and trying to create a presence on social media, I find that I reach the end of the day before I know it.  It’s a balance, I realize, but it’s one of those chicken and egg situations.  If I don’t get anyone to buy the current book, there won’t be a need for a second, but if there’s a second, there could be more chance for the first one to sell.  Then I realize that I’m getting way ahead of myself.  If no one buys the first one, then there is no need for the second one.  And the cycle starts over again.  I want to write and get sick of searching for a way to get my book sold.  I know, I know.  “Get an agent”.  I’m not out of the hole yet from this book so why would I want to pay an agent – to get the book sold so that I can pay them?  Maybe I’m being narrow-minded.

It’s only been two months since I released it to the public.  Maybe some patience is in order.  Balance issues appear everywhere in my life and I’ve never been very good at it just as I’ve never really been good with patience.  Maybe I should go do some yoga.

Rocks and Trees

Over the past few years, my partner and I have been drawn to places known for their rocks and trees.  This time, we made a trek to South Lake Tahoe.  We stayed in a town named Heavenly.  But it wasn’t about where we were staying, it was where we were.  We drove the windy roads into the mountains and loved the miles and miles of tree covered hills and that we finally got to see some massive rocks.  When we saw the recent devastation of a wildfire, it was quieting.  We stopped talking and tried to take it all in.   A forest fire isn’t like burning a piece of wood in a fireplace, a fire pit or a wood stove.  In those cases, there’s nothing left but ash.  In a forest fire, the trees remain standing.  They turn brown and the land turns black.  The enormity of the fire amazed me.  Thinking about the pinpoint that was us in our car and looking over the thousands of acres that were consumed by the fire was bigger than I could comprehend.  I thought about the firefighters and just how small they were, just like us.  There were signs along the highway thanking them.  I can’t imagine how anyone couldn’t have compassion and admiration for our heroes.

I wondered if the burn on the land was like a burn on our skin.  It hurts but it heals.  It’s never quite the same in that area but it rebuilds itself, mending the pain.  We love trees.  They’re so massive and majestic.  They have a story to tell, they clean our air, they stand tall and proud.  Combine the trees with the rocks and we tend to find where we fit in best.  Rocks and trees hold this earth together for us to live on.  We listen to them, we cherish them and we respect them.

Rollercoaster week

I started my week super excited about a spur of the moment job interview.  It was right up my alley and such a perfect situation that I could hardly contain myself.  I’d missed the call on Friday so when I got back in touch on Monday, they asked if I could come that morning.  It was a bit of a rat race but I managed to make it work.  There was a mixup and we ended up missing each other but once it was all finally worked out, I met my contact and then another for my interview.  I was conference called into another office and the interview started.  By the time I left, I was making my way to the car while pulling out my cell phone from my tiny purse.  The rule we have is to let each other know how things went.  🙂 if it went well.  😐 if it went so-so or if we’re not sure and 😦 if went poorly.  I could feel the tears starting as I typed :(.  I drove home in tears not knowing what to do next.  I’m in some sort of limbo and I feel horrible.  I can’t express the despair and loathing that I go through daily.  I cried and cried.  And then I stopped.  I had to.  I had a guest at the house.  Corking my feelings turns me into an unbearable person to be around.  I’m just miserable and make those around me miserable from my miserableness.  But I trudged through.

Skip ahead to today, midweek.  I get a call for a book signing.  It’s a local thing – nothing huge but it’s a start and the person I spoke with was encouraging and understanding.  I’m excited.  I’m crying again writing this.  I’m happy and afraid and confused about what it is I’m supposed to be doing.  I guess that’s life.

Decade Identity

Today I find myself wondering if each person most identifies with a particular decade.  Is it the decade that they most grew up in.  The one that was most comfortable to them?  Is it true with everyone?  I was a child in the ’70’s, a teenager in the ’80’s, a young adult in the ’90’s.  I mostly associate with the ’80’s, however.  I LOVE the 80’s.  It’s not just how great the music was – don’t get me started because it was great, probably the best ever – but it was also the big hair and poofy clothes.  If I still had some of my high-waisted pants, and could actually get my fat ass into them, I would certainly wear them today.  I’d grab a billowy shirt to go along.  It was such a great look.  Tight at the waist but nowhere else.  The padded shoulders were awesome too.  So triangular.  It’s crazy how the waists of pants have gone from being so high to being so low.

I remember in the ’70’s, I would wear my bell-bottoms to play in.  We had play clothes so that we didn’t mess up our school clothes.  I can’t count how many times I’d get those giant pants legs caught in my bicycle chain.  They were so big that I could get off of my bike and sit next to it while I wound the pedal around to get myself unstuck only to hop back on and get it wound in the chain again just down the road.  There was no way to roll them up and by the time I’d get home, they’d have chew marks and chain grease all over them.  But that’s why we had play clothes.  It didn’t matter if I got grease on them or grass stains from playing football.

Groovy ’70’s clothes weren’t for me though.  A friend of mine reminds me all the time of the big wings I had in my hair in the ’70’s but it was nothing compared to the height I could get in the ’80’s.  I would wind my curling brush through and through getting it higher and higher each time.  And then to top it all off with half a can of hairspray to keep it there.

What makes us identify with a decade?  I hear my Mama talk about Fats Domino and poodle skirts.  Is it just when we were most happy, most comfortable, most aware of ourselves?  I don’t really know.  I know I prefer those loose, comfortable clothes more than I do the tight, clingy things that are today’s fashion.  I miss the ’80’s but perhaps only the clothes.  I couldn’t deal with how long it would take to do my hair now.  And I still have the music available to me.

No One Here is From Here

My partner and I were talking about the people of California the other day.  It stemmed from the fact that it seems like everyone we come across here is out for their own gratification.  I don’t think I’ve ever said “It’s all about you” more times in my life than during the past year that I’ve lived here.  It sort of makes sense though as sick as that sounds.  We’ve started down the road of needing to make a name for ourselves.  If you’re not the standout candidate, the close to genius applicant, then you’re not going to get into the top tech companies that line the streets here.  It’s just crazy.  Every company (tech-wise) you can possibly imagine is here.  It only makes sense that everyone come here to make their name, stake their claim in the golden state.  But it also makes narcissistic assholes who learn, mostly at a very young age, that in order to get ahead, you have to step on the face of their competition.  That’s what we’ve taught the kids turning to technology to make their stake in this world.  I’ve never met an executive that’s not a complete asshole so that’s how we learn to get there.  Unfortunately, I think, it’s why neither of us will ever make it past being a grunt worker.  It’s just not in us.  We do have the hope of changing the world, or at least one tech company, that being a leader doesn’t mean shitting on the little people.

With every techy flocking here, it means that no one here is from here.  My partner argued that she’s from here.  I disagreed saying that just because she was born here doesn’t mean she’s from here.  We went round and round for a bit and decided to agree to disagree.

It made me wonder where the people that are actually from here – meaning, they were born, grew up and have roots here – go to since they’re no longer here.  California is such a big state, maybe they just disperse to the other 49 states.  I guess if you’re not a techy person, there’s not a strong reason to stay here with the huge nerd population.

It’s just sad that everyone is out only for themselves.  It makes me angry which, ironically enough, makes me not as empathetic.  Hmmm.

What’s it called?

I was reading an article yesterday on the difference between a memoir and an autobiography.  I’ve questioned that myself, so found the article to be helpful.  It basically said that a memoir covers an event in one’s life whereas an autobiography covers ones entire life.  Makes sense.

Then, at 4:00 a.m. this morning, my mind decided to re-review this theory.  I could say that my book covers a single event.  That event would be described as the struggle of life.  But not my whole life.  Just some points in my life.  So, it’s a memoir.  Is it too broad?  There could be a follow-up so that definitely means it’s not a whole life.

I think of whole life as someone, an author, writing the story of someone else’s life.  An autobiography of that person.  Do people really write their own autobiography?  Then it wouldn’t be a whole life because they’re writing which means something is happening.

I look at the clock.  4:15.  Two more hours before I get up.  I think back to the last book I read, “Wild” by Cheryl Strayed.  It’s a memoir.  She writes about her trek on the Pacific Coast Trail.  But interspersed was parts of her life outside of the PCT.  That sounds like my book.  Some things happen and while they’re happening, I write about other things happening.  Yep.  I wonder if Cheryl will come out with a follow-up?

The book I’m reading now is “Alcatraz 1259” by William G. Baker.  During a visit to Alcatraz – probably my 3rd, taken while a family member was visiting – 80 year old William G. Baker sat in the gift shop surrounded by stacks of his books.  I was so excited for him.  I grabbed one off the stack and stood in line to have him sign it.  I love talking to older people.  They have such a different view of things.  I eased up to him and said “hi”.  He stuck his hand out and I shook it as he said “hi” back.  He then picked up a bucket sitting next to him and spit in it.  I thought of my granddaddy who, embarrassingly, does this very loud snort, hawk and spit whenever he’s outside.  Usually in a very public place.  I smiled, feeling uncomfortable, not knowing what to do.  He reached out to me again and I handed him my book.  He asked my name so I told him.  He wrote “To Michelle  William G. Baker  Jan 15, 2014”  I smiled and thought I should probably ask him something since that was the whole purpose of meeting the author.  I asked “What did you do to end up in Alcatraz?”  As I said it, I felt this fear come over me.  I was standing there talking to someone that had been in Alcatraz.  He could’ve done something horrible.  He could be a very mean person.  I looked back at him and saw the little old man.  He said he stole a car.  Stole a car?  Damn.  Alcatraz seemed pretty extreme for having just stole a car but then again, Al Capone was just a tax evader, right?  I felt bad for William.  He slid the book to me and I took it from him.  He picked up the bucket again as I walked off.

That’s a memoir.  He writes about being in Alcatraz and reflecting on his life.  I have a memoir.  I have a novel.  Wait, what’s the definition of a novel?  4:35.  Is a book a novel?  I’ll have to look that up.

I think about the post I put on Twitter last night of when I met RuPaul.  It went viral.  Yay!  But I didn’t get any new followers from it.  Booo.  I remember meeting him.  He reminded me of Michael.  Super tall, skinny and fabulous.  For just a minute I stood next to my brother again.  He even smelled nice like Michael would’ve smelled.  I love Ru.  So even after our photo, I was elated to be near him, not just because he’s famous but because he’s a good person.

I wondered what I could write a blog post about today.  I didn’t write one yesterday because I was combing other blogs seeking out book review blogs to review my book.  Then it hit me, whatever keeps me awake should be a blog post.  Brilliant!  It’s so much better than those ideas that are genius that I have just before I fall asleep that I can never remember in the morning.  I wonder how many scientists have cured cancer in their head just before they fall asleep and then can’t remember it in the morning.

5:00 a.m.  Time to get up and write.