Last night was supposed to be my night. Nothing much was going on. My husband would be watching Monday Night Football and Kevin would be locked in his room doing homework. My plan was to retire upstairs to work on that novel/short story that's banging around in my head trying to get out. Instead I did homework.
My older son, Paul, called home from college. "Mom, I need to interview you for my paper. It's due tomorrow."
"Ok, but I have a commitment at church from 6 to 7. Then I'll have to walk the dog. You'll have to catch me after that," I said.
He didn't have much time either. He had a meeting at 5:30 and then he had a radio show to host from 9:30 to 11. We agreed that he would email his questions. The assignment was to interview a micro entrepreneur. Despite having not heard the term before, I fit the description.
Answering his questions about how I got started and why made me realize that I have had a good run. Last night I wrote, but I didn't work on that novel. The main reason I started my own business twenty years ago was to have more time for my kids. I'm still making time for them. After answering his questions I could not pull myself away from his internet radio show. Between songs that I've never heard before, he banters with his co-host. My husband and I were glued to our computer screen waiting for the next sound of his voice.
Finally the show was over. No more writing for me--I went to bed. My son was the one who did the writing that night. Probably an all-nighter.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Difference Between Boys and Girls
My daughter Claire is sharing an apartment with three other girls this semester. Last night they shared a rare night together at home. To celebrate they worked out together to some goofy dance aerobic tape (her words).
My son Paul is sharing an apartment with two other guys. His school is probably ten hours away from Claire's. This morning Claire saw her brother's roommate on her campus. Matt is in town for a medical school interview. Claire calls Paul to inform him that she has seen Matt from a distance. Paul's response, "Yeah. I knew he was going out of town. I didn't know it was this weekend."
My son Paul is sharing an apartment with two other guys. His school is probably ten hours away from Claire's. This morning Claire saw her brother's roommate on her campus. Matt is in town for a medical school interview. Claire calls Paul to inform him that she has seen Matt from a distance. Paul's response, "Yeah. I knew he was going out of town. I didn't know it was this weekend."
Friday, April 3, 2009
Still Getting Started
I may have been premature in starting a blog. Keeping a blog forces a writer to create something that is "blog worthy" on a regular basis. I haven't posted in over a week because I am focusing in other areas. I am exploring writing a book. I thought I might use the blog to showcase what I've written, but I don't think that's the best approach. Instead, I need to get as much of my story down on paper (or the electronic equivalent) without being concerned about people reading it.
I'm not going to abandon the blog. I will use it to record thoughts on the writing process--kind of a journal for a beginning writer.
I picked up a few books from the library in an attempt to find some kind of inspiration. I stumbled upon Stephen King's On Writing. While I am not a fan of Stephen King, I found this book very helpful. A lot of his advice is common sense or lessons I had already learned. Still, it was helpful to hear it again. I agree with one of King's main assertions. If you want to write you need to read. A lot. You will learn from good writing and from the bad. It is true that he focuses on fiction writing, but his advice applies to all types of writers. Part of the book is autobiographical. I found that part particularly entertaining.
Now it's time for me to follow his advice and start writing.
I'm not going to abandon the blog. I will use it to record thoughts on the writing process--kind of a journal for a beginning writer.
I picked up a few books from the library in an attempt to find some kind of inspiration. I stumbled upon Stephen King's On Writing. While I am not a fan of Stephen King, I found this book very helpful. A lot of his advice is common sense or lessons I had already learned. Still, it was helpful to hear it again. I agree with one of King's main assertions. If you want to write you need to read. A lot. You will learn from good writing and from the bad. It is true that he focuses on fiction writing, but his advice applies to all types of writers. Part of the book is autobiographical. I found that part particularly entertaining.
Now it's time for me to follow his advice and start writing.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
A Recollection
I am so off my game today. Spring break is this week. That means my routine has been interrupted. I slept in because I could. I also had to wake up my son, prepare lunch for him, our exchange student, and Tim who are all working on the geometry take-home exam. I have to be ready to leave at 2:20 to take them to the baseball game at school. In between I've tried to work on various projects for which I actually receive compensation. As it turns out, I can't do anything until I hear back from others. While I like the downtime, I never know when it's coming or when I will suddenly be swamped again. Since I can't get into the writing mood today, here's a piece I wrote a couple of years ago.
A Recollection
The professor--we called him George--snapped off the projector. The class was silent as the free end of the tape flapped around with each revolution of the reel before slowing down and finally coming to stop. We had just watched a short film depicting the aftermath of the Vietnam War.
We shifted in our seats. Our class, U.S. History 1940 to the Present, consisted mostly of juniors and seniors in their early 20’s. I was glad the film was over and glad that Vietnam was over too. I had grown up during Vietnam. The war was like elevator music for me--always in the background. I didn't pay much attention to it.
Although the war was over, the memory of it was as fresh as a television commercial seen over and over. As a generation we were happy that we didn't have to worry about being drafted into the war, didn't have to fight with our parents about the war, and didn't have to decide where we stood.
“George,” said one of the students, “at least we didn't treat the hostages like we treated the Vietnam vets. ‘Tie a yellow ribbon and all that.’ Did you hear that all the hostages were given life-time passes to major league baseball games?”
A few months earlier the country had welcomed home the hostages who had been freed from Iran. We were happy to focus on something positive.
“They’re becoming celebrities. You can hardly turn on the TV or radio without hearing their stories, what they’re doing now, or the gifts they received,” said another student.
“That’s true,” George nodded. “The hostages were given a hero’s welcome. You probably saw the ticker tape parade they received. How many parades do you think were held for the Vietnam vets?” George asked.
“I came back on a hospital plane with four inches between my nose and the stretcher above me.”
“Tony?” George asked. “Would you like to address the class?”
Tony seemed to be a little older than the rest of us. He wore his dark hair neat short while the rest of the young men wore theirs a little longer and shaggier. He also wore a plain green fatigue jacket and walked with a limp. He carried a cane.
“I was 17 when I went to Nam. I had all kinds of idealistic hopes, but I wasn't prepared for what it was all about. Until you put twelve to fifteen pounds of pressure on your shoulder and blow someone’s face off, you don’t know what it’s about. And I did it for nothing. I have to live with that.”
“But it was self defense, right?” someone asked.
“You can argue all you want about it being you or him. That’s bullsh*t. That doesn't make it any easier. In Vietnam most killing took place within 10 meters. So if you could see 30 feet away, you could see who you killed.”
Tony stared straight ahead as he spoke from a seat in the front row. He didn't seem to be addressing the class but seemed to be speaking from a place deep within himself. Though he was sitting, he held the top of his cane in his hand and rested the tip on the floor as if he needed it for support while sitting.
The class was transfixed. Most of us started at his back as he spoke.
Tony continued, “Our grandfathers who sent us over there don't acknowledge us. Our fathers don't acknowledge us because they won their war. Our generation doesn't acknowledge us -- they sat in protest and I didn't. The people that came behind us don't even know what the hell we did and don't care. We don't want parades and hero worship. We don't want people to say we were right all along. We just want people to say ‘Hey you did what you had to and you did a good job.’ I can live with the fact that the government sent me over there, but what I cannot forgive my government for is that they made me kill another human being.”
Tony spoke for the remainder of the class period as the rest of us sat spellbound. He told us about his injuries and his medals. George just let him talk.
When the class finally ended no one left for several minutes until it was apparent Tony had nothing more to say. As we slowly filed out of the room, each one of us stopped at the front row and reverently said “Thank you” to Tony. As I passed him I took a long look at his face. His face was attractive – young and old at the same time with deep lines that etched its contours. A slight scar ran the length of his cheek.
Since that day I've often thought of Tony and the others like him. When I think of the Vietnam War, I remember his tortured face and how he brought the war home to me.
A Recollection
The professor--we called him George--snapped off the projector. The class was silent as the free end of the tape flapped around with each revolution of the reel before slowing down and finally coming to stop. We had just watched a short film depicting the aftermath of the Vietnam War.
We shifted in our seats. Our class, U.S. History 1940 to the Present, consisted mostly of juniors and seniors in their early 20’s. I was glad the film was over and glad that Vietnam was over too. I had grown up during Vietnam. The war was like elevator music for me--always in the background. I didn't pay much attention to it.
Although the war was over, the memory of it was as fresh as a television commercial seen over and over. As a generation we were happy that we didn't have to worry about being drafted into the war, didn't have to fight with our parents about the war, and didn't have to decide where we stood.
“George,” said one of the students, “at least we didn't treat the hostages like we treated the Vietnam vets. ‘Tie a yellow ribbon and all that.’ Did you hear that all the hostages were given life-time passes to major league baseball games?”
A few months earlier the country had welcomed home the hostages who had been freed from Iran. We were happy to focus on something positive.
“They’re becoming celebrities. You can hardly turn on the TV or radio without hearing their stories, what they’re doing now, or the gifts they received,” said another student.
“That’s true,” George nodded. “The hostages were given a hero’s welcome. You probably saw the ticker tape parade they received. How many parades do you think were held for the Vietnam vets?” George asked.
“I came back on a hospital plane with four inches between my nose and the stretcher above me.”
“Tony?” George asked. “Would you like to address the class?”
Tony seemed to be a little older than the rest of us. He wore his dark hair neat short while the rest of the young men wore theirs a little longer and shaggier. He also wore a plain green fatigue jacket and walked with a limp. He carried a cane.
“I was 17 when I went to Nam. I had all kinds of idealistic hopes, but I wasn't prepared for what it was all about. Until you put twelve to fifteen pounds of pressure on your shoulder and blow someone’s face off, you don’t know what it’s about. And I did it for nothing. I have to live with that.”
“But it was self defense, right?” someone asked.
“You can argue all you want about it being you or him. That’s bullsh*t. That doesn't make it any easier. In Vietnam most killing took place within 10 meters. So if you could see 30 feet away, you could see who you killed.”
Tony stared straight ahead as he spoke from a seat in the front row. He didn't seem to be addressing the class but seemed to be speaking from a place deep within himself. Though he was sitting, he held the top of his cane in his hand and rested the tip on the floor as if he needed it for support while sitting.
The class was transfixed. Most of us started at his back as he spoke.
Tony continued, “Our grandfathers who sent us over there don't acknowledge us. Our fathers don't acknowledge us because they won their war. Our generation doesn't acknowledge us -- they sat in protest and I didn't. The people that came behind us don't even know what the hell we did and don't care. We don't want parades and hero worship. We don't want people to say we were right all along. We just want people to say ‘Hey you did what you had to and you did a good job.’ I can live with the fact that the government sent me over there, but what I cannot forgive my government for is that they made me kill another human being.”
Tony spoke for the remainder of the class period as the rest of us sat spellbound. He told us about his injuries and his medals. George just let him talk.
When the class finally ended no one left for several minutes until it was apparent Tony had nothing more to say. As we slowly filed out of the room, each one of us stopped at the front row and reverently said “Thank you” to Tony. As I passed him I took a long look at his face. His face was attractive – young and old at the same time with deep lines that etched its contours. A slight scar ran the length of his cheek.
Since that day I've often thought of Tony and the others like him. When I think of the Vietnam War, I remember his tortured face and how he brought the war home to me.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Getting Started
I am constantly telling my kids that getting started is the hardest part. I think that's true for me as well. I have wanted to write ever since I was in high school where I dabbled in creative writing. In college I majored in English and took enough writing courses to earn a writing certificate. My first real job out of college dealt with writing policy and procedure manuals. It didn't take long before that job became dull, dull, dull. I moved to IT just as a new phenomena, the personal computer, came on the scene. I've worked in IT ever since but never completely stopped writing. Life (marriage, kids, career, etc.) got in the way, but I am now at a transition. I never gave up the dream of writing but never managed to pursue it either. Turn 50 this year has made me reflective. More than anything I've realized that if I don't start doing what I intend to now, it may never happen. I've run out of excuses. I'm not sure that a blog is the best forum for me, but as an IT person, what could be better? No more unfinished notebooks, little scraps of paper containing random thoughts, and half baked ideas swimming in my head like goldfish trapped in a bowl that's too small.
Strangely, I also feel called to write. I'm not sure what I am called to write about, but I have a few clues. I remember that early in my writing pursuits I had the time to write but nothing to write about. Now with 50 years behind me, I have lots of ideas. I am hoping that this blog will help me organize those thoughts. I expect to ramble a lot initially. Over time I hope that I gain some focus and maybe even a plan. I truly believe that writing in a journey. You have to get on the trail and see where it takes you. Stay tuned.
Strangely, I also feel called to write. I'm not sure what I am called to write about, but I have a few clues. I remember that early in my writing pursuits I had the time to write but nothing to write about. Now with 50 years behind me, I have lots of ideas. I am hoping that this blog will help me organize those thoughts. I expect to ramble a lot initially. Over time I hope that I gain some focus and maybe even a plan. I truly believe that writing in a journey. You have to get on the trail and see where it takes you. Stay tuned.
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