On being a writer?

I have always thought of myself as a writer. I wrote stories for my own entertainment from the age of about 9. Dreck by and large. And in my teens I endured the great poetry experiment. Take it from me, as a poet I make a great plumber. Lugubrious and maudlin doesn't begin.

A friend and I one summer each carried a three ring binder. It contained the continuing saga of marrying our favorite rock stars. We read them to each other every day. It passed a whole summer for us. We wrote every day. A new episode. Portrait of the Artist as Virgin.

During confirmation classes, I wrote letters for my friends which were mash notes to the boys they "liked." Everyone wanted one. I hasten to add none of the aforementioned missives ended in the hands of the boys they were addressed to. So my attempts at being Cyrano didn't actually win the heart of anyone. Just a little sexual release for all involved.

But somehow, I didn't actually keep writing the way I might have. As a young girl, I wrote every day. Every day. Nonsense and ephemera, but writing nonetheless. It's an exercise every writer needs. And I stopped sometime around having children.

I began this blog to get myself back to what used to be the most natural thing in the world. I wouldn't have thought of it as discipline. It was just part of me. Who I was. I feel like someone who has suddenly taken a strange disliking toward her favorite food. What gives?

Time constraints are not the answer. I have time. I lack inclination. I used to enjoy creating stories for myself. Now, not so much.

I am about to decide I have morphed into a reader. No day goes by that I don't read. And I don't mean the backs of cereal boxes. I've read 50 books this year and innumerable magazines. And that seems to fill the space that used to only be filled by writing.

It all makes me a bit sad. But I'm resistant to any more improvement projects for me at this point. Nagging myself is getting old.

So hello being a reader.

Mind Games

I've lately been astonished at the mind games I have to play with myself to get myself to exercise every day. I can't believe I have to use reverse psychology on MYSELF. And that it works.

Last week, I had to tell myself that it was fine if I didn't exercise. Ok, let's go on with the day. No exercising. I went to the bedroom to change into gardening clothes. Are you really gonna do this? kept running through my head. Really. Really. I changed into exercise clothes and exercised.

Some days I tell myself that I'll just start with the first 1/2 hour and when I'm tired I'll quit. This one even I recognize as a trick when I'm trying it on myself. Once I start the routine, I'll always finish. There is no stop. It's not finishing that is the problem. It's starting.

Remember the cartoon with the devil and the angel perched on someone's shoulders? My approach reminds me of that. I have to give the devil his due (literally, even as cliched as that may be) before I can motivate myself. The bad has to come out and be acknowledged before the good prevails. How sad is that?

Yesterday, I had a sleep issue. The alarm goes off at 6, and D and I hit the floor to our respective "gyms." I decided I had all day to get done, so I'd go back to sleep. Woke refreshed, looked at the clock, and wow, it was 15 minutes later. I ask you--15 minutes? I might as well have just gotten up and gotten on with it.

My other trick is to promise myself a reward at the end. Usually this takes the form of a bubble bath. It's not like I can offer myself eggs benedict or some other high calorie/high fat reward. The reward needs to be tangible and yet calorie free. And cheap. If I quit liking bubble bath, I'll be in serious trouble.

I'm glad all these little mind games work, but I find it disheartening, too. Why can't I do this because it's good for me and will help me in the end? Why isn't that enough of a reward? Why is it so hard to convince myself to do something in my own self-interest? I'm astonished at the number of ways human beings do not understand what's good for them. How something "in the long run" is a difficult and sometimes impossible concept.

But the mind games worked for another day. Check an hour of exercise off the list.

It's not about you

I've been thinking about raising kids. Mostly because I'm not doing it anymore. My friends are exhausted by their weekend running around. Soccer, baseball, softball, mock trial, etc. etc. It boggles the mind how much time and money children eat. And not just eat.

When I had 3 little boys, all under 6, I was totally overwhelmed. I was changing a diaper, cooking a meal, or driving someone somewhere constantly. I insisted on cooked breakfast, adding to my load. And I washed clothes constantly. And towels. I had some crazy idea that towels and pajamas could only be worn/used once. You do the math. 3 towels, 3 pairs of pajamas every day. Admittedly, one of them wet the bed, so he had to wear clean every day. Looking back, the towels were a self-inflicted burden.

At this time, David worked for the Associated Press. He was never home. In fact one week, he covered an ATF seige in Northern Arkansas that lasted a week. He did not come home the entire time. There was no break from child-raising drudgery. And I mean the janitorial aspects. Having kids around is delightful. Changing diapers, cooking mac and cheese, doing laundry is drudgery.

Anyway, in the midst of this idyllic time, I had an epiphany. I had just settled on to the couch for a few minutes off my feet when Clark asked for a glass of water. I started to bitch him out for waiting until this moment to ask and thought to myself--it's not about you. He'd much rather be able to do this himself. He can't help it he is two and can't reach the sink. And truly, he didn't get thirsty to bug me.

I can't say that I was never short-tempered with them again, but that moment helped me from them on. It crystalized raising children for me. It was my job to be about them. I could be about me another time.

And now I can't see how it wasn't clear to me sooner. Child raising is about well. . . children. From the moment they come home from the hospital, they call the shots. They decide how often they sleep, when they eat, when they are sick. You are along for the ride. And the sooner you throw out that you can decide, the happier you become. Swimming up stream, fighting the inevitable takes more out of you than going with the flow. You can't make them sleep. You can't make them eat the things you want. This is another little person with opinions. Obviously caving to their every demand is not on. But some things are more about them than you.

Pretty soon, they go off to school all day. They leave. Then, it's all about you.

and the new blog is . . .

shereadshereads.blogspot.com. A new blog David and I are doing about, strangely, what I read and what he reads. We should be able to cover a wide range of books, since we so seldom read the same ones.

So all the literary stuff (such as it is) moves over there. I've read 25 books so far this year, which seems a little low to me. I need to kick it. I'll continue to rant and winge on this blog.

If ya got nothin' else to do, check out She read; he reads. David has some cool stuff about Dawn of the Dreadfuls by Steve Hockensmith. I'm on about Patricia Highsmith, David Hewson, and Carolyn Hart. Mark Billingham is up next because I'm reading it really fast.

The blog gives us both a chance to contemplate why we like what we like. I won't comment on any thing I hate because those I won't finish. I can't predict what David might do. It'll have something for everyone.

Imponderable questions

Why does the nicest grass from my lawn only grow in my flower beds?

Why don't cars going by who want to "share" the music on their radios play songs I like?

Why does it make more sense to fire, excuse me, lay off 5 people who make $50,000 instead of one making $250,00?

Why do weeds blend in except when someone else is looking at the garden?

Why are the beautiful days for being outside so windy?

Why do I always have free time for things I really don't want to do, but a scheduling conflict occurs during things I want to do?

Why do my roses fight back when I try to weed them?

And most importantly, why does no good deed go unpunished?

dieting and why it will drive you spare

Without making a huge deal about it, my darling husband and I have been trying to lose weight this year. I started a long while ago, but he has more than caught up and passed me. Men!

So I'm cranky, starving, and self-critical a lot these days. I'm totally overwhelmed that as I've gotten older, I'm hungry all the time. I mean ALL THE TIME. I even eat breakfast now and again. My younger self could go for days without eating. Literally. I used to diet by fasting for two or three days. It was a little difficult, but nothing like this. It frustrates me to have to adapt to something I didn't think would be an issue.

The positive surprise is that I'm exercising every day, monday-friday for an hour. And I never give myself permission to skip. Ever. I missed last Monday because I was in the car, but I had been swimming for exercise the day before. This astonishes me almost as much as being hungry all the time. I've never ever stuck with exercising for longer than 2 months before. I started this on November 4. Still going strong.

But the most frustrating aspect of dieting is the scales. It's like the number comes randomly out of the air. It can be one you've seen before, one you haven't seen for some time, one you see day after day after day after day. This morning I was particularly disgusted with myself for my eating this weekend. I've been incredibly cavalier about making food and drink choices. I'd lost a pound this morning. I don't get it. When I really feel I've been on top of everything, I gain pounds. When I don't, I lose.

I have lost the weight I intended to when I started. But 10 more looks really good. I am consoled by not weighing what I weighed when I was pregnant with Brendan. I still weigh about what I weighed pregnant with Aaron. Boo hiss.

And so it goes. I know I'll do better this week. Or not.

Poetry

I had the oddest literary moment today. I am now in awe of my memory which works in most peculiar ways.

I was sitting at this computer this morning, waking up. I had my coffee, my iphone, my solitaire game. This constitutes waking up for probably a half hour every morning. Usually I'm planning my day and having other mundane thoughts. I am not ever quoting poetry or thinking of anything one could call literary. If anything echoes in my mind, it's some top 40 song or since I've just been with my grandchildren, the songs from Blue's Clues. That's all my mind is usually up to before caffeine.

Suddenly, the line "Lay your sleeping head, my love" came floating into my brain. Immediately I grasped, half asleep, that this was not Blue's Clues. But it eluded me who had written this. I was awake enough to know I'd heard it before and didn't think I'd come up with it on my own.

Well, Google was my friend today and told me this indeed was Auden. Strange I thought since I'm not that fond of Auden because he's not a 19th century poet or Shakespeare. I would have sworn that I only had bits of memorized verse running about in my head from the 19th century and Shakespeare. It's not something I usually memorize. But wait it gets stranger.

So my brain did know the title and first line since of course they are one and the same. Ok, not that unusual. Basically that means I've heard of the poem. But what made this come into my head at all, first thing in the morning? This is odd for me. I needed to find this poem and read it to figure out where my brain was going with this.

Luckily my Modern British Poetry was right beside the desk. Here comes the weird part. I read the poem and noticed the third and fourth lines "Time and fevers burn away/ Individual beauty from/. This had been a quote in the book I was reading yesterday. My brain stored it away and kept working at figuring out where it came from. I would have told you that I didn't know this poem enough for the third and fourth lines to be imprinted on my memory. I don't think I could have quoted the poem through the first four lines. But somewhere in my head, they are there.

So a weird but nice beginning to the day. Nothing like a search for a poem to set you up for a day of racing and basketball. And to affirm that not everything from graduate school has leaked out.