I just finished up editing and evaluating a manuscript. Yesterday, I had the pleasure of handing it back to the very nervous author, who was expecting me to tell him never to write again. Instead, I congratulated him for having actually written a novel, since many people have it on their bucket list but only a few ever accomplish it. Then I showed him the pages of notes I had written for him; he nearly fainted when he saw the editing marks covering every single page of his book. I think in that moment he really felt like throwing up his hands and never trying again, though he was paying me to tell him what worked and what didn't.
I told the author that he had the beginnings of a great book, despite what it looked like after I got through with it. I told him that constantly practicing his writing will only make him better and better, and if he gets sick of his current novel, he can start another one. Why not? Plus, even the most famous published authors have often written multiple novels before getting that one acceptance letter among a huge pile of rejection slips.
While dropping off Little Gary for his first day of preschool today, I saw a poster outside one of the classrooms at the elementary school. It said, "Every expert started out as a beginner." I love that. No one is naturally perfect at doing anything without hours of dedication and practice. Even if you have a talent, only the time you put in to honing it will make you an expert. You don't even have to have a natural ability for something to get good at it if you're willing to work. Nothing is out of bounds for anyone; you just have to decide where your efforts will be placed.
Sounds like good advice to me! I think I'll finally pull out that dusty old manuscript I've had sitting on the shelf for far too long and start becoming an expert.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Thar She Blows!
I tried out some spray wax last week. The hairstylist used it at the salon on Elannah and convinced me to purchase some, dangling the carrot of a 50% discount. Elannah looked adorable, and I wanted to do something with my new, shorter do, so I went ahead and bought a bottle. It feels a bit odd (like having wax in your coiffure!), but I was able to scrunch my hair into light waves and have them stay put all day.
The next morning, I looked in the mirror and laughed so hard I nearly took a picture. Nearly. Obviously, I couldn't keep the wax in my hair unless I was willing to sport some ultra-funky look (which I wasn't on a Monday), so I took a shower to wash it out. I shampooed once and shampooed again. Then I checked the spray wax bottle, which said, "A second shampooing may be necessary."
Phhht. Understatement. I shampooed my hair five times, and I still couldn't get it all the way out. The only reason I gave up shampooing was because I was running out of hot water.
Several showers later, I think it's finally been washed down the drain. I now view that sleek, white bottle with a jaundiced eye, though I haven't thrown it away yet, thinking there must be some good use for it. What if I want a mohawk? A girl never knows when the urge will strike.
Word to the wise: Paul Mitchell is laughing all the way to the bank.
Other than using myself as a guinea pig for crazy hair products, I've been so busy that I have spent the last month ready to puke with stress at any moment. Some people thrive on stress and busyness. Not I. I crumple. My brain functions take a vacation, my hands wring themselves, and I occasionally try to hyperventilate for good measure. Where did my tolerance for stressful situations go? Has age and experience put me at a level where the smallest things will send me over the edge?
I do remember being this stressed in high school. In my senior year, I found myself as the yearbook editor-in-chief AND layout editor, co-editor of the literary magazine, choir president, and occasionally involved in the school's drama productions (once as a singing narrator in a Russian play and once as living scenery during Shakespeare's Twelfth Night) (and no, I wasn't an overachiever. My GPA was never a 4.0. Necessary involvement was the bonus of attending a school where my graduating class was only 40 strong). I was also in the city youth orchestra, president of my seminary class, and dating a boy I could only see in the late evenings because of his schedule. There was some hand-wringing going on that year. In contrast, college was a huge relief.
I have, however, come through this month's numerous deadlines, duties, and responsibilities with only a few new twitches. I never did throw up, and getting the kids ready for school in the mornings seems easy in comparison. This morning, I took time to dance to some 80s music Husband bought for me. Nothing relieves stress like belting out "Because your kiss, your kiss is on my list. Because your kiss, your kiss, I can't resist. Because your kiss is on my list of the best things in liiife!" with Hall&Oates, or rocking out to "Eye of the Tiger."
No pictures were taken to preserve your sanity.
The next morning, I looked in the mirror and laughed so hard I nearly took a picture. Nearly. Obviously, I couldn't keep the wax in my hair unless I was willing to sport some ultra-funky look (which I wasn't on a Monday), so I took a shower to wash it out. I shampooed once and shampooed again. Then I checked the spray wax bottle, which said, "A second shampooing may be necessary."
Phhht. Understatement. I shampooed my hair five times, and I still couldn't get it all the way out. The only reason I gave up shampooing was because I was running out of hot water.
Several showers later, I think it's finally been washed down the drain. I now view that sleek, white bottle with a jaundiced eye, though I haven't thrown it away yet, thinking there must be some good use for it. What if I want a mohawk? A girl never knows when the urge will strike.
Word to the wise: Paul Mitchell is laughing all the way to the bank.
Other than using myself as a guinea pig for crazy hair products, I've been so busy that I have spent the last month ready to puke with stress at any moment. Some people thrive on stress and busyness. Not I. I crumple. My brain functions take a vacation, my hands wring themselves, and I occasionally try to hyperventilate for good measure. Where did my tolerance for stressful situations go? Has age and experience put me at a level where the smallest things will send me over the edge?
I do remember being this stressed in high school. In my senior year, I found myself as the yearbook editor-in-chief AND layout editor, co-editor of the literary magazine, choir president, and occasionally involved in the school's drama productions (once as a singing narrator in a Russian play and once as living scenery during Shakespeare's Twelfth Night) (and no, I wasn't an overachiever. My GPA was never a 4.0. Necessary involvement was the bonus of attending a school where my graduating class was only 40 strong). I was also in the city youth orchestra, president of my seminary class, and dating a boy I could only see in the late evenings because of his schedule. There was some hand-wringing going on that year. In contrast, college was a huge relief.
I have, however, come through this month's numerous deadlines, duties, and responsibilities with only a few new twitches. I never did throw up, and getting the kids ready for school in the mornings seems easy in comparison. This morning, I took time to dance to some 80s music Husband bought for me. Nothing relieves stress like belting out "Because your kiss, your kiss is on my list. Because your kiss, your kiss, I can't resist. Because your kiss is on my list of the best things in liiife!" with Hall&Oates, or rocking out to "Eye of the Tiger."
No pictures were taken to preserve your sanity.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Let Me Fly
If you've been reading this for a while, you'll know I love singing in my county choir. They're a fun bunch of people, and the director is absolutely amazing. Not only does she pick challenging music, she's very good at what she does, and that makes all the difference in the world in a choir.
Here we are singing "Let Me Fly" in our last concert. It wasn't my favorite song, and it's the first one of the concert, so those sopranos were really reaching for the high notes, but I thought I'd share it because you can actually see me in this video. After all, this is my blog. I'm in the second row, right in front of the white column. When the female soloist steps down to sing in the microphone, you can see just about all of me.
You're lucky my daughter ran out of disk room before we got to "Pink Panther," when I went just a little crazy with a pink feather boa. How embarrassing. My alter-ego completely took over.
Oh, you love it when I let loose.
You scare me. I mean, I'm lucky there wasn't a pole right there or I'm not sure what you would have done.
Naw, nothing that bad, but it was hilarious watching Husband's eyebrows try to climb into his hairline.
Believe me, I'll never forget.
The choir director did encourage me to have fun, remember? Right before that number, she whispered to me, "Let it loose! Just like dress rehearsal."
I'm not talking about this anymore. My parents-in-law were there. I blush just thinking about it. Hee hee hee!
I am so much more a part of you than you'll ever care to admit, and you don't mind one bit.
Hush, now. That's our little secret.
Ahem. Anyway, I'm pretty glad there's no recording of that part of the performance. Honestly, when I get on stage, sometimes I really do just let it all go, and I'm never quite sure what's going to happen. Never hand me a pink feather boa and ask me to sing "Pink Panther." It will be better for all of us. Besides, it's hard to sing when I'm shimmying. In my defense, if some of the other women hadn't been laughing so hard I wouldn't have been encouraged to be quite so outrageous.
Here we are singing "Let Me Fly" in our last concert. It wasn't my favorite song, and it's the first one of the concert, so those sopranos were really reaching for the high notes, but I thought I'd share it because you can actually see me in this video. After all, this is my blog. I'm in the second row, right in front of the white column. When the female soloist steps down to sing in the microphone, you can see just about all of me.
You're lucky my daughter ran out of disk room before we got to "Pink Panther," when I went just a little crazy with a pink feather boa. How embarrassing. My alter-ego completely took over.
Oh, you love it when I let loose.
You scare me. I mean, I'm lucky there wasn't a pole right there or I'm not sure what you would have done.
Naw, nothing that bad, but it was hilarious watching Husband's eyebrows try to climb into his hairline.
Believe me, I'll never forget.
The choir director did encourage me to have fun, remember? Right before that number, she whispered to me, "Let it loose! Just like dress rehearsal."
I'm not talking about this anymore. My parents-in-law were there. I blush just thinking about it. Hee hee hee!
I am so much more a part of you than you'll ever care to admit, and you don't mind one bit.
Hush, now. That's our little secret.
Ahem. Anyway, I'm pretty glad there's no recording of that part of the performance. Honestly, when I get on stage, sometimes I really do just let it all go, and I'm never quite sure what's going to happen. Never hand me a pink feather boa and ask me to sing "Pink Panther." It will be better for all of us. Besides, it's hard to sing when I'm shimmying. In my defense, if some of the other women hadn't been laughing so hard I wouldn't have been encouraged to be quite so outrageous.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
She's Got Brains, She Does!
I was trying to explain socialism and communism to Elannah. I talked about how all things are held in common and no one has any personal possessions. I talked about how a few elite members of such a society are in charge of distributing everything that is produced and telling people where and how to work -- about how any money earned above a certain benchmark is taken and given to someone else who needs it more. This "utopian" society is supposed to create equal outcome as well as equal opportunity.
Elannah thought about it for a while and then said, "But that means no one would feel like it was worth it to work hard. Whatever they did would just be taken away and given to someone else."
Ah, my dear. At the tender age of 10, you have uncovered the great fallacy of Marxist reasoning.
Elannah thought about it for a while and then said, "But that means no one would feel like it was worth it to work hard. Whatever they did would just be taken away and given to someone else."
Ah, my dear. At the tender age of 10, you have uncovered the great fallacy of Marxist reasoning.
Monday, July 25, 2011
The Ganja Brownies Explained
Let me preface this little tale by stating unequivocally that I am so boring and straight that I have never even been tempted to use illegal drugs of any kind or abuse prescription drugs. There was never any positive consequence that I could see from them, and I'm wise enough in that respect to be able to benefit from others' bad experiences.
Besides, even the legal medications I've taken haven't produced anything that equals the natural high of living a life full of joy. Laughing gas was a huge disappointment -- I never even cracked a smile. Excedrin makes me feel spacey, and I absolutely loathe the jittery feeling pseudoephedrin in sinus and cold medications gives me. I'd rather suffer. I've had several prescriptions for heavy-duty painkillers that I've filled but never used, simply because I got along just fine with ibuprofen. Ibuprofen is great for headaches and other pain, and I don't have to worry about feeling all weird and loopy. I hate, HATE, HATE feeling weird and loopy because of a medication.
I've also steered clear of alcohol. Never touched a drop. That wasn't a hard decision, either, even if it was such a general part of high school life (not college. I went to Brigham Young University, and I don't think I met anyone there who drank. And yet, my friends and I had so much fun anyway!). Besides the fact that drinking alcohol is directly in contradiction to my faith as a Mormon, I know I've got alcoholics in my family tree. Even if that wasn't enough, the thought of losing control of my upper faculties always scared me to death. I never knew if I would be a social drinker or end up as an alcoholic, and it just wasn't worth it to find out, even if I had ever been tempted.
So it was with huge disappointment that I realized that marijuana did absolutely nothing for me except induce such an intense need for a nap that I almost fell asleep standing up. I mean, I get that feeling when I've spent too many nights taking care of sick kids, so there's certainly nothing novel or exciting about being dreadfully sleepy.
Little Gary, on the other hand, apparently just can't handle a little marijuana.
What happened was this: a woman whom I have met a couple times offered brownies to me and my son. Given the setting and the situation, I had no reason to suspect they were doctored, although I had begun to notice that the woman was acting high. Little Gary got three brownies, which he downed in a flash. I got one brownie, and as I chewed, I detected a distinctly herbal quality not normally found in brownies that I eat.
I asked the woman if she'd made them herself, and she said she had and then rambled on about using applesauce instead of oil. I have never noticed applesauce to cause an herbal tea flavor, and when Husband came around the corner, I told him my suspicions. We briefly considered forcing Little Gary to throw up the brownies, but didn't know how we'd manage that.
About ten minutes after eating the brownies, Little Gary was hyper. HYPER. His pupils were dilated, he was terribly thirsty, and he was manically running around like a crazy thing. We watched him for a bit, and then I suggested he get a Priesthood blessing. Husband and another man gave Little Gary a blessing right away, and immediately afterwards, Little Gary's pupils began going back to normal. His hyperactivity, however, remained quite, quite intact.
Husband went and asked the woman if she'd put marijuana in the brownies (he was furious, of course), and she denied it, though she was swaying on her feet so badly she nearly fell over. She was also questioned by two off-duty policemen, but they apparently didn't find enough reason to do anything further. The woman drove away, which was not a good idea, given her condition.
We went home and Little Gary spent a few hours running full tilt through the house until he suddenly stopped, lay down on my bed, and fell deeply asleep. I also wanted so badly to lie down and take a nap. I was not only horribly lethargic, I couldn't really think all that clearly; but I had family coming over and didn't have time to sleep when I needed to cook dinner. It was terribly unpleasant.
A week later, I got the news that the woman had confessed to baking marijuana into the brownies, although she hadn't meant to harm anyone -- especially any children. Several other kids had also been fed the brownies. I was asked not to press charges and to have mercy on her since she had told the truth. After all, we'd eaten the evidence, and she didn't have to 'fess up, but she wanted to be honest and apologize. Since no permanent harm had been done, I didn't press charges, knowing a little about this woman's history and her present difficulties in life. I ran into this woman at the store (you run into everyone in this town at the store eventually), and she apologized personally. She's gotten help since that incident. Regardless, I won't be eating anything she makes. Ever.
Wasn't that a fun little adventure? We have a new tale to tell, and Little Gary might feel a natural aversion to brownies for a long time yet. And I can keep my utter conviction that nothing that is meant to artificially increase enjoyment, happiness, or relaxation comes even close to the natural joy that dwells inside you when you're living a life you can be proud of and from which you gain so much real happiness and joy.
Those ARE Little Gary's real eyes. Undrugged. And his face is dirty as usual.
Besides, even the legal medications I've taken haven't produced anything that equals the natural high of living a life full of joy. Laughing gas was a huge disappointment -- I never even cracked a smile. Excedrin makes me feel spacey, and I absolutely loathe the jittery feeling pseudoephedrin in sinus and cold medications gives me. I'd rather suffer. I've had several prescriptions for heavy-duty painkillers that I've filled but never used, simply because I got along just fine with ibuprofen. Ibuprofen is great for headaches and other pain, and I don't have to worry about feeling all weird and loopy. I hate, HATE, HATE feeling weird and loopy because of a medication.
I've also steered clear of alcohol. Never touched a drop. That wasn't a hard decision, either, even if it was such a general part of high school life (not college. I went to Brigham Young University, and I don't think I met anyone there who drank. And yet, my friends and I had so much fun anyway!). Besides the fact that drinking alcohol is directly in contradiction to my faith as a Mormon, I know I've got alcoholics in my family tree. Even if that wasn't enough, the thought of losing control of my upper faculties always scared me to death. I never knew if I would be a social drinker or end up as an alcoholic, and it just wasn't worth it to find out, even if I had ever been tempted.
So it was with huge disappointment that I realized that marijuana did absolutely nothing for me except induce such an intense need for a nap that I almost fell asleep standing up. I mean, I get that feeling when I've spent too many nights taking care of sick kids, so there's certainly nothing novel or exciting about being dreadfully sleepy.
Little Gary, on the other hand, apparently just can't handle a little marijuana.
What happened was this: a woman whom I have met a couple times offered brownies to me and my son. Given the setting and the situation, I had no reason to suspect they were doctored, although I had begun to notice that the woman was acting high. Little Gary got three brownies, which he downed in a flash. I got one brownie, and as I chewed, I detected a distinctly herbal quality not normally found in brownies that I eat.
I asked the woman if she'd made them herself, and she said she had and then rambled on about using applesauce instead of oil. I have never noticed applesauce to cause an herbal tea flavor, and when Husband came around the corner, I told him my suspicions. We briefly considered forcing Little Gary to throw up the brownies, but didn't know how we'd manage that.
About ten minutes after eating the brownies, Little Gary was hyper. HYPER. His pupils were dilated, he was terribly thirsty, and he was manically running around like a crazy thing. We watched him for a bit, and then I suggested he get a Priesthood blessing. Husband and another man gave Little Gary a blessing right away, and immediately afterwards, Little Gary's pupils began going back to normal. His hyperactivity, however, remained quite, quite intact.
Husband went and asked the woman if she'd put marijuana in the brownies (he was furious, of course), and she denied it, though she was swaying on her feet so badly she nearly fell over. She was also questioned by two off-duty policemen, but they apparently didn't find enough reason to do anything further. The woman drove away, which was not a good idea, given her condition.
We went home and Little Gary spent a few hours running full tilt through the house until he suddenly stopped, lay down on my bed, and fell deeply asleep. I also wanted so badly to lie down and take a nap. I was not only horribly lethargic, I couldn't really think all that clearly; but I had family coming over and didn't have time to sleep when I needed to cook dinner. It was terribly unpleasant.
A week later, I got the news that the woman had confessed to baking marijuana into the brownies, although she hadn't meant to harm anyone -- especially any children. Several other kids had also been fed the brownies. I was asked not to press charges and to have mercy on her since she had told the truth. After all, we'd eaten the evidence, and she didn't have to 'fess up, but she wanted to be honest and apologize. Since no permanent harm had been done, I didn't press charges, knowing a little about this woman's history and her present difficulties in life. I ran into this woman at the store (you run into everyone in this town at the store eventually), and she apologized personally. She's gotten help since that incident. Regardless, I won't be eating anything she makes. Ever.
Wasn't that a fun little adventure? We have a new tale to tell, and Little Gary might feel a natural aversion to brownies for a long time yet. And I can keep my utter conviction that nothing that is meant to artificially increase enjoyment, happiness, or relaxation comes even close to the natural joy that dwells inside you when you're living a life you can be proud of and from which you gain so much real happiness and joy.
Those ARE Little Gary's real eyes. Undrugged. And his face is dirty as usual.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
I May be Feeling Low but at Least I'm Not High
You wouldn't think my life had a lot of drama going on, but you'd be wrong. In the last little while, I have:
* Caused a Family Brouhaha of Epic Proportions Through My Own Stupidity
* Gotten High From Being Fed Ganja Brownies
That might not sound like much, but for the nearly middle-aged, stay-at-home-mom, quiet writer's existence that I have cultivated, it's pretty horrible.
I am just teasing you with this because I'm not at all in the mood to write more about either topic.
What I AM in the mood for is to eat a gallon of peanut butter/chocolate ice cream, but that's because I am stressed and craving carbs and not because of any illegal substances in my system. Besides, I ate the marijuana brownie days ago. That's over. I will explain that incident later when I feel more humorous, because it's kind of a funny story. Funny hmmm. Not funny ha ha.
In the meantime, I'm going to distract myself so I don't eat a gallon of ice cream. Tempting as the thought is, I find that extra pounds don't make me any less stressed. Hello, cello. Be my friend this evening.
* Caused a Family Brouhaha of Epic Proportions Through My Own Stupidity
* Gotten High From Being Fed Ganja Brownies
That might not sound like much, but for the nearly middle-aged, stay-at-home-mom, quiet writer's existence that I have cultivated, it's pretty horrible.
I am just teasing you with this because I'm not at all in the mood to write more about either topic.
What I AM in the mood for is to eat a gallon of peanut butter/chocolate ice cream, but that's because I am stressed and craving carbs and not because of any illegal substances in my system. Besides, I ate the marijuana brownie days ago. That's over. I will explain that incident later when I feel more humorous, because it's kind of a funny story. Funny hmmm. Not funny ha ha.
In the meantime, I'm going to distract myself so I don't eat a gallon of ice cream. Tempting as the thought is, I find that extra pounds don't make me any less stressed. Hello, cello. Be my friend this evening.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
A Visit from the British In-Laws
Well.
Last week my parents-in-law dropped by for a little visit from England. They brought suitcases full of presents and British goodies and financed some very fun adventures. Sure, Husband's car's transmission went CLUNK 50 miles from home (fortunately, it stopped right by a mechanic's garage), and my mother-in-law (MIL) caught the stomach flu from me, but we generally had a wonderful time while they were here.
This week, it's time to pay the piper. Because Husband is off-track from teaching at his year-round school, we're writing eight hours a day. We worked out that if we total 20 articles a day -- 100 total before the pay period ends -- we can pay the mortgage. It's a worthy goal, but UGH! it's been a long three days so far. Next week, when we go down to five articles a day per person, it will seem like a vacation. I've written about Kansas City real estate one too many times. Ditto Florida country clubs. I did get to write an article about spandex bodysuits and one about whipped cream chargers, which was a nice break. But by about 6pm, my brain is well and thoroughly shot. Done. I'm only writing this post because I'm not getting paid for it.
Tomorrow we still have to get our 20 articles written, but we're taking a break in the late morning to have a picnic with family friends who are visiting from out of town. I'm very excited about that.
Now you're all caught up. And I'm going to bed.
My MIL and FIL. Lovely British accents, even lovelier people.
Last week my parents-in-law dropped by for a little visit from England. They brought suitcases full of presents and British goodies and financed some very fun adventures. Sure, Husband's car's transmission went CLUNK 50 miles from home (fortunately, it stopped right by a mechanic's garage), and my mother-in-law (MIL) caught the stomach flu from me, but we generally had a wonderful time while they were here.
This week, it's time to pay the piper. Because Husband is off-track from teaching at his year-round school, we're writing eight hours a day. We worked out that if we total 20 articles a day -- 100 total before the pay period ends -- we can pay the mortgage. It's a worthy goal, but UGH! it's been a long three days so far. Next week, when we go down to five articles a day per person, it will seem like a vacation. I've written about Kansas City real estate one too many times. Ditto Florida country clubs. I did get to write an article about spandex bodysuits and one about whipped cream chargers, which was a nice break. But by about 6pm, my brain is well and thoroughly shot. Done. I'm only writing this post because I'm not getting paid for it.
Tomorrow we still have to get our 20 articles written, but we're taking a break in the late morning to have a picnic with family friends who are visiting from out of town. I'm very excited about that.
Now you're all caught up. And I'm going to bed.
My MIL and FIL. Lovely British accents, even lovelier people.
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