Laundry Disasters

I have a habit of leaving tissues in my shirt sleeves and pants pockets (you never know when you're going to have a kleenex emergency).  I try to double-check my sleeves and pockets before doing a load of laundry, but as often as not, my clothes come out of the dryer with a scattering of white tissue fibers; no biggie, my clothes aren't that nice to begin with.

Today, I left a blue pen in a skirt pocket that exploded while tumbling on low heat. My clothes actually came out unscathed (mostly), but the inside of the drier was another story: the drum was a Rorschach test of ink splotches.  I scrubbed with soap and water (that did nothing) and then a Magic Eraser (that did a little) before giving up and searching the internet.  The first result was a Youtube video of a guy demonstrating how to clean a dryer drum after a pen exploded in it.

I love the internet.  No matter how crazy my question, someone has made that query before, and someone has an answer. (For the record, nail polish remover works great; just remember to scrub THAT off with soap and water before drying your next load!)

So that was how I started 2016.  Could be worse.  I ended 2015 by paying off the remaining balance of my student loans.  My dad's awesome reaction: "Time for phD?"

Happy New Year, everyone.

One Sentence at a Time

I'm getting ready for a novel-writing workshop.  It's a week long event with a small group of writers and a smaller group of instructors. It feels prestigious, though given the price tag I'm not sure how many writers applied.  Never mind that, I'm excited to be going and I'm excited to be focusing on my writing after more than two years of spending more time on getting married, getting a new house, and getting a new job.  I've been 70% finished all this time, but I kept letting other things get in the way, and I wasn't disciplined enough to plough through.

Anyway, just checking in.  Life is good.  How lucky am I that I can actually take a week off from my job to go to something that will at worst be like fantasy baseball camp for writers and at best will give me the tools to finish and submit my novel for publication?

Some Spider

Living just outside our back door is a beautiful spider with red and white legs--we're pretty sure it's a marbled orb weaver. The spider only comes out of its corner when it's ready to wrap up some food, so it's a treat when we see it active.
 
I'd say the spider is about the size of a half dollar, the marbled sac like a jelly bean (not a tiny jelly-belly but a regular sized one!)

The Ed Colina Foundation

We are getting ready for the annual celebration and dance for my dad's foundation, Journey: The Ed Colina Foundation.  To help spread the word, I created an infographic for his projects.  These aren't all the things the Foundation's money goes toward, but I think it's illustrative.

Voices of August 4.0

For the fourth summer  in a row, I had the opportunity to contribute a piece to my favorite left Coast blogger's series, Voices of August.   George Rede invites friends, family, and acquaintances to write something--anything.  This year I wrote about a book I had just finished, Sue Monk Kidd's The Invention of Wings, in a piece called SARAH GRIMKÉ’S MORAL COURAGE.  Check it out.

But while you're there, check out the other pieces and I know you'll be impressed by the collection of writers and their varied experiences!

"Hey!"

I have a theory when it comes to email replies.  The longer a person takes to respond, the longer that response should be.  For example, if someone sends me a message and I reply right away, I can get by with "Hey!" and maybe a line to follow.  Punctuation is optional.  However, if I am unable or unwilling to reply immediately, when I finally do send a message back (maybe a couple of days later), I have to write more.  I have to write a paragraph.  I have to include some context and, of course, proper punctuation.

And then there's the long lost email.  I don't reply the day I receive it, so "Hey!" is inappropriate.  I don't reply the next day, or the next week, so a paragraph is inadequate.  I don't reply within a month, or two months, so the context has changed so completely that I don't even know where to begin.

But really, once enough time has passed without replying to an email, it's ok to start from scratch, isn't it?  To send a new email of your own: "Hey!" Write a line, or write two?  Write a paragraph?

So it's been with Perfect Sand.   I would hear something on NPR and think, "Ooh, I should write about this, connecting it to [fill in the blank with some experience in my life]," but then I remembered that I'm out of practice.  That so much time has passed.  That I'm not ready to write again.

I've been listening to Ann Patchett's collection of essays, "This is the Story of a Happy Marriage," relishing her true stories of becoming a writer, of falling in and out of love, of taking care of her grandmother.  She is a successful novelist, but has contributed dozens of essays over the years to various magazines.  At one point she says that writing fiction, for her, is much harder than writing nonfiction; it requires a great deal of discipline and frustration for her to start and complete a novel. And she won't start a new one until her current one is finished.

Rather than be jealous of her success and writing discipline, I'm posting something.  I'm replying to the email that I've ignored, and I'm going to pretend it's not awkward.  Hey, it's ok.

Top 5 of 2013

In no particular order:

• got married
• welcomed new sister-in-law and nephew (born three weeks ago!) into our family
• watched all 5 seasons of "The Wire", the bestest show ever. Seriously.
• moved into a new house closer to the city
• watched "Breaking Bad" series finale two months after it aired WITHOUT getting spoiled first (and yes, Wire > Breaking Bad)

Ok, it's kind of odd that two of my top five involved television shows.  If I thought about it more, I'd add my new job, or the fact that two of my grandparents are in their nineties and still living in their own houses. Or any number of things.

But the truth is I haven't been able to dedicate myself to a longer and more thoughtful blog post in months.  When I've tried, I feel myself turning inward and becoming melancholy.  This happened when I was single, living alone, but I didn't mind feeling a little sad then.  Part of me enjoyed indulging the melancholy.  I don't want to do that now, though.  So I close my blogger tab without saving.  Without posting.  This is one of the things I'll work on in 2014.

Anyway, it's been a good year.

Bookends

I have thirty minutes until my husband comes home.  Let's see if I can write anything.  Not that he would mind me writing--in fact, he encourages it, daily. "When's the last time you worked on your book?" he asks, noticing me on Facebook, or the Reds homepage. "Why don't you write?" he says, when I suggest watching an episode of Homeland or The Wire.

"I know. I should," I reply.  But then I don't.  I don't open up my book, I don't open up blogger.  I just can't do it when he's around--when anyone's around, really--unless they're, separately, working on their own tasks.

But I don't want to write about my lack of writing.

This has been an exciting summer, with my wedding and then my brother's wedding providing the bookends.  My dad flew in from Kenya at the start of May, and returned after Jonah's wedding in the middle of September.  It was nice having him home such an extended period -- and the day he returned to Nairobi was the same day the mall was attacked by terrorists from Somalia.  He's safe and was nowhere near it, he assures us.

Anyway, the bookends: my brother's wedding was beautiful, and I can't believe he's married.  They had an ice cream truck, and it was as awesome as it sounds.  His wife is actually our real estate agent, and helped us buy a house.  We close at the end of October.  So I guess this is my excuse (an excuse) for not writing.  Searching for houses, getting approved for loans, these things take time and energy.  When I wasn't doing that, all I wanted to do was watch TV or look at Facebook.  I knew there was something better I could do with my time, but I just didn't have it in me.

I always feel like such a dork, standing next to my handsome brothers.  But here we are, looking very related.  (My mom is awesome, and I love her dearly, but I don't have a similar picture with my brothers and her!)

"The Hardest Part of Marriage"

I haven't found time to write here.  Between work and family commitments, I haven't made the space.  Luckily, I was asked to participate in George Rede's Voices of August series again, giving me a chance to craft an essay for the Rough and Rede blog.  Check out my contribution here, and then check back the rest of the month to read insights on a variety of topics from a wide range of perspectives.

It made sense to write about married life, as a new wife.  But it took a few false starts before I found an angle that (I hope) added something new to the discussion and that didn't disparage me or my husband.

Anyway, thanks again George for inviting me to participate.  I feel honored to be included among such intelligent and insightful voices.

In Brief

Time goes so quickly at my new job.  Before, at the public branch, the day was divided into hour-long increments: checking in bookdrop, one hour; looking for holds, one hour; being on the desk, one hour; eating lunch, one (half-) hour; back on the desk, one hour--and your day still isn't over.  Have a long-term project you want to work on?  Good luck, squeezing it into all your other hours.  The longer I worked there, the better I got at accomplishing my day-to-day goals while still making progress on larger ones, but it wasn't easy.  The immediate demands of working directly with the public necessarily took precedent over any other ideas.  It seemed like there was never enough time to do what I wanted, yet the day could drag.

I still don't feel like I have enough time to do everything I want, but because I can dedicate two or three consecutive hours to a task, I make substantial progress.  It feels extremely rewarding.  Fulfilling -- that's the word.

All the Best

Two weeks ago, the rain held off long enough to have a wedding.  The ceremony was lovely, and I was honored to have so many friends and family celebrating with us.  There is much I'll cherish and remember from that day, moments not captured by our photographer--my best friend, chauffeuring me from home, to the mall where I had my makeup done (because I'm clueless when it comes to makeup), to my mom's, and then to the ceremony site, on her birthday, in good spirits; my dad, sitting with me as I hid in the back of the venue, waiting for it to be time to walk down the aisle; both my grandparents, ages 91 and 97, respectively, being there to cheer me on...

But my youngest brother stole the show.  Shy, like me, and with a dry sense of humor, Jonah gave a toast that had people crying tears of laughter.  It was clever and teasing, but never embarrassing.  He's getting married this fall, so hopefully we'll be able to return the favor.

10 Days and Counting...

So in ten days I'm getting married.

I've ignored the part of me that wanted to be a counter-cultural hippie, getting married in the woods with a dozen friends and family, wearing a flowing dress (maybe white, maybe not) that I found at a thrift store.  But that hippie wasn't loud enough.  Instead, I've rented a banquet center in a park.  They'll be serving a buffet dinner, and I'll be paying an extra $65 for them to cut my cake.   My dress was bought online, but it's still white.  It's still wedding-dressy.

I guess I decided that, more important than having an inexpensive, quiet ceremony was having something that all the people I love, and whom my fiancé loves, can attend.  They can celebrate with us.  By coming, they are showing support for us and our marriage.

Starting a new job just as the wedding date is approaching has been interesting.  Because I'm new and shy, I don't really talk about it with my new colleagues beyond superficial conversation.  They don't know me, yet, and they don't know my fiancé.  I'm not sure how to jump forward besides wait it out.

This wedding, this marriage, feels strange and ordinary, unexpected and fated, and scary and exciting all at the same time.  The closer I get to the date, the more sure I am that I made the right decision.  After all, marriage is a choice.  Commitment is a choice.  And I know this is a good one: I don't have an ounce of doubt.

I can't wait.

Buslife

For the first time in years, I'm working a job with a regular schedule.  I work 8-5, Monday through Friday, and have every single weekend off.  While a part of me misses having Thursday mornings off, and the occasional Friday all to myself, the larger part of me loves the routine.

Before, my days were bookended by stressful drives through traffic, creeping along the interstate at 30 mph and silently cursing the car that peels into the curb lane in order to get 50 feet ahead of where it would have been.  When I came in my door after driving home, I felt spent.  I was frazzled and didn't want to do anything.

I started my third week of taking the metro downtown.  Now, instead of becoming annoyed by other drivers, I read.  Instead of looking at my gas gauge, thinking about how much money I'm spending and how much pollution my car is creating, I read.  I'm on my third book, George Saunder's marvelous collection, "Tenth of December."

In a strange way, I feel like my daily commute as a passenger has given me the gift of time.  I have home life, which is great, work life, which is challenging and interesting, and bus life: bus life is when I don't have to think about anything but passing time, and I feel so lucky that I get to spend 45 minutes, two times a day, reading.

Ch- Ch- Changes

I mentioned in my last post that I'll be starting a new job next week.  I'll be working in a basement, literally, helping to bring library books to schools, nursing homes, and home-bound readers.  Part of my job will be selecting these books, part of it will be office manager, which entails a host of duties.  This week I've been telling some of my favorite patrons--those friendly men and women who regularly visit my branch, who know me by name (and vice versa), who chat with me after checking out their books--that Saturday is my last day there.   There's a sense of finality with most of these good-byes.  I'll keep in touch with my coworkers, I'll go to their parties, I'll like their Facebook posts.  But for the families who come into the branch, whose faces and book tastes are so familiar to me, the library is the only context we share.  It's easy to imagine I'll never see them again.  Not everyone was nice or friendly.  But many were.  And that's all I remember.  That's all I'll carry with me.

One woman, after I described my new position, how I'll be working less with the public, said, "That's too bad.  You're such a people person." It was the type of brief conversation where I couldn't protest and say, "But I'm an introvert!  People drain me!"Because, to her, I am a people person.  In that context, I'm friendly and outgoing.  I love finding the books and music patrons want.  I love helping people with using a computer, downloading onto their Kindles, etc, or finding library books.  I enjoy my brief chats.

I'm always so tired in the evenings.  I feel empty, like I have no energy left, having spent everything I have being friendly and outgoing for hours on end.  So that's my hope with this new position: that it will be more challenging intellectually while not taxing my emotional reserves.

The Gift of Time

The wedding is in less than two months and, fortunately, I've become only more confident that we're making the right decision.  I was never uncertain, really, but planning a wedding is stressful: it had the potential to cause conflict or to bring us closer.  It's done the latter.  Neither of us wanted it to be a big event.  Neither wanted something very expensive.  Both wanted it to be secular.  And we're achieving all of those goals without argument.

In just over a week I start a new job.  It's still within our library system, but in a new capacity.  I'm very excited--I think my previous experience in the branch and in education will make me a good fit--but I'm also sad about leaving my current location.  My coworkers are kind, considerate, and hilarious.  I'll miss them terribly.

Planning the wedding and preparing for the job interview have dominated the past few weeks of my life; writing has taken a back seat.  I'll be able to take public transportation to the new job, which will be  over 30 minutes each way, and I feel like I've been given the gift of time: time to read, to write, or simply to stare out the window!

A Scalpel Won't Do

I've been listening to an audiobook in my car, San Miguel by T. C. Boyle.  It's set on a small, fictional island off the coast of California.  The closest city is Santa Barbara.  The first two-thirds of the story take place in the late 1800s and focus on a woman and her adopted daughter who, against their wishes, move to this small island where there are none of the comforts of civilization.  There's an outhouse, no indoor plumbing, and few protections against the elements.  The woman suffers from consumption, and the girl struggles with being a teenager, far from peers or any excitement.  The last third of the book jumps forward in time, to the 1930s, as two young newlyweds become caretakers of the island.  The island has modernized, somewhat, and they're thrilled to be on their own.

The writing is good, the characters are interesting, but throughout the narrative I find myself surprised that the story doesn't go deeper.  That plots are neatly resolved.  That minor conflicts don't carry over from one chapter to the next.  I still have a couple of discs left, so I may be surprised still, but right now I judge it as a good story, not a great novel.


That's a bit harsh.  But so much of what I read, now, I analyze what works and what doesn't in order to apply what I learn to my own work.  In revisions, I'm up to the clunky last third of my book.  I say "clunky" because, rereading it, the story feels forced, and the descriptions redundant.  Maybe it's not horrible for a person writing her first novel, but it's not great.  With all my procrastination and with all my distractions the past couple of months, I can look at it more objectively.  I'm not as attached to leaving things as they are, to tinkering at the edges.  A scalpel won't do--I need a hacksaw.    

Skydiving GIF

This is me jumping out of the plane -- I love how my cheeks and forehead wrinkle as I fall!

What Might Have Been

So I took February off from blogging.  It wasn't something I planned... it just sort of happened.  Maybe March will bring bigger and better things--blog things, that is.

Last weekend we met with the man who's going to officiate our wedding.  We didn't know what do expect, so he went through a generic ceremony: here's the procession, here's the invocation, here's a reading, here are the vows, etc.  Together, we'll fill in the blanks.  Decides how the procession goes, what the invocation is, what the vows are.

He asked how I wanted to get up the "altar" (i.e. spot on the patio): walk with my dad?  walk alone?  walk with both parents?

And at that question--"Do you want to walk with a parent on each side?"--I started crying.  Not heavy tears, but a noticeable stream of water from my eyes.  The idea, the image, of having both my parents with me, apart since I was 8, is almost too much.  I'm close to both my parents and have a separate relationship with each of them.  There's not "my parents" but "my dad" and "my mom." Whenever I think or talk about the idea of one parent on each side, at the same time, I get emotional.  I get a brief glimpse at the life I would have had if they had stayed together.

My dad leads a life that he couldn't, were he married.  He travels back and forth from a third-world country to Ohio.  He often lives in conditions that would be unacceptable to most Americans, used to our comforts of hot running water and reliable electricity.  My mom remarried when I was fourteen, and once I became mature enough to respect and acknowledge this relationship, I realized what a good man she had married, and how lucky she is to have him.

I never had that dream that my parents would get back together, maybe because I was so young when they split.  But now, as an adult, I can wonder what that would have been like.  Would I be more confident, less insecure, less picky?  Regardless, I'm grateful to have two parents in my life to celebrate with me as I move into this next stage.

Update on the Book

I spent about a year and a half writing the 80,000-word first draft of my novel, and another year revising.  The fact that I've had a full time job the past year helps me feel better about how long this is taking.  I know it's stronger for the changes I'm making, and I'm glad I didn't rush to send it out, eager for "professional" feedback (that feedback would have come as a series of form rejections!)

I've revised and edited about 54,000 of the 80,000 words.  So I'm more than halfway there.  Unfortunately, the second half of the book was the weaker half.  It's going to take more than minor tweaking to get it into the shape I want it.  But it should be easier to fix than it was to write it in the first place...

A few weeks ago I mentioned that I had read Ayana Mathis' "The Twelve Tribes of Hattie" -- it's a great book, each chapter telling the story of one of Hattie's twelve children, and it stands out to me primarily because of the writing.  Good plots and good characterization, but GREAT writing.  After I read that, I decided to do something completely different. I'm finally reading "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" books.  I read the first one in just a few days, and I'm a third of the way through the second one after just starting it yesterday.  My fiancé can't believe I'm reading it so quickly, but I tried to explain that when plot is the best thing in a book, it's easy to skim over large portions of paragraphs.  It isn't that I'm not reading everything, it's that I'm not reading everything very closely.   But these popular books remind me that, at least when I'm just trying to move the story forward, I can use plain language.  I can be straightforward.  Sometimes it's nice for the reader to just be able to relax and read quickly and not feel like she has to examine each sentence.

"Through the Eyes of a Kenyan"

Hi all,

Head on over to Rough and Rede to see a guest post I wrote about our Kenyan friend Ben Lotiang'a and his experiences both home and in the States.  I've previously contributed posts to George Rede's Voices of August, and I'm happy to help kick off what will be a monthly series.

Today at my grandma's, I said goodbye to Ben and to my dad, who fly back to Kenya tomorrow.  My dad will be back home in May, in plenty of time for my wedding.  I hope we'll get to see Ben again, whether here in Ohio or when I finally make it over to East Africa!