One More Note

I joined the A to Z April Challenge. Every day during April (except Sundays, leaving 26 days), participants write a blog post related to that day's letter. For example, tomorrow will be "A," Saturday, "B," etc. I like the idea of having some boundaries as far as a topic go, and of having motivation to write something every day.

By the way, up to 19,139 words. Better get crackin'.

Good Fortune

19,000 words and counting! My goal, 20,000 words by the end of March. So I have until around 6:30 today to crank out another 1,000 words before driving down to Cincinnati to have dinner with my old roommate and her husband. (There's a cheerleader's voice in my head shouting, You can do it! You can do it! She's annoying but helpful.)

I feel incredibly fortunate to be doing what I am. This time--whole days when I don't "work"--has been a gift to me. That full-time library job I mentioned a couple weeks ago isn't going to open up. No new hires until the state budget is finalized. I'm sort of glad for that decision to be out of my hands. I didn't want to choose to give up my time.

Speaking of fortunate, my dad is back in Kenya and couldn't be happier. He writes about visiting schools that his foundation supports, noting the enthusiasm of the teachers and students. But what made me laugh this morning is his description of his journey back from one of the schools:

Well, Mwololo and I walked down the hill (mountain) from the school to the main road, about a 30 minute walk. At the main road we waited for a matatu, the mode of transport in Kenya. Basically a rusty van that is falling apart that drivers jam full with as many people in as possible. The saying goes “There is no such thing as a full matatu.” We waited and waited, finally a van comes and stops but it has red ribbons hanging from the side mirrors. This usually indicates it is part of a funeral procession but some matatu drivers put the red ribbons on to fool the many police roadblocks who rarely stop them. So the van stops, we ask about the ribbons and the guy points to the dead body propped up in the front seat! They were taking this dead man to the mortuary but still wanted to make extra money by making stops for more passengers! They wouldn’t even lay the man down because that would take three seats (three fares!) We passed on that matatu and waited for the next.

Another time, he had to hold a live chicken for an entire ride! By the way, today is opening day - I hope I can find somewhere online to watch the Reds game as I slowly march toward 20,000 :)

I Miss You, Blog

I promise to visit again really soon. Write a nifty post about Libya, my family, my writing process. Wax poetic about something or other.

By the way, it's winter again in Cincinnati. We had spring for about a week--daffodils appeared, I wore open-toed shoes--but then the cold made a comeback. There was snow on the ground yesterday. Snow!

The Stories We Tell

Last night was the first meeting of our new 8-week writing term. I shared an excerpt from my novel (which stands at 18,536 words!) with the large group. We don't applaud after sharing -- a bell is rung and we move on to the next woman -- so the words just kind of sit there. Which is kind of scary.

And while fiction can be liberating because I use made up names and situations, it's more of a challenge for me to share it with a larger group. I'm asking the group to enter a made-up world for just a few minutes. I'm asking them to listen to and understand the different voices and characters. (And one of those characters was slightly intoxicated -- I wonder how that came across!)

I've always felt more at ease sharing personal anecdotes and stories of anxiety (and of grandmothers) in the large group than fiction, because I know those are more accessible. Then again, I've never shared anything so deeply personal that I couldn't put it here on the blog; I might be comparing apples and oranges.

But I'm a Cheerleader!

Near the eight-year anniversary of the Iraq invasion, President Obama enters our country into another war of choice. I finally saw some cable news yesterday and CNN's giant "LIBYA WAR" graphic. There are elements of this that make me (and others across the political spectrum, I'm sure) a little sick. What happens after Qaddafi is killed? Or not killed? Loses power? Or doesn't lose power? What is our responsibility? Our military is stretched so thin; the domestic recovery is slow. How do we have money for this but not for education or universal health care?

And why not Bahrain? Why not Yemen? Why not Sudan?

I hope this turns out well, of course. I hope the Americans come off as supporting the aspirations of people long oppressed by a crazy dictator, and not as invading another oil-rich nation to expand their empire. And I know President Obama would be criticized heavily no matter what he did, intervene or don't intervene. But this cheerleader still feels a little queasy.

My Precious

(I say that in the Gollum voice from "Lord of the Rings")

One of the reasons I love working at the library is the variety of tasks I get to perform. Out front, in public, I'm helping people check out, renew, and order books or movies. I also help people find their items. Maybe it's a book their friend recommended, maybe it's a movie that our catalog showed that we had, or maybe it's books about a certain subject they need for a report.

• The other day I helped a mom find books for her son, a third-grader, who she characterized as a "slow reader." He needed books that were at least 90 pages but wouldn't frustrate him too much. I led her directly to books by David Adler, author of the Cam Jansen series. I also pulled a couple books by Matt Christopher, Beverly Clearly, and Louis Sachar. They chose a couple of the books but wrote down all of the authors I suggested.
• Yesterday, a graduate student in speech therapy came in looking for a book to use in a thirty-minute session that talked about the tortoise and the hare. I pulled books by three or four different authors so she could pick which would be most appropriate for the student she worked with.

Behind the scenes I'm equally busy processing new books/movies, receiving items from other libraries that customers have ordered, and discharging materials that have been put in our bookdrop. I also write, occasionally, for the library's book blog, Turning the Page. I enjoy writing for that different audience. Also, because I can write for it on work time, doesn't that mean I'm getting paid to write? Kind of? In my latest entry, I look at the apparent rise of short fiction: "We Don't Tell Novels at the Kitchen Table, We Tell Stories."

I've worked at my current branch for over two years now. I am part time. Until last July, I also taught literature and composition. My long-time readers know that I stopped teaching in order to focus on writing, to see if, given the extra time, I would be able to produce anything worth while. If this was a test, I passed! Since July, I've written a lot. And it's not horrible. Of course I could have written more; I could have been more disciplined. But I'm not disappointed -- I'm proud of what I've done.

And therein lies my dilemma. A full-time position may become available at my branch, the one I love so much. Not only would I double my take-home pay (going from 20 to 40hrs/wk), I would also receive health care benefits (currently I spend over $100/mo purchasing my own). If I apply, there's no guarantee that I would get the job, but I don't want to apply unless I'm prepared to accept it.

In other words, now that I've finally found a steady rhythm for my writing, do I want to give up so much of my precious time? Help!

The View from My Balcony

I sit here, glass of wine in hand (Apothic Red is the brand; Kroger sells it for $22, but we bought it for $12 at a local wine shop) enjoying a beautiful late-winter evening. In the distance, notice the parked train. About six times a day (though I've never counted), a train goes by. It doesn't matter what room you're in; you hear it.

The sound pleases me. It reminds me of childhood, listening as a train approaches, or sitting in a car, stopped at a track, waiting for the train to pass.