On being brave

One of the hardest things about writing for me has been the lack of something concrete to show for it. I don't mean that I am not producing anything, just that you can't exactly sit it on the coffee table and admire it. The biggest example of this is from my experience with NaNoWriMo. 50,000 words of mostly crap, taking space on my hard drive, never to be seen again.

But maybe not.

The other day I had dinner with a writer friend and she wondered aloud if there might be something to mine from that material. So I sent it to her.

Yes, I sent her my really awful writing, most of which will be more painful to read than my eighth grade diary. I sent it because she knows my other writing. I also sent it because I want to be brave.

Which brings me around to the knick knacks. What I have to show for my work in this case is a smidge of personal development, which I think probably comes, for me at least, in turquoise and red.

And looks perfect on my coffee table (if you just imagine it).

Just don't make me wear the parachute pants again...

Lately everywhere I go there seems to be 80's music playing in the background. And I am not the only one who is noticing it. My neighbor, who is in her early 40's, mentioned that she heard a Cure song playing in a restaurant the other day.

Ah, I said, so we're now the target demographic.

Somehow it doesn't feel as exciting as I thought it would.

Prompt and also Right on Time

The class that I am currently taking focuses on flash fiction, usually 1000 words or less. We get a prompt or two to choose from each week, usually a particular writing technique to follow, like writing the story backwards or focusing on color, etc. along with an example of that style. I have written some pretty amazing things from a few of these prompts, things I would never have dreamt of writing without them.

As a newish writer I was previously under the impression that it was up to me to summon the magic completely from thin air. This is fine and dandy when you have a story idea in mind, but insurmountably depressing when you do not. So back then, I would sit at the keyboard and hope. Hope does not float. Hope sinks.

It turns out that writing prompts are commonly used within story writing circles, and having a place to start has been, for me, transformative. I've written shape shifters, stories that begin at the end, and the color red. I've written an old tale in a new way and even a love story. Best of all, the prompts have really helped me to be able to sit down and write, which is way more fun than sitting down and not writing.

From Trainspotting to Crockpotting

I've said it before. Though I can't be sure, I think I used to be cooler.

I'm not sure when it started, but I think a potato might have had something to do with it. We didn't have kids yet and an older woman that I was friends with mentioned that she was making potato soup from scratch. I thought to myself wow - this woman makes soup that doesn't come from a can. She gave me the recipe and I gave it a try and was pretty successful. Of course, the secret to making really good potato soup involves bacon. Sort of earth shattering to me at the time and also my first attempts at "home cooking".

So this soup incident happened in 1996. I'd been married about a year and we lived in downtown Atlanta where it seemed like everything that was anything was happening within a few blocks of our condo. We hosted dinner parties and I started to cook. The movie Trainspotting came out that year. It was uber cool at the time. I don't recall that films were edgy before that and it really stuck out. We saw it in the theater, fairly early, and of course we knew about "the scene." At our parties, we'd discuss things like "the scene" while we ate fancy party food.

So when did I become Queen of the Crockpot? A woman who can make a killer slow cooked pot roast. A woman who rarely sees an edgy film until it makes it to DVD, and even then, probably after it's been out for a year. And even then, only maybe. And even then, with the distinct possibility of falling asleep during the highly anticipated film, likely in a pot roast induced coma. A woman who hasn't hosted an actual dinner party in years, never mind mentioning "the scene" that I'd slept through.

That part is a bit fuzzy, but it seems to have cemented, solidified over the last few years. So here's the thing. I am mostly okay with it.

There I said it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some bacon to fry.

Luck o' the Irish

Boston has a fairly large Irish population, almost 20% I think. St. Patricks Day is next week and the celebration here draws a huge crowd. It has been raining a ton this week and the approaching holiday seems fitting since things have felt very Irish lately - a little gloomy, damp, and moody.

We Americans glom on to the idea of St. Patricks Day because there is a party involved, much the same way we celebrate Cinco De Mayo. But still, there is something to be said for the Irish mystique. I find myself so attracted to the idea of Ireland, the stark countryside and the people, a culture that seems to be all about the beauty in the bleak. Not to mention the beer drinking.

I have been listening to Mumford and Sons a good bit, and in particular the newly released The Cave. Their songs make me want to find myself a nice little cabin to hide out in. I'll chop my own wood and wear green knee high wellies and drink whiskey as soon as it's dark - which means all day when it is raining like this.