Maybe Someday I'll Learn (to Keep My Mouth Shut)

Sorry about yesterday's post. I wasn't feeling very well and I guess it sure showed in the post, didn't it?

After reading over all the material the website provides to aid in course completion, I'm feeling more optimistic about this course I'm enrolled in. There's a wealth of knowledge there, and it's a lot more than just a "creative writing 101"-type course. I've never been in a critique group before, and I think that's what I'm most looking forward to; I've read from published authors that many of them credit the leap from amateur to professional (from "writer" to "author") to writer's conferences or critique groups. I can't afford a writer's conference and doubt if I ever will, so a critique group is more up my alley.

To what do you attribute your success?

And I'm Supposed to Learn.... What?

I'm beginning the first session of an online Creative Writing Course that goes over the basics of setting, narrative, character building, etc. I've really been looking forward to this class; I need to get the creative juices flowing and stimulate my inner "muse". I just logged on for the first session, and the instructor left a note on the discussion board, welcoming us all and reiterating briefly the objectives of the class. After her welcome, several participants had posted introductions of themselves. After the first group had posted, the instructor had posted a response that included, "I'm soooo looking forward to your assignments. ....".

Now, I realize that this particular form of speech is popular recently, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. What, exactly, am I supposed to learn from this person? In her introduction, she states her children are grown, so she's a mature woman, presumably with writing credentials since she's teaching this class. Am I learning the definition of "sooooo" and when best to use it here?

I also recently purchased a book that deals with bringing characters "to life". The THIRD SENTENCE states: "After pouring through the recently published books in each subject, ..."

I know I'm a grammar snob (my husband reminds me all the time when I correct him for saying, "we shoulda went there") but really. What exactly am I learning here?

Stages of Grief

They say there are five stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. It's been three weeks but I think I'm still stuck in the first stage, because I keep looking around for my hound-dog girl. I've had dogs before - four others, besides Polly - but I don't think I ever had a bond with an animal (or a human being, except for my mother) like the one Polly and I shared. Sometimes she seemed to read my mind.I've met other people who were totally devastated by the loss of a pet (my sister was one) and, I'm ashamed to say I've been inclined to think, "Get over it already - it was just a dog!" Now I'm on the inside looking out.

I can't really compare her death to anyone but my mom's, because no one has ever accepted me totally and unconditionally as she did. The two animals we still have - the 20-year-old dog and year-old cat - adore my husband and only want me around when the food and water bowls are empty. Polly was a daddy's girl too, but she divided her time between us equally. In the mornings, she was my husband's girl - at night, she was my buddy. She'd lay at my feet when I was on the computer and by my side at bedtime. I'm the one that walked her and played with her, and near the end, when she was suffering, I'd massage her all over to try to take some of the pain away. The day she didn't want my touch anymore, I knew it was time to let her go.

Who am I kidding? I still can't let her go.

I know no other dog can replace her - she was one-of-a-kind - but I feel that getting a new puppy might distract me a little. All dogs have different characteristics and different personality traits, and getting to know a new dog would be good for me, I think. My husband won't hear of it. He just says, "I don't want another dog." He won't even discuss it. I've been surfing Petfinder.com and there are hundreds of shelter puppies out there who are going to end up being euthanized because no one wants them.

What really irritates me is that I'm the one who would pay all the fees and vet's bills, and I'm the one who would care for it. We live entirely on my income, but his foot is firmly down and he won't stand for it.

He loved Polly too, and he's 14 years older than I am, so he's decided that's it for him, no more pets, ever.... so now I'm in despair of ever feeling better.

If anyone reads this, you have my permission to disregard this post. I'm usually a cheerful person and can snap out of a depression pretty quickly, so I know it will come eventually. I just needed to rant.

Thanks for listening!

New Moon

It's bitterly cold here in southern Wisconsin - only 2 degrees. We had to bring our soda in from the enclosed front porch last night to prevent it from freezing. When I went to bed, very late, the mercury had fallen below zero for the first time this year.

This morning the clouds have departed after gracing us with 8 inches of snow yesterday and the sun is shining, causing the ice crystals to dance in the sunlight like little winter fairies. A crust has formed on top of the snow, so my yard looks like a glittering carpet of Swarovski crystals, casting their prisms everywhere.

When we lived up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan I was always cold in the winter and never wanted to go outside if I could help it. (Up there everyone has a fireplace, so that's where I'd be.) Where we live now is only 5 hours south but it may as well be a continent away because it's so much warmer here. We joked about planting palm trees in the yard. I read somewhere yesterday that the cherry trees in Washington, D.C. are blooming because we've had such warm weather. I'm sure it's terrible to disrupt the rhythms of nature, but how can an early spring be anything but wonderful?

It didn't last long though. It doesn't matter to me. Last fall I was really ready for winter for the first time in years.

I wrote the foregoing at 8 a.m. It's now 8 p.m. and I'm a-singin' a different tune! We went out for dinner in 6 degree weather. Just getting in the cold car twice was all it took - we've been home over a hour now and I can't warm up.

Variety is the spice of life, right? It was a "curry" morning....

The Golden Globes

I wonder how Lauren Weisberger feels tonight.

This evening Meryl Streep won the Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Musical or Comedy for her portrayal of the evil Miranda Priestly in "The Devil Wears Prada." I'm not denying Meryl's brilliant performance; she was wonderful in it.

I'm wondering why, after Miss Streep thanked everyone in Hollywood, she apparently forgot to thank the lady that wrote the thing to begin with.

"The Devil Wears Prada" would never have gotten off the ground if it hadn't sprung from the experiences and imagination of Lauren Weisberger and her ironic, witty "voice".

A few writers were lauded this evening, but I made a particular point of listening to the acceptance speeches to see just often the writers really were thanked.

Not very often. The Brits were all very good at bestowing credit where credit was due, but most Americans thanked the director or producer, their fellow actors or the moneymen behind the scenes. A few thanked the screenwriter, but not many.

I don't have many readers, and I'm very sure neither Lauren Weisberger or Meryl Streep read my blog, but I'd like the record to reflect that I'm officially thanking Miss Weisberger for sharing her experiences in the fashion industry with us. I enjoyed the ride.

Parallels

Just now, as I was cleaning up the kitchen in preparation for going to bed, I remembered something that happened on the way to the doctor the other day. Since I'm a veteran, I have to go to the nearest Veterans Administration hospital for my appointments, which is about 40 miles away. The most direct route is through a nature preserve, and the road is very straight and level.

About midway through the preserve, I spotted a silhouette a long way off. It was very early in the morning - just approaching dawn - and I could tell the silhouette wasn't a car because there were no headlights. As I neared the figure, I realized it was a deer. The doe was standing on the verge of the left lane and was facing in that direction. Her head was down; she was feeding. She raised her head when she sensed the vibration of my car, and looked at me. I braked, slowing down until she made up her mind which way she was going to go. When I was about 25 feet away, she turned entirely around and crossed both lanes of traffic, headed off to the right side of the road.

Taking the path of least resistance - in other words, the road better traveled - is the easy way out. There's less friction, less uncertainty, less strife in taking the normal path, making the expected choices.

I realized as I was doing the dishes that this is what I have done my entire life: I've taken the road others have expected of me. Somehow, if I've lived up to other's expectations, I've felt that I've done the right thing, that I've maintained the status quo. I've been living my life to please others, not myself.

Maintaining the status quo has gotten me where I am now. When the Navy ruled to give me a medical disability retirement, I didn't dispute it. I've always regretted that. I had only two years to go to retirement with full pay, which was the goal I'd set for myself. Fighting the Navy would have meant hiring a lawyer, going to Washington before a review board - bucking the system, and I was too tired and defeated to even consider it. I wish I had, because I've been treading water ever since.

There's been a lot of water under the bridge since then (gee, I'm good at the naval metaphors, aren't I?) but every time a divergent path has opened up, I've always taken the expected route. I've been thinking about taking a part-time job recently, to supplement my disability income. My disability pay is more than enough to cover our few bills, but not enough to travel with, which is what I had hoped to do when I retired. I could only work part-time (I'm not even sure I can do that much) since I can't stand for long periods and am limited as to how far I can walk, but I thought I could take a job as a cashier at the local grocery store. It would only be minimum wage, but it would be a little extra, anyway.

I realized it tonight - that's the expected path. That's the path my mother and father would have recommended, if they were here. That's the path they recommended way back when I was poised to go to college, when they talked me out of an English major/journalism minor and I ended up going to nursing school instead.

I've been second-guessing myself for so long now, I instinctively choose the better-traveled path, unlike the intrepid deer, who took the more challenging and dangerous path.

I loved my mother and father and always try to honor their memory, but maybe that's what I have to do, to be the writer I've always dreamed of being - emulate the deer.

Hopes for the New Year

I went to the doctor the day before yesterday and saw both the optometrist and my regular doctor. The optometrist said I need a new prescription (which I already knew) and my regular doctor noted that I'd lost five pounds over the holidays, which I didn't know. I had a good idea, given that I lost my appetite almost entirely during December, for reasons noted in previous posts. She congratulated me because apparently the average American GAINS seven pounds over the holidays.

I came home feeling smug.

It didn't last long, though, because the depression keeps creeping in, just when I think I'm making inroads. I've been trying to keep my New Year's resolution to lose weight and write, every day, even if it's only a little bit. I'm doing okay with the diet, but I keep second-guessing myself on the writing part.

I've been visiting some writer's blogs and websites a lot lately, and the talent in some of these folks is transcendent. My writing is positively pedestrian in comparison. I read recently on another blog that most editors, publishers and serious writers view blogs as nothing more than Internet diaries. When I do sit down and write, after I review what I've written I inevitably either think it's pompous or it sounds more like technical writing than anything. I don't have the graceful, elegant prose that some writers I can name (who, by the way, DO blog.) (Here's to you, Orion!)

I have a few strategies for focusing on my goals and ignoring second-guessing myself. This morning I wrote down what my immediate goals for today were, and how I was going to focus on those goals and avoid listening to the doubts that always plague me. I've written a couple of things today (one was an article for the local paper, and the other a half chapter of the novel I've got going) and when I got bogged down in critiquing myself, my husband and I went out to dinner. Doing dinner silenced the negative thoughts for a while and allowed me to come home and begin again with a fresh outlook.

So, let's review:

Diet: about 1100 calories. Exercise: practically none. Writing: about 500 words.

See? I DID accomplish something today! (Now I'm going to reward myself by finishing the new novel by Dana Stabenow.)

Apathetic No Longer

I've been taking some time off to recover from the death of my beloved dog Polly. Since she was always with me, while I did anything from sitting at the computer, to doing dishes, to going grocery shopping, her loss has left a big hole. She vegetated in front of the TV with me and slept with me at night. (This photo is of her at bedtime, taken about 10 days before she died; she always took the lion's share of the bed.) She began getting ill at the end of November; the vet said that he felt she had a tumor somewhere and that he couldn't really do anything without expensively prohibitive tests. We authorized a few tests to rule other things out, but the only thing he found was elevated calcium in her blood, so I blithely took her home thinking he couldn't possibly be right. Three weeks later she was visibly failing; it came to a head in the wee hours of Christmas Eve, after she had been vomiting and shivering in pain all day. An emergency vet told us she was riddled with cancer and suffering considerably, so we had her euthanized. As I cradled her in my arms, they gave her the injection to send her to sleep. She didn't struggle, just let out a huge sigh, and then her body went limp. I continued to hold her after they gave her the second injection to stop her heroic heart, and didn't let go until the vet signaled her heart had stopped.

I still haven't let go. I don't know if I can. My heart is still in that room, even though her ashes already adorn our mantel, in an undistinguished black box.

It's been difficult trying to find my way again. My husband still has the cat, who adores him and has gladly taken what used to be Polly's place, in his lap in the mornings (she was a 70-pound boxer-basset hound mix but she always managed to fit) so I really don't think he's feeling her loss as keenly as I do. The cat is only interested in me when her food bowl is empty, whereas Polly was always leaning against me or lying at (or more properly, ON) my feet. She used to come up to me when I was sitting in a chair and press her head between my legs until I opened them, then put her head down and press into the bottom of the chair; this was my cue to lean over her from above, put my forehead on her back and wrap my arms around her belly, then give it a rub. I called this a "hug", and it didn't take long for her to learn the word. It became a daily occurence; she initiated it as often as I did. When guests came over and I asked Polly for a hug, they were inevitably charmed by her gesture, as I was. This was just one of the many unique habits she had. She was 70 pounds of love and loyalty, and my life feels empty without her.

I am, however, beginning to take an interest in things again. I've been following closely a few writer's blogs I found and am learning quite a bit about agents and publishing. It's been whetting my appetite for writing again, so I've enrolled in an online creating writing course, mostly to refresh my memory, because college-level Creative Writing was close to 30 years ago now for me, and I've forgotten more than I've ever learned. I have two different mystery novels started on my hard drive, but am thinking about going in an entirely different direction.

Now that I'm back, I have to get with some of my blogging friends and learn more about how to personalize my blog. I don't know any html or how to link other sites, or even to post pictures yet, but I'm willing to learn. If any of you have any hints, feel free to let me know! I've found that learning new things keeps life moving forward, however unwillingly it may carry me along at times.

Catching Up

I've given the lie to the title of my blog - I've been wallowing in apathy for six weeks now.

At the end of November my beloved dog Polly started having some problems. She suddenly began drinking around 2 cups of water every half hour, and urinating in the house, which she had never done before. (My husband got angry, but I told him if he was drinking 2 gallons of water a day he'd pee in the house too). We took her to the vet on December 1st. He couldn't find anything overtly wrong with her except for an elevated calcium reading in her blood chemistry. He told us that, in his experience, elevated calcium in the blood in larger-breed dogs is evidence of some type of cancer.

Of course, I didn't want to hear that.

What followed was a frantic, heartbreaking struggle to prove him wrong.

We took her home, but had to bring her back two days later because she stopped eating. They kept her on an I.V. for a week, and she finally started feeling better, so we brought her home again.

Everything seemed fine, except she slept more, and she started having difficulty getting up on my bed at bedtime, for the first time in her life. I still refused to see what was right in front of me.

I'm sorry, I thought I was ready to write about this, to get it out, but I'm not. I can't. I won't.