My Muse is not Amused!

In my blog bio, I write how I homeschool my son and have been doing so for five years. I mentioned that it takes time and energy away from my writing. After the first month of teaching 6th grade, I have to say that my own personal writing is officially non-existent. I haven't even had time to attend my monthly writer's group. While I feel saddened by not being able to create in this way, I also can't begin to imagine where I would find the energy or enthusiasm. To say that my muse has fled is an understatement. She (or I don't know, maybe it's a he) has left the building. See ya, Elvis! Or maybe he's left the county, state, country, in which case, maybe I should hire Dog the Bounty Hunter to chase him down.

But if my muse returned, would he feel insulted? I mean he could come back, perch on my shoulder, fill my mind with all sorts of great ideas, but I'd be so bogged down with devising lesson plans to help my son understand the lives of the ancient Sumerians, Egyptians, Israelites, Greeks and Romans and to create a timeline that identifies their top 50 historical contributions that . . . what? Oh right, I was talking about my muse. Did he say his name was Nimrod? And wait . . . was the Tower of Babel the biggest ziggurat every built?

I think I'm just as confused as the people whose language the Lord jumbled up. I consider myself to be a fairly organized person, yet I can't seem to grasp control of my time lately. Too many "to dos" with homeschool gobbling up the bulk of my resources.

Today is Saturday. "Whew!" you might think. But no. While school's out for the weekend, there are weekend chores. But those are actually on hold because I have to get Luke to a Scout Patrol paint party this morning; and I have my own painting to do. My family started to paint the entire exterior of the house weeks ago, but a couple of spots are still waiting their turn. I'll be holding a cup of paint in one hand, a brush in the other and standing on a ladder. Instead I'd rather be holding a cup of coffee and a chocolate-dipped biscotti, while sitting in a deck chair riverside in the mountains. That's a far better way to celebrate the first day of fall!

So muse or no, I don't have time to write--except maybe this blog. A picture book it isn't, but at least I have this moment to express my ideas and let my fingers fly over the keyboard. And the outside of my house is no illustration, but my hands do get to hold a paintbrush.

I'm always looking for the silver lining. Perhaps that's the name of my muse.

Weeding: An Essential Chore

My wrist is wrapped right now after I strained it. The ultimate writer's cramp?

My repetitive injury isn't from typing or writing, but from pulling weeds. Nearly every morning this summer, I've been focusing my energy on smallish sections of my yard to try to reclaim order and beauty. Nature really is wild! I've collected bags and bags of dead twigs, old leaves, bind weed, grass growing where it isn't allowed, even trash to help tame my gardens. I've also attacked the euonymus, spirea, and sumac with clippers, pruning, in some instances, nearly half the foliage as I attempt to tidy my portion of the outdoors. The work is hard (and itchy), but it really is paying off! When I step back, I can see in full how improved my yard is.

In the afternoon, when the day is hotter, I retreat into the cool of my house to force myself to do even more weeding. Opening up a window, I focus on smallish sections. While it may initially appear that my story is organized and beautiful, I realize I haven't fully controlled the plot, character development, setting or climax. My mind really is wild! I've edited superfluous words, switched around dialogue, chopped out first paragraphs because my story started not once, but three times. The work is hard (thankfully not itchy!) and it really is paying off. When I step back, I can see in full how improved my story is.

Weeding is essential for both my yard and my writing. It requires a lot of labor to achieve the desired results: a yard that is inviting to me and visitors and a story that is inviting to me and readers (including that publishing house editor!).

I've got to get back to weeding. (I suspect my wrist may be wrapped for the duration of summer.)

“Many gardeners will agree that hand-weeding is not the terrible drudgery that it is often made out to be. Some people find in it a kind of soothing monotony. It leaves their minds free to develop the plot for their next novel . . .” ~ Christopher Lloyd,The Well-Tempered Garden

Worth the Risk?

I hurt my knee on Sunday. I knew I was taking a risk; after all, I've twisted both knees several times before. 

The first was when I was a teenager trying to get the ball in “keep-away.” I was running and grabbing simultaneously when I felt a terrible twang. The rest of the evening, I had a friend with curly blond hair, similar to Harpo Marx's, hold my leg. I'm not sure he got the reference; however, I grew up under the influence of the Marx Brothers (plus The Three Stooges and Monty Python) and thought my spoof hilarious, despite the pain and stiffness in my knee.

Perhaps the worst injury came while playing football. I was in a game of two on two with some college buddies. I and my teammate just scored, so I did a celebratory Pete Townsend jump, but landed so badly, that everyone heard the ligaments in my knee SNAP! I had to be carried to my fourth-floor dorm room. Later I went to the ER, where the doc strapped on a full-leg brace, resulting in my muscles atrophying the next couple of weeks (no one suggested physical therapy). My left leg got really strong, though, climbing up four flights several times a day!

Later in life, I hurt my knee playing softball on my brother's co-ed team. I was even wearing a brace, but the lateral movement proved too much, and I went down. This time PT helped me recover quickly.

Since then, I've given up softball, pickup football games, downhill skiing, volleyball—all great loves of mine. It's been frustrating to be on the sidelines, but I feel compelled to let my knees dictate my activities.

Until this weekend. How could I say “no” to playing kick-ball with a bunch of 5^th, 6^th and 7^th graders? I mean I knew better, but my heart said, “Go for it!” And my injury has nothing to do with my competitive nature. I mean I HAD to plant my foot so I could be fully aligned and get maximum velocity to whip the ball at the youth-group leader's back to tag him out before he scored home. I went down so fast, I didn't even see if my shot made its mark.

Thankfully, this injury involves only muscles, not ligaments, so my husband, the chiropractor, tells me I'll be better in one week, not six. Great news!

As I convalesce, I realize that while it is truly frustrating and painful to have gotten hurt, I had so much fun with my son and our friends. It's similar to writing. The process itself is a pleasure for me, but putting my stories out into the publishing world often feels risky. It is truly frustrating and painful to get a rejection letter. Eventually, some editor will connect with one (or more) of my stories, and all the aggravation and hurt will have been worth it. 

As I told my son on Sunday, “No guts, no glory!” And for the record, the runner was OUT!

More Than Just an Autograph

While at a pool party this weekend, I chatted with a mom on the topic of autographs. We both know folks who enjoy collecting various celebrities' signatures—be it entertainment, sports, politics—but neither of us falls into that group.

I've had opportunities. One was years ago when I realized the greatest goalie in hockey, Patrick Roy, was standing behind me at the grocery checkout. But this event occurred before my son was born, and I didn't think until later that I should have asked on behalf of my neighbors' boys, who are big athletes and fans. Today, of course, I help collect autographs for my son. He's got a football signed by dozens of Broncos, and, this weekend, when we attend an Outlaws lacrosse game, he'll aspire to get some of those players signatures, too.

I have to jump back decades to when I last desired someone's John Hancock. It was my birthday, and I was headed to an independent bookstore, which had scheduled a visit by a major (I mean four-star) celebrity who had written a book. I was a fan. Not for his literary work, although, it has great charm, but because of him.

Anyone wanting to listen to the author and get his autograph had to have a ticket. I arrived in time to get a number that was low enough to give me a chance at both being able to hear (and see) him read from his works and have an opportunity to get his book signed before his scheduled time at the store elapsed.

I loved listening to this man. Again, not because his work was brilliant, but because he read those words in his enthralling signature voice.

After the reading, it was time for the audience to get his autograph. The staff had told us we wouldn't be able to have our pictures taken with him or engage in a conversation. We were supposed to hand our book copy to an assistant, who would then place it in front of the guest author to sign. However, we would receive it back directly from the author.

Finally, it was my turn. I passed the book to the assistant and watched as the superstar signed his name. The book was coming back to me. This was my chance. I boldly said: “Thank you, Mr. Stewart.”

He looked up at me then with those striking blue eyes and stammered: “You-you-your welcome.”!

That was it.

So simple.

But a memory forged into my mind and heart forever.

I still have Mr. Stewart's book “Jimmy Stewart and His Poems”. Last September, I pulled out my copy to read “Beau” to memorialize my family's own beloved dog, Bo, who had passed away.

As I reminisce, I realize that it isn't Jimmy Stewart's autograph that has appealed to me over the years; it's the whole experience of meeting such a captivating, iconic man and sharing a cherished memory with others.

A Season for Writing

Could this be the summer of writing for me? I've been so focused on my son's activities, including homeschooling him that it seems as if all the things that I want to do for me (besides raising an amazing young man) are continuously put to the side.

Lately, though, I've been in the writing zone. I've looked at finished stories and begun to identify potential publishers. I've reedited other pieces, come up with endings for others and am thinking of how to turn one of my picture books into a chapter book. I'm excited! And I'm hopeful the trend will continue.

These are the only steps guaranteed to help me become a published author. I'm tilling the soil and planting seeds for a bountiful harvest. Wouldn't it be great if my metaphor chronologically tracked with the actual planting/harvesting season we're in?