I could cheese smile my way out of most everything when I was little.  I looked innocent.  Except for the devil horn calics at the front of my hairline.  My first grade picture was awesome.  Right after recess. 

It looked like this:
Devil horn calic bangs.
Big grownup tooth surrounded by tiny white minnions.
Disproportionate dark freckles.
My blue eyes DID match my light blue shirt.
It even matched the silky blue piping that ran from shoulder to shoulder.

Clearly, you can see why I had so many boyfriends in first grade.  Either that or they weren't sure whether they should like me or fear me.  I should ask Brendan about that.

I was pretty sure that the invention of clear glue was for my benefit.  It was like a mini lava lamp with that mesmerizing bubble in there.  And also it was handy when you needed to spread it all over the toilet seats in the bathrooms.  Because that is like the funniest thing ever.

To the untrained eye, brown paper towels in the bathroom were strickly for drying hands.  Not so for this little chicky.  Because those things stuck to the ceiling like magnets.  Dripping magnets.  And when you took the little filter off of the sink faucets and stuck that stuff up there you could stand back and watch science in action.  Water Pressure.

There were many uses for brown paper towels.  Like shoving it down the hole of the drinking fountain with a pencil.  Again, water pressure.  It's a beautiful thing.  But I think figuring out that paper,crumpled into the female end of a school door allowing after school access, was one of my better revelations.

These people had no idea who they were dealing with.  And I'm giving the G rated version of my antics since my children will read this.  Don't even ask, Madelyn, I'm not telling.

But I am sure of one thing.  The term, "She's a character" was used frequently.  And I'm thinking this might have something to do with the way I write.  The way I read.  The way I think.  Character oriented.

Thank you Spruce Elementary for NOT suspending me indefinitely.

Yesterday I finished reading, The Dead Tossed Waves.  Overall, it was a good book.  If you go back to posting histories you'll see that I loved, The Forest of Hands and Teeth by the same author, Carrie Ryan.

But here's what I'm noticing in popular books and movies.  The Love Triangle.  Carrie Ryan has it in both books, though the protagonist is different.  I've never read Twilight, but I'm pretty aware of the triangle going on in that one.  Although, hello, dead guy, or steaming muscle beach guy?  Seems simple to me.

How about Hunger Games?  Same thing.
And, Ann, your book, The Losers Guide to Life and Love, has the same stuff going on.

Anyway - I'm wondering why this scenario is so popular?  Why does it stir up so much emotion in people?  In TDTW I found myself going back and forth for the first little while between possible beau's for the protagonist.  And I cried for both in two different situations.  Yes, I cried.  Because of a book.  Got a problem with that?  Talk to my power tools.

Did you see the movie Pearl Harbor?  Yes, I cried watching that movie as well.  She thought he was dead, they both did.  But no, he wasn't.

Personally, I've never had strong feelings for two guys at once. (I'm talking dating years.  Married years is obvious.)  Is it common?  Does every girl have to make a heart wrenching choice between two men when it's time for a serious relationship? 

For me, there was no-one I wanted to spend eternity with until I met Brendan.  Not even a temptation of that with any other guy.  I dated quite a bit.  Hung out.  Had some of those private talks away from the crowds that can build a lot of fiery tension.  I had fun with them. ( I might possibley have kissed a number of them.)  And yet I could live without every single one of them.

But not Brendan.  He had every part of me the moment I saw him.  Yes, I'm one of those.  I knew immediately.  And 14 years of marriage later, he still has every part of me.  Some parts he could probably handle not having to deal with.  But we're good.

So I ask why we are drawn to this triangle scenario?  Is it because we want to wonder which way we would choose?  Or are we in love with tension and attraction? 

I'm not sure I know the answers.

But for this girl, my triangle is one straight line.

I must confess I haven't done any sort of productive writing this WHOLE week.  I decided to let myself do that.  The sun's been out.  Thus my yard work posts.  And I've had an emotioinal and physical need to be active.

And guess what?  I don't HAVE to write.  My life is happy and fine and productive and full without it.  
But I will - next week.
Why?
Good question.  
I do have answers.
But I don't feel like writing about them right now.
Because I'm on writing vacation.

I was able to work under the hood of our truck this week.
Grease is beautiful. 
Really, I feel alive when I play mechanic.
I'd go and get trained, but I don't think I swear enough.
Just kiddin, mechanics.  I like you guys except when you rip me off. (Cleggs in Springville.)

I did do a lot of things in the house.  Boring.  I know.  But I did.

And this week, I went out with 15 other ladies on Tuesday night.  First of all, Tuesday has never experienced such raucousness. ( I know it's not a real word.)  I can't tell anyone any details.  I was sworn to secrecy.  I'll just say that when you take 16 mothers out for a whole night together, tears of laughter are inevitable.  Because they're crazy!  There's all this pent up college partiness energy.  And our maturity levels fell to a 10 year old boy level.  Which actually, is a pretty fun age.

So thank you to everyone who added sunshine to my writing vacation.  It was a good week.

How I have missed you.
You've been buried under snow
And leaves and twigs and
dead looking junk that
during the wet winter
I really didn't want to
touch or get near.

Because yucky wet black leaves are gross.  And dark
and frequently causes a slight panic attack.

But now you are back, yard work.
The sun has dried up that nastiness.
And with a few pills and a bit of
determination I have rid my yard
of winters past.  And stay out!

I like you yard work.  You're so much
better than dishes and laundry.
You live, you breathe, you make
my muscles sore.  You look beautiful
for a long time. 

You give back, dear yard work.
You give me beautiful colors and smells.
Which is exactly NOT what dishes and laundry do.
No beautiful smells from those guys.

And best of all,
you feed me. 
Fruits and vegetables.
Which are yummy.

Thank you, yard work.
I look forward to our time together.

You don't owe me an apology. I don't know if you knew this but, you are a GOLF-ER. You hit a little white ball with a titanium stick for a living. Last I checked, that doesn't help cure cancer. Or diabetes.

Some people are upset because you were set up as an "image" and then you went and shattered it. Or your wife did when she 7-ironed your window. Beautiful call wife. Although I would've gone with the Big Bertha driver, and the birdie.

So what, people are upset because Tiger Woods was false advertising? Good thing this is the only commercial that lies. What? It's not?

Oh crap, you mean I won't be able to play golf like him, even if I buy everything Nike? Wait a minute, so... guys who eat Carls Jr. burgers aren't going to actually make it with Paris Hilton? And beer doesn't make me beautiful? And freedom has nothing to do with Coke? Oh the inhumanity of it all.

I'm just wondering, why do we give extra credibility to people who are on t.v.? I don't get it.

All the feeling
can leave you feeling
a little numb.

Then the new day
wakes
and the sun
burns the frost

The light
touches your back
through the
window
with lifted shade
and fills your soul
with honey.

Everyone and
everything makes you
smile.
Deep down in the
depths
of all that you are
and all that
you've seen
and all that you've
done.

It's light
It's easy.
It's delicious.

Is it a hobby?
Is it a job?
Am I a writer?
Am I someone who just enjoys writing?
Am I wasting my time?
Am I kidding myself?
Are others being honest or just nice when they give compliments?

These questions run rampant in yet to be published writers.  You would think that once you hold your very own published book in your hot little hands that these questions would be laid to rest.
Not so.
Other questions arise.

Am I a one book writer?
Did I give everything into this one book and now there is nothing left?
Is it a hobby?
Is it a job?
Am I a writer?
Am I someone who just enjos writing?
Am I wasting my time?
Am I kidding myself?
Are others being honest or just nice when they give compliments?
Am I really happy writing?
Will anyone show up to my book signings?
How will I look busy with no-one coming and the store employees trying to avoid me?

Sadly, there are more questions than this.  I wonder if there is a more naked job than being a writer?  (Strippers and such not included.) 
It sounds like such a terrible and painful process.  Writing is heartache and elation and every emotion inbetween.  It's stress and worry and doubt.  But something deep inside brings our fingers back to the page.
Why would anyone choose to be a writer?  From what I understand, unless you're Rowling or Meyers the paychecks aren't seismic wonders.

But here's the thing.  Having children makes no sense either.  It's pain, it's heartache, it's doubt, it's fear, it's constantly questioning yourself, and it can be lonely.  But oh the joy.  And we live for the joy.  And we live for the moments.  And we smile at this creation, this naked version of ourselves.  And not every moment, but for many, we say, it was soo worth it.
And then we do it again.  In my case, 4 times I gave birth to beautiful fat babies.

With all four the questions still come about parenthood and motherhood and sanity.  But it's the greatest worst job ever.
And so is being a writer.

I remember being very afraid of Edgar A. Poe when I was a young teenager.  I loved his poetry very much.  Which must have meant that there was something seriously wrong with me.  The depression and even suicide rate for poets and authors seems unfavorably unbalanced.  That may be a perceived statistic, but perceived or not, it has been factual in my mind most of my life.

I've always known I was a writer.  Never with ambitions to publish or for any kind of gain.  Just expression.  It calms me down.  Gives me an outlet.  Clarifies my thinking.  Helps me understand what my convictions really are.  It has only been recently that I have felt the desire to master it.  To give my voice - a voice. 

And I must admit, it is a hard thing to balance.  It can draw you deep within yourself.  The inspiration, and excitement and passion can blur the living, breathing world all around you.  I've devoted more time to my writing lately.  Which I don't think is a bad thing.  I want to finish and my time is relatively productive and positive.

But I forget.  I forget how quickly your own life can pass when you are writing about someone else's.  I forget that the expression of the hardships of your characters doesn't ease the suffering that is currently taking place around you.  With neighbors, friends, and family.  It hasn't been all-consuming.  I do live a life.  But I could do better.

I forget to apply the laws of truth, light, and intelligence to myself.  To remember that the principal of losing your life to save it applies to innumerable aspects of our daily lives.  That putting others first, that using not just my words, but my physical body to lift and comfort and give all that I am to those around me will result in finding what I really seek to put on paper. 

How I end up doing things so completely backwards is a little embarassing.

But writing without life is not writing at all.

Writing, that is.  It has it's opposite emotions, just like most anything.

Getting to the middle of the novel is like driving through a collapsing tunnel.

When starting out, any road is possible.  You're free, you're creative.  You're brilliant.

But then you find there are consequences for every word you've previously written.  The story
narrows and narrows.  It's leading to a climax.  It has to narrow.

But it's suffocating.  Choking. 

It's like stringing up a cast of marionettes.  Each string being a different color.  And then making
sure all of those strings coordinate, they work, they build.  And you remember them all.

So every step into the dark is scarier, it's questioned, it's unsure.  Second guessing
becomes a sadistic wheel.  Round and round.

Do I recognize the story?  Is the character who started the story, the one that's with me now?

I know what to do.  Push on.  Push on.  Put your shoulder to the wheel and push along.

Revision is a much better experience.  Remember that.  Don't forget you can revise.  You can make it better.

Just stay in your chair, even when the push to run is overhwelming.  Write anything, like a post.  Keep the fingers moving, the creation flowing.  It will get better.  It will.  It will.  You don't completely suck.  That voice in your head that says you're a wannabe hack with no real talent is wrong.  It's not just about talent.  It's about work.  And it's lunchpale time.

Get it done.  Get it done so you can start again.  So you can feel the freedom, the beginning of another book.  Cuz you know it's in there.  Just waiting.

Thought #1
There's been a discussion on the site ThrowingUpWords.  The subject is "Preachy".  The consensus is that Preachy is bad.  Such terms as "Keep it for Sunday" or "Save it for the Pulpit" were used.  I'm sorry, but I can't help it.  I MUST be an antagonist.  I must.  So I may have made a few sarcastic remarks.  Then I felt bad.  Because the internet is forever.  So, I wanted all of the co-author world who frequents this great site to know that I have forsaken my ways.

Infact, just today, I gave this homeless guy 5 bucks.  Do you know what he said?  He said, "God bless you."  Well I pointed my finger right at him and said, "Save it for the Pulpit, Dude!"  Trying to push his religion on me.  Preachy homeless guy.

Thought #2
I just thought it was bad enough that he considered me an "Infidel".  The guy was blowing up buildings and wreaking carnage.  But now, NOW.  I'm not green enough.  Yes, Osama Bin Laden has gone all "Greener Than Thou" on me.  After I read that he hates us for causing climate change, I had to look myself in the mirror and admit that I, Lucinda, am a polluting infidel.  It doesn't get much worse folks.