This past weekend was full of activity but none of it related to our anniversary. A lot of things got done, but it was mostly dents in larger issues. Usually, the garden is a priority, but not this year. Only last night did I plant some tomato seedlings and lady bell peppers. This morning, only three disturbances were noted. A creature pulled up one tomato, one pepper, and pawed through the row of bean seeds. Every year, it’s a fight with critters and those hideous, slimy slugs.
The fallen tree was dissected and disappeared; now we wait on estimates. One company arrived this morning and took notes. I’m not sure if we’re getting more soon. Life goes on while we wait, life changes on rainy days when we go to the SPCA…
She is not an anniversary present as she came home the weekend before, but now she’s here and learning how to preform bodily functions outside. Meet our Janus-faced puppy who is not the mellowed out older dog we went in looking for, but, hey, a puppy’s exuberance at seeing you walk into a room is undeniably pull-you-into-the-moment magical.
Also magical – this white room.
As you can imagine, it took some work and the upkeep may involve a Husband repellent force field, but it’s like sitting in a tree house. Once we get screens for the windows, it will feel like it, too.
I’d love to chat with you more about nuance and not writing, hands as measuring cups, the buzz of no-mow May, and the synchronicity of the lawnmower’s wheel breaking the day before it ends, but there’s an endless list of tasks to complete. I’m keeping an eye out for flowers in bloom and stopping to watch butterflies. May you find time to do the same. And tip your servers well if you venture out to eat at Steelbound Brewery in Springville. Cheers!
I’ve been in the garden early this year. Today, the 29th of April as I write, Husband was able to fix the push mower’s cable and start it up. He mowed the small triangle patch near the road. The milkweed grows on one end. We checked; it hasn’t come up as of yet. When it does, we’ll fence it off.
The corner neighbors are on at least their second mow; we’re trying the “tickle method” of gardening this year. I have found great satisfaction in using the new claw tool to pull out roots that measure two feet or more. If they were deeper, I might resort to a pickax and use it as a Moby Dick metaphor in an essay, but I start those, let them peter out, stop writing my truth by starting to consider an audience. So how are you? Have you pulled weeds recently? Gotten dirt under your fingernails?
Another reason my essays wait to be written is because things come up – or in this instance, down. I went shopping on Friday with goals: Barnes and Noble to buy Alice Hoffman’s “Practical Magic” and cancel my “new and improved” membership before it began. Wegman’s for food, to check certain garden centers for flowers and Roma tomato plants, stop in at the leather shop. I did those things and came home to this:
It’s 7 feet 8 inches around to the left, 5 ft. 10 near the eye.
The way it came down was miraculous. The damage was limited. Since it happened when we were not here, we wonder if Whitney – a woodworker even in another realm – guided it down. We thank all the friends, relatives, spirits and deities involved in this predicament which isn’t exactly the greatest news, but also not the worst.
Reality has jarringly changed though. There’s a dragon eye staring at me as I prepare food in the kitchen. It distracts every time I see it. I sometimes thought spider webs would be reminders to get back to work on the Lettie novel. Before I left that afternoon, I was thinking of giving up on the current thing I’ve been working on. A reptilian tree knot stares at me in repudiation or encouragement – I can’t decide which and it never blinks as a tell, so I flounder for an answer.
What difference does what – or if – I write matter? At the end of the world or one’s life, is it more important to have read and learned, or produced? Are a million flashes the equivalent of one novel or three? If a poem by a no-name goes viral, does it cheapen an MFA degree? At what point do you write to the New Yorker inquiring about a story you sent in at the end of November? Yes, the auto-response says declare it dead after 90 days, but according to Duotrope it has taken longer. What is the point of the dream of being a writer if you don’t kid yourself into thinking fairy tales can come true and sometimes its in the form of how cottonwoods fall down with the maple tree working in tandem with the other smaller trees and roots to soften the blow to the roof which is a real life happily ever after story and that happened, so why not my story appearing in The New Yorker?
I blinked, losing the staring contest, but not the argument. So say I.
I’m on the cusp of having a print publication being launched soon and I am thrilled to be a part of The Jarnal. (Go to this link to listen to me read “The Thinnest of Veneers” which appeared in Milk Candy Review. MANY thanks to Jim Tuttle for doing an amazing job with the audio!)) And surprise of all surprises – I have an acceptance for a poem – during poetry month, which is quite cool. Thank you to Donnie Secreast & Adam Gnuse at Artemis Journal for accepting “The Rushed Meditation”
~ It’s a drizzly Sunday here and the roof isn’t leaking. The tree services have arrived and given us quotes. We’re off to the world of dealing with an insurance company and contractors. I should write a story where the experience is quick and painless and people smile the whole time work is being done on a house. It’d be fiction, of course. I haven’t read many people being happy about renovations and it’ll be years before it will be funny, or maybe that’s just my way of avoiding another novel being written in vain, one where butterflies turn into whales and burn up while sailing into the sun.
Cheers and Salute. Thanks for stopping by and for the read
On the recent nights of tolerable temps, winter damage is assessed while admiring the early flowers. The winds have been fancy terrible, and we’re thanking the ghost of Whitney that the damage was minimal. A huge chunk fell near the kitchen door, a pine cracked while the vehicle it would have hit wasn’t there. Once the worst was over, the blue ladder on the stack under the windows flipped over which is a puzzlement since there was no reason for it to and the ones beneath are not askew. Since it was his ladder, we attribute those nice saves to him and offer a clamor of applause. Thank you Whitney
Many congrats and thanks to Andrew Stancek. He’s written a lovely book which I intend to post about on Goodreads when I finish it. (Reviews are hard to write because they bring up anxiety not only from school but from the psycho hippo ballerina episode of Gilmore Girls.)
I’m still on pace with my submission total goals. Sending packets of five poems to four places that take over a year for the average response according to Duotrope does a lot of the heavy lifting for keeping 25 things out at all times. And soon, I’m freaking going see my story in print! Many thanks to Jim Tuttle for recording my micro that will be included in the roll out to The Jarnal. Some of you may even get a copy though I am behind on birthday cards and the newborn I bought a book for will probably be walking soon.
What I have been working on is the first few pages of new thing in order to enter competitions calling for the first 5000 words. I entered the two that close on the 31st of March and the 1st of April respectively. I believe the next one closes on the 6th of April which gives me plenty of time to polish the called for first 40 to 50 pages. The pages are written, but they do not shine like the first 20. The last call I’m interested in answering asks for the first 1250 words and those are honed so well, I’m happy to call them mine. I even have a synopsis done proving once again that every book I write is written a different way.
I’m sad to report that the whole mind/body/work output seems to be tied together. This morning I let Jillian Michaels torture me, then I did some ab work. Even as I was in the shower reminding myself that I could take today off and pull away from the story for a while, I came up with clever scenes.
Still, I’ll persist in this quest for rest. I’ve intentionally structured things to ease my stress and today’s dinner is warm-ups that will take 5 minutes. The laundry is done, so are the dishes. The floors are tolerable – new cat sheds more than I’m used to – so I have had to adjust to seeing some fur, otherwise I’d go mad hunting down and vacuuming up every tuft. Perhaps I’ll read, or stare at the wall, but it will start soon, and include this:
This tiny window of ease won’t last of course, and that’s okay because neither do the spring flowers, so I might as well enjoy them before the winter slinks back to cover them.
Thank you for stopping by and for the read. It is appreciated.
On the 15th of February, I took a walk up the hill. The following day, I toured the beach in this picture. No snow either day. Balmy.
Today, grey cat woke me early. The trash can was knocked over and the recycling was scattered. I stopped at the end of the driveway to pick up what I could before the truck – at the crest of the hill – arrived. The man on the back mentioned it had been windy, and we waved as he pulled away. I picked up the rest of the farther flung cans, then drove to the post office with wet feet because I wore shoes to “pop into the post office” not chase yogurt cups through the wet yard. This is weather that tries a person’s soul.
Everything has been trying recently.
On the walk of the 15th, I witnessed the drama of a dead pine tree close up and raw. Most February’s are too cold or snowy to consider such a walk and that’s the way it should be, I think, to have spring buds surrounding you when you encounter dead friends.
Or to temper your anger upon finding evidence of a two-story building on our neighbor’s lot that is highly unlikely to have been issued a permit to be built. Why would they bother when “no one” can see it. What do they care about drainage issues or killing an animal’s habitat?
Ah well, at least – at this second in time – there is fruit.
Thank you if you went and read my story in Fictive Dream this month. Thank you for stopping by and for reading this, too.
What do you do when your goals conflict? You’ve asked yourself that before, haven’t you? As an activist, artist, acrobat, airplane designer, or by whatever term you use to describe yourself. (Human being the all-encompassing reality, but a) how generic and b) I shan’t digress…)
My 1st world, white woman problem is that I told myself and others that my goal this year was to have 25 submissions out at all times. As of the most recent, gorgeous, informative Sunday morning, I was down to seventeen. Twenty if I count the In-Progress or Received entries on Submittable, one of which will soon turn 7 years old. It’s getting a cake this year. I’ve already brought unicorn ear and horn birthday candles and a tub of chocolate frosting for the big day.
So, I have failed with that goal before the month is out. Part of me knows I can get right on that; sending out roughly ten submissions is not exactly easy, but it is doable. I scratch my ear and reason that if I averaged submissions like banks averaged daily balances, I’m probably still at 25 a day, but my calculator doesn’t know how to do that kind of math.
Inspired by Rory of Gilmore Girls which I’m binge watching again, I made a list. A mental one. (I wanted to go with “I went mental …on a list” but it isn’t that funny, I mean, it’s so unfunny, I’m explaining the idea of the unfunny joke I didn’t even tell – it’s that bad. It reminds me of the little skit Paris Geller the guy she ended up marrying did when they switched editorships.) (I’m not that far in the series yet, but it’s close.)
It wasn’t a list either, more an assessment of desires and priorities. Thoughtful reflection, long walks in the woods, meaningful deliberation. Psyche! I watched some TV and realized it didn’t matter if I did or did not have (or keep) 25 things out. If all my ready pieces were accepted at once then I’d be in a pickle, wouldn’t I? Yes, I do know that is called rationalization and I mixed it with a little wishful thinking, but you know what? I have had two acceptances this year already and I hope you’re half as excited as I am!
The wonderful, gracious, amazing Laura Black accepted one of my pieces forFictive Dream’s Flash Fiction February! It will go live on Saturday 4 February 2023 so check it out – as well as the rest of the month’s posts – some of the most interesting things I read all year are in this series. Be sure to especially check out Nina Fosati’s piece which comes out on the 24th!
On top of that, the amazing, gracious, wonderful Tara Campbell and Michael B. Tager of Mason Jar Press have also accepted a piece of mine. The original story was written back in ancient times and was titled “Two Wrens for a Farthing,” then “What Isn’t Silk” – which I kept when I sent it out recently. I reworked that thing laboriously, had the fantastic Nina Fosati look it over for nits, retitled it and sent it the first day of the submission window for The Jarnal. I am seriously thrilled it was accepted – and the suggested edits were minimal. (Such relief and happiness!) Now, secretly, I jump up and down every so often when I remember I’m going to be in this print anthology! I still can’t believe it. Occasionally, I squeal. It scares one cat, concerns the other. The Jarnal III : Transitions, edited by Tara Campbell with managing editor Michael B. Tager will be out in May.
So, I’ve got that going for me, holding up that rationalization, which led to another where I downgraded the goal into an aspiration; I do want to get back to it, and will, but right now, well… I’m working on a novel.
Do you know how loathe I am to speak such a thing – even if it’s only in my head, or now, on a screen? Lucy. Charlie Brown. Football. Here I go again, and I’m not sure I want to, but – knock on wood – so far it seems okay and therefore I’m full of doubt. What ifs cling to every dust mote in my undusted house. Breakfast dishes leer. If I clean the house my anxiety will go away, but perhaps that’s where a lot of stories go, dumped out in mop water, flushed down a tidy bowl.
In 22 days, I’ve written 26,000 words. Three betas test drove the first 20 pages and said, “Keep going.” (I went to that file to count days and it took all my strength to not to open it anew.) So, like Rory to Yale, I’m going somewhere I was not headed, though I was headed there all along.
As I mentioned in a cover letter recently, my experiment in being kinder to myself since November (if I miss deadlines or don’t bake well enough, etc.) has resulted in a lot of things being accomplished and in less time than I would have expected. I made a ton of baked goods this year and the Christmas cards went out in time-ish. My kitchen drawers are sorted. I’ve been editing and reading. I’m revamping my submitting system. I don’t know if this level of productivity will be maintained, but so far, I’m pleased.
I hope the holidays were great for you. There were several pivots here. While the blizzard ravaged Cheektowaga and Buffalo, here by the creek, we were fine. Six to ten inches of snow. We had no plans to travel, had previously stocked up for the grazing holiday, and so were grateful to find we didn’t need to leave the house for 5 days. Yes, parts were tense. That many days together nonstop is a lot when you’re both used to different routines. A few times, we all wanted to disappear into the gift paper but only one of us managed to camouflage.
Another pivot was to the past, but very much the present, with a visit by Moe-sippy – excuse me if I did not spell that right – a tall guitar man from Husband’s childhood that stuck. He’d written two new songs – one reggae, one rap. Not only did I get to hear his work in progress, but he’d brought a notebook he wrote when he was 17. Coming-of-age questions remain the same throughout the decades; I was reminded of having similar ones when I, too, left home at 17 and found out the world can be an awful place. But there are friends there, too, and possibly multiverses where you know them. (If you haven’t seen Everything, Everywhere, All At Once yet, you must.)
I’d expected to have written and posted something earlier this week, but here we are on New Year’s Eve. Soon I’ll be lighting a bayberry candle and choosing something to watch before the midnight countdown coverage. Box sets of Star Trek: The Next Generation and The Waltons arrived from the North Pole this year. I’ve lined up some movies mentioned in the chat of the latest Kathy Fish flash workshop by other amazing writers. Moe-sippy reiterated The Curious Case of Benjamin Button as a choice, I nattered on about The Prestige to him. The Manchurian Candidate and the remake came up; same with Total Recall. The Big Chill, and Easy Rider, too. So many movies to study, so many calls for work closing, so many deep breathes to take while remembering we’re all in this together.
I am happy to find you’ve read this far so I can wish you the best in the new year. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!
Ever get to the point of wondering how many more bouts to go? How many times have I freaked and feared a creek after a rainstorm? How many nights did I go to bed with heavier fears as a child? It’s a grey day and the goldenrod shawl with white daisies over my shoulders barely puts a cheerful dent in the grey shirt I’m wearing. It is a glum-dreary Wednesday and though I put in 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo to officially “win,” it is not a book, and the end of this dedicated writing marathon is hitting especially hard. Does anything ever get easier?
A magic eight-ball somewhere answers, “Check again later.”
Tomorrow officially begins the old holiday scrimmage to do a million things in 24 days and hope I don’t forget to offer holiday cheer to someone. Fun! What will help, what has been helping, is reading the tenets, thoughts, and truisms I’ve written out on a page I see every day. Two of the most helpful have been, “Do what is necessary, then what is possible, and soon you will be doing the impossible,” and “If being mean to yourself worked, you’d be thin and rich. Try loving yourself instead.” The first one is especially helpful in clumps and spirals of self-doubt when I’m faced with an overlong list, and in December, there are many. Triaging my needs over my wants ends up saving time, too.
For Thanksgiving, I realized I didn’t “need” to make pie crust when I had premade in the freezer. I didn’t “need” to set a table properly, but I wanted to and it all worked out to look like this.
And talk about gratitude this year! I want to cry from the beauty of it all. Nina Fosati, Gloria Berlinghoff, Susan Tepper, Natalie Condor-Smith, Joni Kalinowski – all of you have touched me deeply with your kindness this month. I’m inept in expressing the gratefulness I feel for those kind words and gestures recently. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
And thank you for stopping by and for the read! I’m off to write the holiday letter, address envelopes, and make those cookies. Maybe I’ll even submit some work, too. Take care of you!
The hills are alive with red around here – or at least the leaves that insist to my senses to pay attention to them are the red oaks, sumacs, parts of the sweet gum, those little perfectly manicured bushes I drive by that beam. I swear some of them are full of pride, which is weird to think about, a bush with vanity, but it is a living thing. Unfurling leaves and petals in the spring are a vigorous horror fest of ugly green. Hostas are particularly creepy, reaching up to the sky like fingers from that hand thrust from the grave in Stephen King’s “Carrie.” Their alien, emerging shape insisting on an audience, too, so maybe it isn’t vanity but me assigning moral attributes and failings to things rarely thought of as having such things because I’m bored.
And I’m not bored, but avoiding some work. Mostly cleaning. Some plotting, some renaming, some rereading, some more horror films watched and then I think I’ll be ready for November. I’m considering going back to the “happy writing day board.” It was a paper calendar on the refrigerator where I wrote my word count each day. Stamps were put on the days I made my count or went over 1667 words. One time it was stickers. Husband could also look at it and praise or ask jokingly if he needed to put a lock on the library door because I was short. I don’t remember where or when (yes I do, part of the exercise/calorie counting insanity I am still prone to participate in because it is another control issue I rarely own up to) I learned that about myself – that visuals help with a goal. Yes, say it with me now, I am going to win NaNoWriMo. I have an “it” which rhymes with bit and that’s just the start of the story.
Another thing I know is that I should never talk about “it,” just write it, but it isn’t November and I crave that structure because it’s worked before so I’m here, binging on movies. It’s nearly Halloween so the basis for selection is “Does it sound scary?” and to me, “Wicker Park” sounded scary. It is not. It’s odd and I’ll need to watch it again – and I will because it’s shot in Chicago and you can tell that it is real snow in some of those shots. The Elisabeth Moss “Invisible Man” is great and lovely but I couldn’t help remembering “Sleeping with the Enemy” as I watched it. “The Hollow Man” remains 6 degrees of stupid. “What Lies Beneath” – plenty of scares, but so little sense. Who brings up a box thrown in the lake back to the house, where the potential killer is, to open it when you had the key and could have done it on the dock? And omg the creep factor of Harrison Ford and Michelle Pfeiffer to begin with, and then he says the line about her daughter and…just…I…was struck wordlessly gross. “Ghost Story” was bad, “A Quiet Place,” eh, and the standards of “Hocus Pocus,” “The Addams Family,” and “Beetlejuice” hold up. I don’t know what I’ll watch tonight, but probably two movies I’ve not watched before.
I’ve started quite a lot of essays spinning off the first one currently called, “A Taste of the Good Stuff.” For some reason, I’ve sent it off to what I know are not faceless editors, but there is still a distance. Should it ever get published, I’m not sure I want to share it with friends unless I regain some weight. It felt exactly like the slide down the scale opened up a view of another time I was not expecting to visit. And it was a rotten thing and I wrote about it. I know part of it wasn’t my fault, but part of it was. A choice I made because I thought I had to and now I wonder why. I don’t like writing cnf since it exposes me harshly – at least in my own mind. It shows I’m such a moronic person, full of vanity and pride so afraid of what others would think of me, I want to turn into a tree. Or a bush that resembles a warm flame when its leaves turn. Better yet, a hosta planted on a dark hillside under tamaracks and walnut trees.
~~*~~
Until we meet again, I wish you good health and joy. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!
Exhausted by our weekend chore list before it has even been written, I walked out to the overflow woodpile for the picture before sitting down to write this. Inspired, I know. There are pictures on the camera of a tree that was obliterated by lightening. Last Monday I’d heard the tremendous crack and waited, but nothing fell and the electric stayed on. After our neighbor returned from a trip, he found parts of an 80-foot pine on his hill. Some chunks were longer and thicker than humans, strewn all over up there. Something ripped through a piece of ¾ inch plywood. I did consider downloading the pictures I took up there when he showed us, but the dishes needed to be done.
Not much later, I noticed the fluorescent orange sky, finished up, and stepped outside. I leaned back against the church door and took in the pleasant crisp air, the beauty, and I wept with gratitude instead of running for my phone or the camera. It’s weird to be swept up by natural beauty in that it isn’t weird at all.
The furniture is arranged in an unusual pattern and a generalized straightening up is in progress. Somewhere I started an essay about how reading “How to Keep House While Drowning” by K C Davis awakened other self-help books I’ve read about tidying and organized and unleashed a monster of neat in me, but I’ve been too busy rearranging Husband’s workshop to finish it. I did finish Sheila Heiti’s, “How Should a Person Be?” but it took forever because I loved it and did not want it to end. I’m currently enjoying Omolola Ijeoma Ogunyemi’s, “Jollof Rice and Other Revolutions.”
The month has been filled with the normal abundance of things to do before winter as well as some much needed in person visits. Thank you all who I’ve seen and congrats to Kim Chinquee on her forthcoming book, Pipette. Online, I attended a reading and this Christmas gift from Nephew in Oregon (Thank you Michael!) has been deemed the bearer of workshop notes and exercises. The first entry is from Kathy Fish’s 3 in 90.
I was pleased to have a story of mine make the long list in Pigeon Review’s contest, but that’s as far as it went. Once the house is a bit more under control, I plan to tweak it with lines I’ve thought of since the last rewrite. And rewriting might be what I do forever because I can’t figure out a frame for another novel nor a reason to write one what with the way the world is falling apart at the seams. How else do you explain my face on local TV for no other reason than showing up at a meeting? And yes, I do have that segment DVRed and plan to transfer it to a jpeg to post online but, you know, time…
I was asked to look over a story for someone and they also sought writing advice to follow. I gave him the usual places to look:
‘Immediate Fiction” by Jerry Cleaver
“The Art of Fiction” by John Gardner
“Writing Down to the Bones” by Natalie Goldberg
“Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott
I have many others, but it’s these four that I gravitate to time and again. I also suggested picking up any of the “Best ______ of the Year.” Myself, I’ve delved into the angry-yelly, no nonsense, shut up and write book “Robert’s Rules of Writing,” by Robert Masello. Maybe it will spark something other than the urge to pick up a different book.
Well, it’s September’s end tonight. I have a fire to tend to, beasts to pick up after, and a chore list to construct. I hope you are well. I hope you are safe. Thank you for stopping by and for the read.
Are you a bit edgy, excited but apprehensive, feeling yourself wanting to stand tall and say, “Let’s do this.” If so, it may be your season change alert signal going off. Loud little sucker, isn’t it?
Every year I replenish my notebooks and consider adding new desk supplies to my already adequate supply. It takes a long time to realize it isn’t the cost of the equipment, but the dedication to use that should weigh on investments. I have enough beautiful, lush, gorgeous to touch notebooks I never write in – the 70 page college rule notebooks are my go to.
As I sit here in my extremely stripped down office space, I consider the tweaks I want to make for my comfort – and pet interference reduction capabilities. I don’t recall the impetus for the tear down of all the notes, pictures, postcards that had surrounded me, but the lack of clutter now is noticeable and appreciated. Is it affecting my writing? Perhaps. I recently took an old 1600 word story down to 890 words and sent it out. Before that, I expanded a less than 500 flash into a ten-minute play.
I’m looking around and finding it a bit hard to believe I’m as organized as I am now. I really wanted it to be this way, and I made it come true. It’s teeny tiny moments of forcing myself to stop and appreciate how my hard work has paid off that make me say “Yes, but.” It’s the same feeling when I’ve written, published, or won something. “Yes, but.” It’s hard to be alive when nothing is good enough.
No matter. We’re all on our own journeys and apparently this is mine. I meant to take more pictures, but I did the whole scrape, scrub, scour, and paint with the beautiful parlor stove…
… and Husband assembled it in time for our shindig.
Thank you amazing people for stopping by. It made my whole soul happy to share the evening with you…
Adding to the abundance of those good things – my critique group exchanged emails this morning. So, as I’m saying goodbye to August, I want you to know that you are pretty great as is. Thank you for stopping by and for the read! You are awesome and you know it. Ciao!
T. L. Sherwood 
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