For better or worse, I get a head start on the rest of America regarding a traumatic event that happened ten years ago.
I don't know when it started, just like we don't know when the seed was planted for the horrible events of September 11. I know that in late July to early August, I started feeling poorly. After a beach vacation in which I slept on a pull-out couch, I thought my subsequent back pain was easily explained. On August 11, when I planned to drive to Nashville to see a Titans preseason game, I was in bed with a fever, barely able to move. There was pain in my back. There was pain in my left leg. I started having trouble breathing. I was 27 years old, for all intents and purposes feeling as immortal as most 27-year-olds, and 72 hours later my entire body shut down.
All I remember of August 14 is pushing myself to drive to work. An hour into my day, I called my contracting agency, told them to put me on short-term disability, and that's it. I do not remember anything else until September.
I drove home that day, in my teal Ford Escort GT that would be my last manual transmission car, and to that point, my last teal one. I got home to the condo that I shared with my roommate Carol. I went to bed, and in bed I remained until my girlfriend stopped by that evening. She took me to the Emory Hospital emergency room and had the unenviable task of calling my parents and telling them that their son was in critical condition and they didn't know what was wrong with him.
I am 37 years old today. I no longer remember what it's like to feel anything in the back of my left leg, a lingering effect of the back surgery I had to remove the abscess full of Staphylococcus. The numb part of my body is like the numb part of my memory. There are second-hand accounts, but the girlfriend and the roommate are out of my life. That's one of the toughest issues with my trauma. Everyone's September 11 trauma is based on what was witnessed and experienced. I don't have any memories to attach to this.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Bucket List continued
See my latest Ask Your Fantasy Football Expert blog post at my other blog home, Zach on Sports.
I feel a Bucket List Tune coming on..."Where did you go oh Bucket List, we had such high hopes for you and you just left, weft weft weft..."
What happened to the June Bucket List? Well, one of the smartest decisions we made regarding the Bucket List was to make it a summer Bucket List, not just for one month. It's not dead yet.
Over the past weekend we did two BL-worthy events. The first lasted an entire weekend and the other was over in about an hour. We visited Lake Sinclair in East Georgia and saw Flannery O'Connor's house.
The lake trip was our substitute for an annual beach trip we usually take with a couple I'll call the Crunks. The trip was canceled since we're still in the new home phase of our finances and Mr. Crunk is a teacher who thought he was going to lose his job. He did not. Mrs. Crunk's family owns a lake house so we got it for a weekend. It was my first four-day weekend of the year that didn't involve me laying on the couch, sick.
The drive to the house was the adventure. It was 130 miles, give or take, that took us nearly 2.5 hours. The country roads at the end were what slowed us down, including one shortcut the wife suggested that took us down an unpaved dirt road. I white-knuckled it for a few miles while she said things like "cute ponies". We were paranoid that we'd miss our last opportunity to order fried chicken out of a gas station, so we stopped about 30 miles short of our destination to load up.
When you finally make it to the lake, proof that you're in a small town is that instead of there being street signs, there's a list of the names of the families that live on that street.
It was the middle of the afternoon before I finally made it down the steep hill to the dock. The spot is pristine. If you want to leave the city, come here. You hear nothing but nature and float. The dock was at the corner of a cove so there was little traffic.
What on earth did we do for those three days? We sat under my friend's Chicago Bears tent. We did not secure the tent on the first evening and it ended up in the lake. We got it out but the supports were bent so we duct-taped it and hoped that it wouldn't fall apart. It survived, although another storm on the final evening put the contraption in the drink for good. I rediscovered that swimming is very hard. We went to dinner with Mrs. Funk's father and arrived in a boat. There's something about docking a boat and going to eat in a restaurant. For the most part, I sat in a chair and read books or listened to podcasts. In the evenings we grilled out and continued reading books.
On the way home, Mrs. Blogger aka the wifey wanted to stop at nearby Milledgeville to see Flannery O'Connor's farm. I have not read a word of O'Connor's work, although I put two of her works on hold at the library. Hey, she's dead. She doesn't need the money. O'Connor had Lupus so she had to live on the first floor while she wrote. It's a historical site but really it's a run-down old farm. There are dozens like it in the area, I'm sure. Her bedroom was roped off, but the guide quickly told us that her actual typewriter had been donated to a local college and what we saw was a replica at best.
The selling point of the trip were the peacocks. I know, peacocks? We visited the Ernest Hemingway house in Key West years ago and what I remember were the six-toed cats that were everywhere. We went out back and saw the peacocks. Birds are the opposite of humans, in that the males are generally dressed up and preening while the females are somewhat plain. The male was a work of art, all blue breast with the furled tail twice as long as the rest of the body. He strutted for us a bit but did not unfurl the tail. The peahens for the most part sat. They were brown with some green. Technically they're all peafowls, but peacock is the more impressive term.
We stopped at a local BBQ joint and I had one of my favorite treats, a Dr Pepper in a bottle. I almost always drink Diet now but the stuff in a bottle is the best. The sauce was quite full of vinegar and had the right amount of bite.
We made it home and the weekend was over. The highlight was when we took the paddleboat out on the second night, wheeled out to the edge of the cove, and watched the end of the sunset. I'm recharged, or better be since I'm going to work shortly in either case.
I feel a Bucket List Tune coming on..."Where did you go oh Bucket List, we had such high hopes for you and you just left, weft weft weft..."
What happened to the June Bucket List? Well, one of the smartest decisions we made regarding the Bucket List was to make it a summer Bucket List, not just for one month. It's not dead yet.
Over the past weekend we did two BL-worthy events. The first lasted an entire weekend and the other was over in about an hour. We visited Lake Sinclair in East Georgia and saw Flannery O'Connor's house.
The lake trip was our substitute for an annual beach trip we usually take with a couple I'll call the Crunks. The trip was canceled since we're still in the new home phase of our finances and Mr. Crunk is a teacher who thought he was going to lose his job. He did not. Mrs. Crunk's family owns a lake house so we got it for a weekend. It was my first four-day weekend of the year that didn't involve me laying on the couch, sick.
The drive to the house was the adventure. It was 130 miles, give or take, that took us nearly 2.5 hours. The country roads at the end were what slowed us down, including one shortcut the wife suggested that took us down an unpaved dirt road. I white-knuckled it for a few miles while she said things like "cute ponies". We were paranoid that we'd miss our last opportunity to order fried chicken out of a gas station, so we stopped about 30 miles short of our destination to load up.
When you finally make it to the lake, proof that you're in a small town is that instead of there being street signs, there's a list of the names of the families that live on that street.
It was the middle of the afternoon before I finally made it down the steep hill to the dock. The spot is pristine. If you want to leave the city, come here. You hear nothing but nature and float. The dock was at the corner of a cove so there was little traffic.
What on earth did we do for those three days? We sat under my friend's Chicago Bears tent. We did not secure the tent on the first evening and it ended up in the lake. We got it out but the supports were bent so we duct-taped it and hoped that it wouldn't fall apart. It survived, although another storm on the final evening put the contraption in the drink for good. I rediscovered that swimming is very hard. We went to dinner with Mrs. Funk's father and arrived in a boat. There's something about docking a boat and going to eat in a restaurant. For the most part, I sat in a chair and read books or listened to podcasts. In the evenings we grilled out and continued reading books.
On the way home, Mrs. Blogger aka the wifey wanted to stop at nearby Milledgeville to see Flannery O'Connor's farm. I have not read a word of O'Connor's work, although I put two of her works on hold at the library. Hey, she's dead. She doesn't need the money. O'Connor had Lupus so she had to live on the first floor while she wrote. It's a historical site but really it's a run-down old farm. There are dozens like it in the area, I'm sure. Her bedroom was roped off, but the guide quickly told us that her actual typewriter had been donated to a local college and what we saw was a replica at best.
The selling point of the trip were the peacocks. I know, peacocks? We visited the Ernest Hemingway house in Key West years ago and what I remember were the six-toed cats that were everywhere. We went out back and saw the peacocks. Birds are the opposite of humans, in that the males are generally dressed up and preening while the females are somewhat plain. The male was a work of art, all blue breast with the furled tail twice as long as the rest of the body. He strutted for us a bit but did not unfurl the tail. The peahens for the most part sat. They were brown with some green. Technically they're all peafowls, but peacock is the more impressive term.
We stopped at a local BBQ joint and I had one of my favorite treats, a Dr Pepper in a bottle. I almost always drink Diet now but the stuff in a bottle is the best. The sauce was quite full of vinegar and had the right amount of bite.
We made it home and the weekend was over. The highlight was when we took the paddleboat out on the second night, wheeled out to the edge of the cove, and watched the end of the sunset. I'm recharged, or better be since I'm going to work shortly in either case.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
David Tyree Drops This One and The Good News
Here's my disclaimer. All comments are my opinions, and therefore subject to as much second-guessing and ridicule as the man I will focus on in today's blog post. If you want good news only, click here.
Let me get this straight. David Tyree, Super Bowl hero of the New York Giants two years ago who made the famous "Helmet Catch" that helped defeat the New England Patriots, said that he would trade his Super Bowl ring for one thing. That one thing was that the law in the New York legislature giving gay couples the right to marry would not pass.
Any time one minority goes after another minority, it makes me think of an abused child. Less than two generations ago, the same crowd protesting with Tyree against gay marriage would have been protesting against marriage between different races. Tyree believes that God decreed that marriage is between a man and a woman. Let's examine that religion, shall we? That's the same religion that gave the rubber stamp to slavery. Whose descendants were slaves? And guess which church they were allowed to attend as their one so-called freedom? Yep, it's the Christian church, the same church that's a backbone of African-American society.
Tyree called passing of gay marriage to be a "softening of the backbone of society". Marriage really strengthened the backbones of his former teammates Michael Strahan and Tiki Barber, didn't it? In case you didn't know, both Strahan and Barber got divorced after having relations with women outside of their marriage. Strahan came out in favor of the law giving gays equal marriage rights, by the way.
Any time you hear hate language, and that's what this is, go ahead and transfer that language to African-Americans, or Jews, or what the heck, Christians. If there were attempts to pass laws saying that these groups deserved the same rights as everyone else, and there were protests, that sounds pretty crazy, doesn't it?
Denying any group equal rights is wrong. Let's not be idiots and say that gay marriage is going to lead to people wanting to marry their pets or attempt to legalize sexual relations between adults and children. This is a relationship between two people in love, and it is a legal right to make medical decisions and take care of one's family. To be against that is to be against love and life.
It's pretty awesome that when I read an article on a site called Christianpost.com about the gay marriage bill, I saw an ad pop up featuring Neil Patrick Harris. Psst, you guys already lost. No, really, David Tyree getting 60,000 signatures against gay marriage is like me getting 60,000 signatures declaring that the Titans won Super Bowl 34.
The implication of the article is that since more people are protesting the law than supporting it, that it should not pass. A long time ago, a majority of Americans supported slavery. In the 60s, a majority of Americans were against the Civil Rights legislation. Our laws are not based on what the majority of people think or believe. Our laws are based, at least we hope they are, on what's right and just for all Americans.
An Atheist Goes to Church (the good news section)
In Bend, Oregon, two churches were recently vandalized by punk kids who "tagged" the churches with messages that included "Praise the FSM". No, this isn't the good news part. The FSM refers to the Flying Spaghetti Monster. FSM was created, ironically enough, in response to a Kansas school board attempt to teach Intelligent Design in the classroom. Here's the letter that started the FSM phenomenon.
Let's get back to the main point of the story. In short, it's not cool to vandalize a church for any reason. Hemant Mehta, otherwise known as The Friendly Atheist, immediately went to work, getting the word out and raising more than $2,000 to help pay for the damages. The church turned down the money, saying that they had everything they needed, but the point had been made. The money went to Foundation Beyond Belief, a nondenominational charitable organization that's based out of Atlanta. A man representing a belief in no God had attempted to help a house of God.
Let me get this straight. David Tyree, Super Bowl hero of the New York Giants two years ago who made the famous "Helmet Catch" that helped defeat the New England Patriots, said that he would trade his Super Bowl ring for one thing. That one thing was that the law in the New York legislature giving gay couples the right to marry would not pass.
Any time one minority goes after another minority, it makes me think of an abused child. Less than two generations ago, the same crowd protesting with Tyree against gay marriage would have been protesting against marriage between different races. Tyree believes that God decreed that marriage is between a man and a woman. Let's examine that religion, shall we? That's the same religion that gave the rubber stamp to slavery. Whose descendants were slaves? And guess which church they were allowed to attend as their one so-called freedom? Yep, it's the Christian church, the same church that's a backbone of African-American society.
Tyree called passing of gay marriage to be a "softening of the backbone of society". Marriage really strengthened the backbones of his former teammates Michael Strahan and Tiki Barber, didn't it? In case you didn't know, both Strahan and Barber got divorced after having relations with women outside of their marriage. Strahan came out in favor of the law giving gays equal marriage rights, by the way.
Any time you hear hate language, and that's what this is, go ahead and transfer that language to African-Americans, or Jews, or what the heck, Christians. If there were attempts to pass laws saying that these groups deserved the same rights as everyone else, and there were protests, that sounds pretty crazy, doesn't it?
Denying any group equal rights is wrong. Let's not be idiots and say that gay marriage is going to lead to people wanting to marry their pets or attempt to legalize sexual relations between adults and children. This is a relationship between two people in love, and it is a legal right to make medical decisions and take care of one's family. To be against that is to be against love and life.
It's pretty awesome that when I read an article on a site called Christianpost.com about the gay marriage bill, I saw an ad pop up featuring Neil Patrick Harris. Psst, you guys already lost. No, really, David Tyree getting 60,000 signatures against gay marriage is like me getting 60,000 signatures declaring that the Titans won Super Bowl 34.
The implication of the article is that since more people are protesting the law than supporting it, that it should not pass. A long time ago, a majority of Americans supported slavery. In the 60s, a majority of Americans were against the Civil Rights legislation. Our laws are not based on what the majority of people think or believe. Our laws are based, at least we hope they are, on what's right and just for all Americans.
An Atheist Goes to Church (the good news section)
In Bend, Oregon, two churches were recently vandalized by punk kids who "tagged" the churches with messages that included "Praise the FSM". No, this isn't the good news part. The FSM refers to the Flying Spaghetti Monster. FSM was created, ironically enough, in response to a Kansas school board attempt to teach Intelligent Design in the classroom. Here's the letter that started the FSM phenomenon.
Let's get back to the main point of the story. In short, it's not cool to vandalize a church for any reason. Hemant Mehta, otherwise known as The Friendly Atheist, immediately went to work, getting the word out and raising more than $2,000 to help pay for the damages. The church turned down the money, saying that they had everything they needed, but the point had been made. The money went to Foundation Beyond Belief, a nondenominational charitable organization that's based out of Atlanta. A man representing a belief in no God had attempted to help a house of God.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Two Movie Experiences
What do you want from your movie experience? You're probably not the kind of person who sees a movie and afterward says "that was OK" and consider that you got your money's worth.
I saw a couple of movies recently that fit the bill of experience flicks. They are two of the most divergent movies in history. One is The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and the other is Hobo with a Shotgun.
One is a metaphorical title and the other tell you the entire plot and purpose of the movie. Diving Bell is the true story of a 40something editor of French Elle who has a massive stroke. After the stroke he is paralyzed except for one eye. His brain is unaffected. The only way this movie works is if it lets you gain insight into the experience of being completely immobile with a functional brain. It feels like nonstop torture. Through an ingenious system the man is able to communicate with the world, and he dictates a book. I can't say the movie has a happy ending but it is an uplifting story. It makes you feel like a weasel for wanting to take a nap, though.
Hobo with a Shotgun. I saw the title in Atlanta's own Creative Loafing while waiting for a pizza. I knew immediately that this movie was in my wheelhouse. It is based on a trailer that won a contest that earned it a spot before the Grindhouse double feature a few years ago. The makers of the trailer decided to go all the way to make a feature film.
You need a few elements to make a modern exploitation movie. It needs that cheap 70s look and feel. You get that in the opening scene as you see Rutger Hauer riding the rails and landing in Hope Town, otherwise known as Scum Town, with some cut-rate orchestral music in the background. Hauer gives the role enough gravitas while spitting out requisite one-liners like "I'm going to hell, and you're riding shotgun."
This movie makes you feel, although you might feel like vomiting. It's one of the most over-the-top violent movies I've ever seen. If you didn't like the wedding dress scene in Bridesmaids because it was too graphic, imagine approximately 86 minutes of too graphic. The most shocking part is it's made by Canadians. You have to admire the movie's willingness to go all the way to make a point, including ruining the song Disco Inferno for life. Let's face it, the song deserved it.
I rate Hobo above last year's based-on-a-trailer schlockfest Machete. It's still below my favorite exploitation homage, Black Dynamite. Ya dig?
Give me a new cinematic experience over something tired and played out every day.
I saw a couple of movies recently that fit the bill of experience flicks. They are two of the most divergent movies in history. One is The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and the other is Hobo with a Shotgun.
One is a metaphorical title and the other tell you the entire plot and purpose of the movie. Diving Bell is the true story of a 40something editor of French Elle who has a massive stroke. After the stroke he is paralyzed except for one eye. His brain is unaffected. The only way this movie works is if it lets you gain insight into the experience of being completely immobile with a functional brain. It feels like nonstop torture. Through an ingenious system the man is able to communicate with the world, and he dictates a book. I can't say the movie has a happy ending but it is an uplifting story. It makes you feel like a weasel for wanting to take a nap, though.
Hobo with a Shotgun. I saw the title in Atlanta's own Creative Loafing while waiting for a pizza. I knew immediately that this movie was in my wheelhouse. It is based on a trailer that won a contest that earned it a spot before the Grindhouse double feature a few years ago. The makers of the trailer decided to go all the way to make a feature film.
You need a few elements to make a modern exploitation movie. It needs that cheap 70s look and feel. You get that in the opening scene as you see Rutger Hauer riding the rails and landing in Hope Town, otherwise known as Scum Town, with some cut-rate orchestral music in the background. Hauer gives the role enough gravitas while spitting out requisite one-liners like "I'm going to hell, and you're riding shotgun."
This movie makes you feel, although you might feel like vomiting. It's one of the most over-the-top violent movies I've ever seen. If you didn't like the wedding dress scene in Bridesmaids because it was too graphic, imagine approximately 86 minutes of too graphic. The most shocking part is it's made by Canadians. You have to admire the movie's willingness to go all the way to make a point, including ruining the song Disco Inferno for life. Let's face it, the song deserved it.
I rate Hobo above last year's based-on-a-trailer schlockfest Machete. It's still below my favorite exploitation homage, Black Dynamite. Ya dig?
Give me a new cinematic experience over something tired and played out every day.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
The tale of a boy and his zaps
One of the most difficult and seemingly narcissistic things I can do is explain how I feel or react to events in the world. Nearly all the time, the way I feel isn't very different than countless millions of folks, which means it is a good thing for me and my seven readers to not share.
There are times when my experience is outside of the norm. The reason for this is my malfunctioning body.
I'm approaching the ten-year anniversary of a major event in my life. By coincidence, so is everyone else in the world. This is my story, so let me get to it.
Ten years ago, I nearly died. The major event was surgery on my spine to empty and remove an abscess that contained staph. Either the abscess or the surgery did significant damage to my nervous system. I didn't notice it immediately, but one morning I asked a doctor why my left foot felt asleep and didn't wake up. It was nerve damage. The long-term prognosis was that I wasn't likely to get feeling back in the part of my body that runs from the waist down on my left side from my backside to the bottom of my foot. It's not 100% without feeling. It's a strange feeling but anything strange becomes its own kind of normal if you have to live with it.
One side effect of the numbness was that the nerves weren't completely dead. I would get what I call zaps or shocks. It would feel like an electrical shock, pretty high on the pain scale. While it might repeat, the zaps usually were short lived.
Fast forward to last Wednesday night. On the way home I felt the zaps. They were regular and unceasing in my back left thigh. About once a minute I would get one and I'd grit my teeth and my entire body got tense. When I got home I thought a little self-medication in the form of beer and some Ibuprofen would do the trick. They went away for a couple of hours. Right before bed, they returned and I knew I wouldn't sleep if this kept up. I went for the big guns. I have some pain meds from my three Mays in a row of having surgery. I went for half a Vicadin. I'm not sure what it did with the pain, but it put me straight to sleep.
In my dreams I felt the zapping, and pretty soon after that I woke up. It was 2:30 in the morning. For the next two and a half hours I turned over to one side and the other and my back and my stomach and nothing changed. I would wait for the shock of pain to hit me. Finally I got up and went online. Man, a lot of my Twitter followers are up at 5 in the morning. Sitting up did no good. Eventually I tried three Ibuprofen which put the beast to sleep temporarily.
It was Friday morning and I had two hours of sleep. I was clearly up for some work. Neither my regular doctor nor a neurologist I've met before had time in the schedule for me. The zaps have quieted but not completely gone away. I worry because this isn't going to be a good thing to live with long term. My wife worries because there's a huge bulging vein near the site of the zaps.
It's quiet now. I'll enjoy the numbness while I can.
There are times when my experience is outside of the norm. The reason for this is my malfunctioning body.
I'm approaching the ten-year anniversary of a major event in my life. By coincidence, so is everyone else in the world. This is my story, so let me get to it.
Ten years ago, I nearly died. The major event was surgery on my spine to empty and remove an abscess that contained staph. Either the abscess or the surgery did significant damage to my nervous system. I didn't notice it immediately, but one morning I asked a doctor why my left foot felt asleep and didn't wake up. It was nerve damage. The long-term prognosis was that I wasn't likely to get feeling back in the part of my body that runs from the waist down on my left side from my backside to the bottom of my foot. It's not 100% without feeling. It's a strange feeling but anything strange becomes its own kind of normal if you have to live with it.
One side effect of the numbness was that the nerves weren't completely dead. I would get what I call zaps or shocks. It would feel like an electrical shock, pretty high on the pain scale. While it might repeat, the zaps usually were short lived.
Fast forward to last Wednesday night. On the way home I felt the zaps. They were regular and unceasing in my back left thigh. About once a minute I would get one and I'd grit my teeth and my entire body got tense. When I got home I thought a little self-medication in the form of beer and some Ibuprofen would do the trick. They went away for a couple of hours. Right before bed, they returned and I knew I wouldn't sleep if this kept up. I went for the big guns. I have some pain meds from my three Mays in a row of having surgery. I went for half a Vicadin. I'm not sure what it did with the pain, but it put me straight to sleep.
In my dreams I felt the zapping, and pretty soon after that I woke up. It was 2:30 in the morning. For the next two and a half hours I turned over to one side and the other and my back and my stomach and nothing changed. I would wait for the shock of pain to hit me. Finally I got up and went online. Man, a lot of my Twitter followers are up at 5 in the morning. Sitting up did no good. Eventually I tried three Ibuprofen which put the beast to sleep temporarily.
It was Friday morning and I had two hours of sleep. I was clearly up for some work. Neither my regular doctor nor a neurologist I've met before had time in the schedule for me. The zaps have quieted but not completely gone away. I worry because this isn't going to be a good thing to live with long term. My wife worries because there's a huge bulging vein near the site of the zaps.
It's quiet now. I'll enjoy the numbness while I can.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Writin' and editin' makes one want for drinkin'
I took a break from writing this evening by going for a run at sunset. I spent most of the run thinking about writing. When one topic's on your mind all the time, even when you try to push it out, it's still there.
The problem with writing isn't the writing itself. It's knowing when to stop. I have been working on a manuscript for almost nine months. I wrote it in four months and in the past five months I've had a couple of editing passes. While no one knows my stuff like me, when I submitted it to an online critique group through the Atlanta Writer's Club, they found things that I didn't notice. There were minor things like "than" for "as". There were major things like me neglecting to introduce my main character's name in the beginning of chapter one.
I always know when a blog's done because that's when my hands stop moving on the keyboard. In the tricky world of narrative fiction, the task seems to be never ending. Change is almost always necessary but it affects more than one spot in your story. It's layered in many scenes, conversations, and the motivations of characters. It makes a big difference that I have a character who's actually on a Last Will and Testament instead of having to go through court procedures to get that power. It's a huge change to make one character think that a relationship has no future, and decide that instead he has a vision of longevity that he's almost desperate enough to acknowledge. Changes like that can require major rewrites. My patience for such efforts is wearing out.
In the past week I've worked on one major chapter in the book. It's a crucial scene in the manuscript because it's the only extended chapter that has all 12 characters in a room together for an extended period of time. I worry about balance because some characters speak more than others and some have bigger revelations. The key to the scene is that despite their differences, they choose to honor their friend together. It's completely plausible that without this reason for unity, they would continue to drift apart due to the kind of petty issues that occur in any long-term relationship, let alone 12 distinct personalities that exist in a fantasy football league.
After a week, I'm still not sure if it's ready for prime time, or print. What is revealed individually could make a few novels or novellas of their own. To the reader the scenarios might be implausible but so are most of the football finishes in season one of Friday Night Lights and I can overlook that because the show is great, the characters are great, and I'd watch it if the major sporting event was fencing.
What is a writer to do? Continue plugging away. Whether it's a blog or a critical conversation in chapter ten of your 110,000-word manuscript, you have to keep plugging away until it feels right. Next week it might feel wrong but that's next week.
The problem with writing isn't the writing itself. It's knowing when to stop. I have been working on a manuscript for almost nine months. I wrote it in four months and in the past five months I've had a couple of editing passes. While no one knows my stuff like me, when I submitted it to an online critique group through the Atlanta Writer's Club, they found things that I didn't notice. There were minor things like "than" for "as". There were major things like me neglecting to introduce my main character's name in the beginning of chapter one.
I always know when a blog's done because that's when my hands stop moving on the keyboard. In the tricky world of narrative fiction, the task seems to be never ending. Change is almost always necessary but it affects more than one spot in your story. It's layered in many scenes, conversations, and the motivations of characters. It makes a big difference that I have a character who's actually on a Last Will and Testament instead of having to go through court procedures to get that power. It's a huge change to make one character think that a relationship has no future, and decide that instead he has a vision of longevity that he's almost desperate enough to acknowledge. Changes like that can require major rewrites. My patience for such efforts is wearing out.
In the past week I've worked on one major chapter in the book. It's a crucial scene in the manuscript because it's the only extended chapter that has all 12 characters in a room together for an extended period of time. I worry about balance because some characters speak more than others and some have bigger revelations. The key to the scene is that despite their differences, they choose to honor their friend together. It's completely plausible that without this reason for unity, they would continue to drift apart due to the kind of petty issues that occur in any long-term relationship, let alone 12 distinct personalities that exist in a fantasy football league.
After a week, I'm still not sure if it's ready for prime time, or print. What is revealed individually could make a few novels or novellas of their own. To the reader the scenarios might be implausible but so are most of the football finishes in season one of Friday Night Lights and I can overlook that because the show is great, the characters are great, and I'd watch it if the major sporting event was fencing.
What is a writer to do? Continue plugging away. Whether it's a blog or a critical conversation in chapter ten of your 110,000-word manuscript, you have to keep plugging away until it feels right. Next week it might feel wrong but that's next week.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Atlanta Writer's Conference
I spent about 14 hours at the Atlanta Writers Conference over the past two days. In that time I received plenty of advice, helpful and otherwise, from agents and published authors. I also watched a line of writers waiting like a college football player trying out for the NFL.
I don't often feel like I fit in. I lack what some would call a community. This weekend I felt that I fit in. I sat last night with a man of my age trying for the second year in a row to sell his book about two friends and a kidney donation. Today I had lunch with two older writers working on a nonfiction book about parenting. They weren't married but looked a lot like my aunt and uncle who live in Las Vegas. I met a woman on the waiting list to pitch who got to pitch and looked dazed after the experience. I met a Vietnam Veteran, also a published author, who told me what a Marine is all about when I asked.
It was too late for me to sign up for a slot to pitch. In a pitch session you meet an agent or an editor and have ten minutes to sell your story. During my hour-long drive I went over my pitch as many times as I could. Even though I was 20th in the waiting list I stood around all day in the hopes that a slot would open up. One of my friends from an online critique group had volunteered to time the sessions and got an opportunity to pitch. I sat and thought maybe I could slide in after him. Another prospective writer, looking for an agent for his science fiction premise, tried to engage an agent on the way down the escalator. That was it. After hearing of successful pitches on an elevator or in line for the bathroom, every moment was an opportunity.
I witnessed something rare this weekend. I got to see dreams openly expressed. Just about everyone in attendance was looking for a publication deal, or had self-published in hopes of making it to the bit time with validation from an agent. The best they could expect was an invitation to send more pages and the hope for a formal relationship and eventual publication.
It was like a job interview, but it was more than that. Most jobs are not dreams. This was a dream, that in some cases has been decades in the making. It's my dream too. It wasn't my day. Being aware of the possibility might render me unable to sleep until I achieve it. Yeah, I better drink a little wine tonight to help the process.
I don't often feel like I fit in. I lack what some would call a community. This weekend I felt that I fit in. I sat last night with a man of my age trying for the second year in a row to sell his book about two friends and a kidney donation. Today I had lunch with two older writers working on a nonfiction book about parenting. They weren't married but looked a lot like my aunt and uncle who live in Las Vegas. I met a woman on the waiting list to pitch who got to pitch and looked dazed after the experience. I met a Vietnam Veteran, also a published author, who told me what a Marine is all about when I asked.
It was too late for me to sign up for a slot to pitch. In a pitch session you meet an agent or an editor and have ten minutes to sell your story. During my hour-long drive I went over my pitch as many times as I could. Even though I was 20th in the waiting list I stood around all day in the hopes that a slot would open up. One of my friends from an online critique group had volunteered to time the sessions and got an opportunity to pitch. I sat and thought maybe I could slide in after him. Another prospective writer, looking for an agent for his science fiction premise, tried to engage an agent on the way down the escalator. That was it. After hearing of successful pitches on an elevator or in line for the bathroom, every moment was an opportunity.
I witnessed something rare this weekend. I got to see dreams openly expressed. Just about everyone in attendance was looking for a publication deal, or had self-published in hopes of making it to the bit time with validation from an agent. The best they could expect was an invitation to send more pages and the hope for a formal relationship and eventual publication.
It was like a job interview, but it was more than that. Most jobs are not dreams. This was a dream, that in some cases has been decades in the making. It's my dream too. It wasn't my day. Being aware of the possibility might render me unable to sleep until I achieve it. Yeah, I better drink a little wine tonight to help the process.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Pitching my literary tent
It's one day from go time.
I attended one writing conference in my life and I was a passive participant. At the time I didn't have anything to sell, and if I did I wouldn't know the first thing about selling.
Things have changed. At the Atlanta Writer's Conference that starts tomorrow, I get the opportunity to hobnob with fellow writers and a few agents that might have a home for my screed.
I signed up for this event a couple of months ago, which turned out to be a couple months too late. I was unable to submit my material for official review. I'm on a waiting list for a 10-minute pitch session with an agent. It sounds a lot like speed dating. I'm excited and nervous about the prospects.
I don't sell myself. I have never made an impassioned plea to earn a reward that is a longshot at best. I write my words and let them sit. Other people might read them from time to time. I take criticism better than your average politician. I take silence, lack of response, or the time it takes a person to clear their throat before responding as utter and complete rejection.
My attitude about my work needs to change. It feels stale because I've let it sit around for a while. I stopped submitting my work to an online critique group when there were no responses to my posted third chapter. The comments I received on the first two chapters were invaluable, in that it was the first review I had from actual writers. Writers are readers and know what to look for. They also don't let you get away with cheap tricks and adverbs. When I failed to get feedback, I took as rejection and an excuse to walk away.
If I want this manuscript to be something other than space on my jump drive or a pile of papers sitting in a box in a closet, I have to make it live. I have to share it with anyone who shows the slightest interest. Some say that what the world needs now is love. I say the world needs a story about a fantasy football league coping with a horrible tragedy by doing what they do best, ridiculing each other, attending games and acting like a bunch of juvenile delinquents. If there is a book like mine in the market, I haven't seen it. There are humorous books and there are sporting books and I know there have to be plenty of male bonding books. There isn't one with all of these elements. The 18 million fantasy football fanatics out there might not read fiction. I bet they would read this, and recognize a little of themselves and some of their personal experiences. There are certain experiences in this book that I hope very few if any people have experienced. Just a word to the wise.
I'm pumped. Pride of the Lions. Coming to a store near you.
I attended one writing conference in my life and I was a passive participant. At the time I didn't have anything to sell, and if I did I wouldn't know the first thing about selling.
Things have changed. At the Atlanta Writer's Conference that starts tomorrow, I get the opportunity to hobnob with fellow writers and a few agents that might have a home for my screed.
I signed up for this event a couple of months ago, which turned out to be a couple months too late. I was unable to submit my material for official review. I'm on a waiting list for a 10-minute pitch session with an agent. It sounds a lot like speed dating. I'm excited and nervous about the prospects.
I don't sell myself. I have never made an impassioned plea to earn a reward that is a longshot at best. I write my words and let them sit. Other people might read them from time to time. I take criticism better than your average politician. I take silence, lack of response, or the time it takes a person to clear their throat before responding as utter and complete rejection.
My attitude about my work needs to change. It feels stale because I've let it sit around for a while. I stopped submitting my work to an online critique group when there were no responses to my posted third chapter. The comments I received on the first two chapters were invaluable, in that it was the first review I had from actual writers. Writers are readers and know what to look for. They also don't let you get away with cheap tricks and adverbs. When I failed to get feedback, I took as rejection and an excuse to walk away.
If I want this manuscript to be something other than space on my jump drive or a pile of papers sitting in a box in a closet, I have to make it live. I have to share it with anyone who shows the slightest interest. Some say that what the world needs now is love. I say the world needs a story about a fantasy football league coping with a horrible tragedy by doing what they do best, ridiculing each other, attending games and acting like a bunch of juvenile delinquents. If there is a book like mine in the market, I haven't seen it. There are humorous books and there are sporting books and I know there have to be plenty of male bonding books. There isn't one with all of these elements. The 18 million fantasy football fanatics out there might not read fiction. I bet they would read this, and recognize a little of themselves and some of their personal experiences. There are certain experiences in this book that I hope very few if any people have experienced. Just a word to the wise.
I'm pumped. Pride of the Lions. Coming to a store near you.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
As it turns out, the end times are kind of boring
I am endlessly fascinated by how people think. Of late this has been focused on spiritual matters. I didn't care what people believe as much as why. I assume this is why the news of Harold Camping's prediction of the apocalypse has so enthralled me.
Predicting the apocalypse has been a pastime as long as there have been people around to record history. There is fear and trepidation about our world coming to an end. In Harold Camping's quite public prediction, there is a distinct lack of fear or trepidation.
He believes that this is going to happen. If you want, listen to his recent interview with reapsowradio. I appreciated that the hosts of the show, instead of mocking or questioning Camping, only asked him questions about his beliefs as if they have real value and worth.
That's the whole point. There's nothing to this guy's assertions. The reason why you listen to extreme religious people is because you hope to hear a spark of an idea that gives you an insight into this kind of mindset. Writing about Camping's beliefs makes me want to yawn. Telling me that there's a being who will judge us all in a week's time really makes me want to spend more time researching for my fantasy football draft. In August.
Because the bottom line is it's not that interesting or compelling to me. I want it to be. And before I get any comments that I'm disrespecting the man or his beliefs or anyone's beliefs who might be similar, let me say one thing. I don't know either. I am not confident in my beliefs. I am confident that this man is wrong. He has the intellectual curiosity of a house cat. That's the kind of person I would not even want to share lunch with.
Could this be a function of today's society that feels we must listen to everyone's opinion? I'm fine that there are people like Camping and Donald Trump who are so completely sure of themselves. That doesn't mean that they are less full of crap. The only reason Trump's gotten so much press lately is that it creates controversy. It's controversy on a subject that's been put to rest a long time ago. But we can't let it go because on the miniscule chance that Trump was telling the truth, it would be a huge story. It will be a huge story if the first earthquake starts at 6 p.m. next Saturday as Harold Camping predicts.
We all know it's not going to happen. The tragedy is we'll forget about Camping before he has a chance to explain why his prediction didn't come to fruition. And while this morning I wanted to be one of the countless people celebrating his mistaken beliefs on May 22, part of me wants Camping to pass peacefully in his sleep the night before. It sounds horrible to contemplate, but honestly, if he's as earnest as he seems, the devastation of a life's work that turns up empty would be too much for him to bear.
That's me projecting, based on how I would feel. More likely is that he'll spin it to his benefit, and the next apocalypse will be precisely scheduled for 2028. What disturbs me the most is that there are people who seem to look forward to the so-called End Times. In short, those people really don't value this life as much as I do.
Predicting the apocalypse has been a pastime as long as there have been people around to record history. There is fear and trepidation about our world coming to an end. In Harold Camping's quite public prediction, there is a distinct lack of fear or trepidation.
He believes that this is going to happen. If you want, listen to his recent interview with reapsowradio. I appreciated that the hosts of the show, instead of mocking or questioning Camping, only asked him questions about his beliefs as if they have real value and worth.
That's the whole point. There's nothing to this guy's assertions. The reason why you listen to extreme religious people is because you hope to hear a spark of an idea that gives you an insight into this kind of mindset. Writing about Camping's beliefs makes me want to yawn. Telling me that there's a being who will judge us all in a week's time really makes me want to spend more time researching for my fantasy football draft. In August.
Because the bottom line is it's not that interesting or compelling to me. I want it to be. And before I get any comments that I'm disrespecting the man or his beliefs or anyone's beliefs who might be similar, let me say one thing. I don't know either. I am not confident in my beliefs. I am confident that this man is wrong. He has the intellectual curiosity of a house cat. That's the kind of person I would not even want to share lunch with.
Could this be a function of today's society that feels we must listen to everyone's opinion? I'm fine that there are people like Camping and Donald Trump who are so completely sure of themselves. That doesn't mean that they are less full of crap. The only reason Trump's gotten so much press lately is that it creates controversy. It's controversy on a subject that's been put to rest a long time ago. But we can't let it go because on the miniscule chance that Trump was telling the truth, it would be a huge story. It will be a huge story if the first earthquake starts at 6 p.m. next Saturday as Harold Camping predicts.
We all know it's not going to happen. The tragedy is we'll forget about Camping before he has a chance to explain why his prediction didn't come to fruition. And while this morning I wanted to be one of the countless people celebrating his mistaken beliefs on May 22, part of me wants Camping to pass peacefully in his sleep the night before. It sounds horrible to contemplate, but honestly, if he's as earnest as he seems, the devastation of a life's work that turns up empty would be too much for him to bear.
That's me projecting, based on how I would feel. More likely is that he'll spin it to his benefit, and the next apocalypse will be precisely scheduled for 2028. What disturbs me the most is that there are people who seem to look forward to the so-called End Times. In short, those people really don't value this life as much as I do.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Relativity
We have access to the depth and breadth of knowledge that would make a Galileo or Spinoza weep. Yet we still can't agree about a thing. The world and our country in particular has been infected with a level of relative truth that is shocking.
Let's talk Bin Laden. He's dead. Woo hoo. It is a shared experience for Americans to feel good about his demise. On Monday morning, everyone agreed that was a good thing. The togetherness and unity lasted for a solid 12 hours.
The divergence is highlighted by one argument. We cannot agree if torture led to finding Bin Laden. My favorite podcaster Mr. Carolla ranted about how his lefty friends were against torture but clearly, torture led to the information that led to Bin Laden. Yet it took me all of a minute to find an editorial claiming that torture had little if anything to do with the mission that ultimately concluded in Bin Laden's death.
Who's right? That's not the point. The point is if you believe that torture is necessary to solve crimes, you're going to find your evidence. And if you believe that torture is one reason why it took ten years to find Bin Laden, you'll have plenty of ammunition.
One of my favorite interviews of the past month was the extended cut of David Barton's appearance on the Daily Show. Just watch it. David Barton is the infamous historian whose cause is that we are a Christian nation. Not only are we a Christian nation, the founders believed we were so. Jon Stewart made a valiant effort to show that this is an example of the current cart before the horse culture. In short, conservatives want proof that the founding fathers were Christian and wanted us all to be under one God, so they find a historian to dig up the evidence. If you are a Christian, you're going to love this interview and might even say amen a few times as Barton deflects Stewart's questions like a Jedi Master. If you question the man because you like this whole secular nation concept, you're going to find him less than convincing.
The good news is there's something for everyone. I generally like this point of view. The downside is we are going to have to come together on issues like the deficit, and the dramatic divergence of what everyday events mean is going to make it hard to find common ground.
Let's talk Bin Laden. He's dead. Woo hoo. It is a shared experience for Americans to feel good about his demise. On Monday morning, everyone agreed that was a good thing. The togetherness and unity lasted for a solid 12 hours.
The divergence is highlighted by one argument. We cannot agree if torture led to finding Bin Laden. My favorite podcaster Mr. Carolla ranted about how his lefty friends were against torture but clearly, torture led to the information that led to Bin Laden. Yet it took me all of a minute to find an editorial claiming that torture had little if anything to do with the mission that ultimately concluded in Bin Laden's death.
Who's right? That's not the point. The point is if you believe that torture is necessary to solve crimes, you're going to find your evidence. And if you believe that torture is one reason why it took ten years to find Bin Laden, you'll have plenty of ammunition.
One of my favorite interviews of the past month was the extended cut of David Barton's appearance on the Daily Show. Just watch it. David Barton is the infamous historian whose cause is that we are a Christian nation. Not only are we a Christian nation, the founders believed we were so. Jon Stewart made a valiant effort to show that this is an example of the current cart before the horse culture. In short, conservatives want proof that the founding fathers were Christian and wanted us all to be under one God, so they find a historian to dig up the evidence. If you are a Christian, you're going to love this interview and might even say amen a few times as Barton deflects Stewart's questions like a Jedi Master. If you question the man because you like this whole secular nation concept, you're going to find him less than convincing.
The good news is there's something for everyone. I generally like this point of view. The downside is we are going to have to come together on issues like the deficit, and the dramatic divergence of what everyday events mean is going to make it hard to find common ground.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Pride of the Lions: This time, query with feeling
I got back on the horse last night. In early April I started sending out query letters for my manuscript. I sent eight and had to put together a paper package to send to the rest. In the intervening three weeks I got a cold and found my momentum gone as I practically did nothing to further my writing career.
The decision was simple. Look up agencies in the fantastic 2011 Novel & Short Story Writer's Market, find the ones that didn't obviously disfavor my genre, and send queries in batches of ten. I started on the first, even wrote down the contact info and submission requirements for the following ten and let it sit and fester.
Momentum is a tough thing. You can get it without realizing that you have it and you can lose it in a moment. When I told myself two weekends ago that I was going to send my queries by the following Monday, a mean cold had me sitting on the couch for four days. I probably could have persevered but I felt sorry for myself and mainly watched TiVo and read instead.
Writing additional queries after the first batch shouldn't be that hard of a chore. I have a quasi template with my catchy opening sentence, quick summary of the book and even quicker summary of my writing credits, as I have none save three blogs that are updated inconsistently. If you want a raw, untested writer, I'm the man.
Last night I had to decide if I wanted to tweak my message. I could posit that my manuscript is the opposite of Woman's Lit, or Chick Lit. Call it Man's Lit, or Guy Lit, or my politically incorrect favorite, Dick Lit. Would an agent like this term and get me out of the slush pile, or is this the kind of desperate gambit that automatically gets one's query deleted for eternity?
Men sometimes do manly things like spend too much time on the can, especially when the man in question has his own bathroom. Would it not make sense that my manuscript would be a perfect way to spend such a time? Crafting that thought into a pithy sentence that was not too vulgar while grabbing attention proved to be a daunting task.
I got two queries out last night. The first was a simple cut and paste job. The second took longer because while the agency had blogs on submitting queries and proposals, their submission guidelines were not clear on which one the unsolicited writer should choose. I ended up sending my standard query introduction followed by the first four chapters.
Once I finish this batch of ten, I'm looking forward to some honest, real, and occasionally form-letter rejections. I deserve at least that much.
The decision was simple. Look up agencies in the fantastic 2011 Novel & Short Story Writer's Market, find the ones that didn't obviously disfavor my genre, and send queries in batches of ten. I started on the first, even wrote down the contact info and submission requirements for the following ten and let it sit and fester.
Momentum is a tough thing. You can get it without realizing that you have it and you can lose it in a moment. When I told myself two weekends ago that I was going to send my queries by the following Monday, a mean cold had me sitting on the couch for four days. I probably could have persevered but I felt sorry for myself and mainly watched TiVo and read instead.
Writing additional queries after the first batch shouldn't be that hard of a chore. I have a quasi template with my catchy opening sentence, quick summary of the book and even quicker summary of my writing credits, as I have none save three blogs that are updated inconsistently. If you want a raw, untested writer, I'm the man.
Last night I had to decide if I wanted to tweak my message. I could posit that my manuscript is the opposite of Woman's Lit, or Chick Lit. Call it Man's Lit, or Guy Lit, or my politically incorrect favorite, Dick Lit. Would an agent like this term and get me out of the slush pile, or is this the kind of desperate gambit that automatically gets one's query deleted for eternity?
Men sometimes do manly things like spend too much time on the can, especially when the man in question has his own bathroom. Would it not make sense that my manuscript would be a perfect way to spend such a time? Crafting that thought into a pithy sentence that was not too vulgar while grabbing attention proved to be a daunting task.
I got two queries out last night. The first was a simple cut and paste job. The second took longer because while the agency had blogs on submitting queries and proposals, their submission guidelines were not clear on which one the unsolicited writer should choose. I ended up sending my standard query introduction followed by the first four chapters.
Once I finish this batch of ten, I'm looking forward to some honest, real, and occasionally form-letter rejections. I deserve at least that much.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Thoughts from the Zachrilegious Side of Life
These are my thoughts and my opinions and therefore are wrong and should not be listened to by the easily swayed.
I listened to Jesse Ventura on the Adam Carolla podcast last week. While I think that his conspiracy-based thoughts regarding 9/11 are crazy, I do agree on one point. He thinks that political parties should be abolished. Instead of having a (D) or (R) or a (you just wasted your vote), only the names should appear. I agree on one condition. There needs to be a way for us to get balanced information on local candidates and issues. The last time I voted, and this wasn't a Presidential election, I only knew the bigger candidates and voted a straight party line. My wife voted a straight party line and that party was females. I don't want to vote 100% Democrat because I lack faith in any initial-capped Political Parties. I generally lean left because I like people more than corporations and I believe that not all of my tax money is getting flushed down the toilet. Single-party loyalty does not compute when you are a skeptic.
I make the following comparison. My favorite football team is the Dillon Panthers. You tell me that this team is fictional? it doesn't exist? I don't care. I have made up my mind and no so-called evidence will turn me around. Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose!
My statements are on par with the birther argument. If you continue to believe a point of view after evidence points in the other direction, it's a waste of time to talk with you. I put the creationists, and they do not deserve an initial cap, in the same boat. The jury's already rendered a verdict and you lost. I repeat, if you continue to believe a point of view after it's been proven wrong, then reality has no match for your mind. You should be forced to wear a Judah Friedlander-style hat that says No Vacancy.
Folks who are anti-abortion should not be allowed to use the term Pro Life. That assumes people who believe the opposite are Pro Death. This is another ring in the truth-averse Olympics we have going on in this country. Before abortion was legal, people had abortions. They were much more risky to the mother and the fetus. Abortion is pretty much illegal in plenty of states. This is a dangerous precedent. Only when anti-abortion people start adopting unwanted babies can they be taken seriously. The same crew that wants to prevent abortion because it stains their soul could give no shit about the kid after birth. There's no support for helping poor single moms or giving education, attention, or after-school programs to at-risk kids. I'm not Pro Death. I'm Pro Reality.
This links to my initial thought, but I have to keep going. I'm tired of all the so-called Tea Partiers whining about the deficit. They gave no shit when Reagan, Bush I and Bush II racked up huge debts. And they hated Clinton when he balanced the budget. You can't be serious about a cause if you only pay attention when the "other party" is doing it. I have to be cognizant that Obama is heading down the same path to a closed government that Bush started in a panic after 9/11. Guantanamo Bay staying open, torture continuing, more and more documents deemed "Top Secret" and the escalation of pointless wars are bad things no matter who's in charge.
I understand that the upcoming weekend is a big deal for a lot of Christians. I only have my own point of view. Easter and Christmas were about two things growing up. Presents and food. For Christmas I got presents and we had a big meal. For Easter I walked around the house and picked up plastic eggs full of candy that led to a basket that was full of toys. The days had no more significance. Both major holidays have a basis in pagan rituals, and I kind of like it that way. The German word is Austron, who was a goddess of fertility and the sunrise. And Cadbury mini-eggs.
If there are threads in human history and experience, I like to think that these rituals that far pre-dated the Christian calendar connect us. Celebrate what is in essence the changing of the seasons. Do it with chocolate or do it with ashes and red wine. But pause for a moment from Tweeting about Donald Trump's hideous hair piece and celebrate life. It can be fun.
I listened to Jesse Ventura on the Adam Carolla podcast last week. While I think that his conspiracy-based thoughts regarding 9/11 are crazy, I do agree on one point. He thinks that political parties should be abolished. Instead of having a (D) or (R) or a (you just wasted your vote), only the names should appear. I agree on one condition. There needs to be a way for us to get balanced information on local candidates and issues. The last time I voted, and this wasn't a Presidential election, I only knew the bigger candidates and voted a straight party line. My wife voted a straight party line and that party was females. I don't want to vote 100% Democrat because I lack faith in any initial-capped Political Parties. I generally lean left because I like people more than corporations and I believe that not all of my tax money is getting flushed down the toilet. Single-party loyalty does not compute when you are a skeptic.
I make the following comparison. My favorite football team is the Dillon Panthers. You tell me that this team is fictional? it doesn't exist? I don't care. I have made up my mind and no so-called evidence will turn me around. Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose!
My statements are on par with the birther argument. If you continue to believe a point of view after evidence points in the other direction, it's a waste of time to talk with you. I put the creationists, and they do not deserve an initial cap, in the same boat. The jury's already rendered a verdict and you lost. I repeat, if you continue to believe a point of view after it's been proven wrong, then reality has no match for your mind. You should be forced to wear a Judah Friedlander-style hat that says No Vacancy.
Folks who are anti-abortion should not be allowed to use the term Pro Life. That assumes people who believe the opposite are Pro Death. This is another ring in the truth-averse Olympics we have going on in this country. Before abortion was legal, people had abortions. They were much more risky to the mother and the fetus. Abortion is pretty much illegal in plenty of states. This is a dangerous precedent. Only when anti-abortion people start adopting unwanted babies can they be taken seriously. The same crew that wants to prevent abortion because it stains their soul could give no shit about the kid after birth. There's no support for helping poor single moms or giving education, attention, or after-school programs to at-risk kids. I'm not Pro Death. I'm Pro Reality.
This links to my initial thought, but I have to keep going. I'm tired of all the so-called Tea Partiers whining about the deficit. They gave no shit when Reagan, Bush I and Bush II racked up huge debts. And they hated Clinton when he balanced the budget. You can't be serious about a cause if you only pay attention when the "other party" is doing it. I have to be cognizant that Obama is heading down the same path to a closed government that Bush started in a panic after 9/11. Guantanamo Bay staying open, torture continuing, more and more documents deemed "Top Secret" and the escalation of pointless wars are bad things no matter who's in charge.
I understand that the upcoming weekend is a big deal for a lot of Christians. I only have my own point of view. Easter and Christmas were about two things growing up. Presents and food. For Christmas I got presents and we had a big meal. For Easter I walked around the house and picked up plastic eggs full of candy that led to a basket that was full of toys. The days had no more significance. Both major holidays have a basis in pagan rituals, and I kind of like it that way. The German word is Austron, who was a goddess of fertility and the sunrise. And Cadbury mini-eggs.
If there are threads in human history and experience, I like to think that these rituals that far pre-dated the Christian calendar connect us. Celebrate what is in essence the changing of the seasons. Do it with chocolate or do it with ashes and red wine. But pause for a moment from Tweeting about Donald Trump's hideous hair piece and celebrate life. It can be fun.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Pride of the Lions: The empty wall
I'm disappointed in the publishing industry. I had high hopes and they have been dashed. Over a period of many frenzied minutes I composed a query letter, researched a few literary agencies and tailored the query letter to each agency's requirements. I was meticulous. If they wanted ten pages, they got ten pages. If they wanted a synopsis, I skipped to the next one because I don't have one yet. My manuscript is hard to synopsize.
Friends can attest that I don't ask for much out of this life. In the sporting world I am a fan of the Chicago White Sox. They have one championship in my lifetime and I'm good. I do not need my team to be a paragon of excellence that is constantly ridiculed by jealous fans unfortunate enough not to love the very best. I claim no soothsaying abilities but I know two things. I know that my Tennessee Titans will never win a Super Bowl. I know my Missouri Tigers will never win a football or basketball championship. I accept that. I would revel in my sporting life's mediocrity but that would take too much effort.
When it comes to my writing, my craft, well, I expect more. I expect acknowledgment and I expect it immediately. On Sunday night I composed and sent eight query letters. I read countless, or at least six, blogs regarding the art of query letter writing. I was polite and I was exact to the specifications.
So far I have received nary a reply. I can't be a famous published author or a published yet still lacking fame author if I don't have a wall full of rejection notices. I'll take a form letter but an occasional "what were you thinking?" would be nice. Instead, nada. I was spoiled by my first query that was summarily rejected, most likely by a person three or four levels short of a real literary agent, in the span of 12 hours. Frankly, I was impressed. Sadly, I appear to be a one-hit wonder when it comes to rejections. I am the Snow of query letters.
Friends can attest that I don't ask for much out of this life. In the sporting world I am a fan of the Chicago White Sox. They have one championship in my lifetime and I'm good. I do not need my team to be a paragon of excellence that is constantly ridiculed by jealous fans unfortunate enough not to love the very best. I claim no soothsaying abilities but I know two things. I know that my Tennessee Titans will never win a Super Bowl. I know my Missouri Tigers will never win a football or basketball championship. I accept that. I would revel in my sporting life's mediocrity but that would take too much effort.
When it comes to my writing, my craft, well, I expect more. I expect acknowledgment and I expect it immediately. On Sunday night I composed and sent eight query letters. I read countless, or at least six, blogs regarding the art of query letter writing. I was polite and I was exact to the specifications.
So far I have received nary a reply. I can't be a famous published author or a published yet still lacking fame author if I don't have a wall full of rejection notices. I'll take a form letter but an occasional "what were you thinking?" would be nice. Instead, nada. I was spoiled by my first query that was summarily rejected, most likely by a person three or four levels short of a real literary agent, in the span of 12 hours. Frankly, I was impressed. Sadly, I appear to be a one-hit wonder when it comes to rejections. I am the Snow of query letters.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
The unqueried life
I'm a fan of the Victoria Sanders and Associates agency. Last Wednesday night, I submitted a query letter to the agency in hopes of earning representation for my manuscript Pride of the Lions. I spent a couple of hours crafting an introduction and a short synopsis of the manuscript.
Query letters are tough. You have about a page to get someone's interest, when most agencies like this get dozens if not hundreds of such letters a week. After the introduction of sorts you paste about 25 pages of your manuscript. I included the first four chapters, otherwise known as the pregame show. You're not allowed to attach anything, so when Microsoft Word so lovingly removes all line breaks when you paste about 18 pages of text, you have to manually add them back into the body of the e-mail.
I sent the e-mail around 11 p.m. on Wednesday. By Thursday at noon, I had a response.
Thank you for considering Victoria Sanders & Associates as a potential agency to represent your work. We have reviewed the material you sent and we regret to inform you that we will not be offering to review your work further at this time. Please know that we are very selective with the materials that we request. Thank you for considering Victoria Sanders & Associates as a potential agency for your work. We encourage you to keep writing and we wish you every success. Please forgive this impersonal note. We receive a tremendous number of queries and are forced to focus our attention on a limited number of projects.
Sincerely, Victoria Sanders
Woo hoo! A form letter! I know, it sounds bad to get a rejection. Here's why it's a very good thing. It's good that I don't need to wonder if they received my query letter and the status of it. I need to start getting rejections so the calluses form and I'll be prepared for the eventual positive response.
Query letters are tough. You have about a page to get someone's interest, when most agencies like this get dozens if not hundreds of such letters a week. After the introduction of sorts you paste about 25 pages of your manuscript. I included the first four chapters, otherwise known as the pregame show. You're not allowed to attach anything, so when Microsoft Word so lovingly removes all line breaks when you paste about 18 pages of text, you have to manually add them back into the body of the e-mail.
I sent the e-mail around 11 p.m. on Wednesday. By Thursday at noon, I had a response.
Thank you for considering Victoria Sanders & Associates as a potential agency to represent your work. We have reviewed the material you sent and we regret to inform you that we will not be offering to review your work further at this time. Please know that we are very selective with the materials that we request. Thank you for considering Victoria Sanders & Associates as a potential agency for your work. We encourage you to keep writing and we wish you every success. Please forgive this impersonal note. We receive a tremendous number of queries and are forced to focus our attention on a limited number of projects.
Sincerely, Victoria Sanders
Woo hoo! A form letter! I know, it sounds bad to get a rejection. Here's why it's a very good thing. It's good that I don't need to wonder if they received my query letter and the status of it. I need to start getting rejections so the calluses form and I'll be prepared for the eventual positive response.
Monday, March 21, 2011
On top of the world
Standing on the second from the top step, I lean forward. I see my goal with clarity, but my stomach is churning. I'm not sure that I can complete the task, and even if I do, returning to earth isn't going to be a simple task. Once I go up, I'm committed. For the past month I've considered making the climb but I have failed to do so. It's now or never. I step up to the top level, push my left leg up, give one more thrust and I'm there.
I'm on the roof.
Home ownership comes with small bonuses. We have a mutant Camilla tree near the carport that has dark pink buds on one side and white on the other. The trees and bushes in the yard bloom at regular intervals, like a well timed fireworks display. Over the past few weeks I've filled about 50 yard bags with leaves. Getting to the soil is one thing. Tending to it is another.
I thought the tall ladder would enable me to pull most of the leaves and muck out of the gutters. The front and back weren't too difficult, but once the roof goes up with the second floor, the gutters are at least 20 feet off the ground. I'd have to climb.
I put on some long pants, an astute move since the shingles have the consistency of sandpaper, and after standing still for a good five minutes finally climbed to the top. I had to push my left leg up and lie down almost perpendicular to my right leg to get the rest of the way up. As soon as I got up, I thought about why I was doing such a foolish thing. A fall of any kind would be devastating, especially when I got to the highest point. I could hire people to do the job while I sat inside and watched basketball. Nope. I was up and determined to continue.
Most off my movement involved me sliding around on my butt. I climbed over to the back and removed some brush from the roof. Once I climbed to the top point I stood up and the wife photographed me. I didn't want this to be the last set of photographs before the ones of me in a body cast.
I soon found a nice rhythm. I would slide down to the gutter with my legs behind me and my left arm holding a sandpapery shingle for support. I'd pull out the leaves on top and the muck below. I would slide over a few inches and repeat. After a few dozen turns I took a break. Leaves and gunk were thrown down, and when they hit the roof of the screened-in porch in the back our skittish yard kitty Patches ran away in terror.
It was nice to be on top of the world and see that our roof was in much better shape than any of our neighbors. Sunday was the right day for this because Saturday was almost hot and the cooler temperatures in the 60s meant that I didn't overheat.
After about an hour of effort I had my biggest challenge. I had to get down. From my prone position I couldn't see the ladder. I finally got my feet on the top step. That was the issue. I was unable to see my target and I would have to somehow turn around once I got on the ladder. The solution was having my wife push the ladder out so I had better balance. I finally got my feet set, turned around and took the stairs to ground, wonderful ground.
Naturally, as I type this I remember that I didn't clean the gutters on the far side of the car port. It's going to be a while until my fool self tries to get on the roof again.
I'm on the roof.
Home ownership comes with small bonuses. We have a mutant Camilla tree near the carport that has dark pink buds on one side and white on the other. The trees and bushes in the yard bloom at regular intervals, like a well timed fireworks display. Over the past few weeks I've filled about 50 yard bags with leaves. Getting to the soil is one thing. Tending to it is another.
I thought the tall ladder would enable me to pull most of the leaves and muck out of the gutters. The front and back weren't too difficult, but once the roof goes up with the second floor, the gutters are at least 20 feet off the ground. I'd have to climb.
I put on some long pants, an astute move since the shingles have the consistency of sandpaper, and after standing still for a good five minutes finally climbed to the top. I had to push my left leg up and lie down almost perpendicular to my right leg to get the rest of the way up. As soon as I got up, I thought about why I was doing such a foolish thing. A fall of any kind would be devastating, especially when I got to the highest point. I could hire people to do the job while I sat inside and watched basketball. Nope. I was up and determined to continue.
Most off my movement involved me sliding around on my butt. I climbed over to the back and removed some brush from the roof. Once I climbed to the top point I stood up and the wife photographed me. I didn't want this to be the last set of photographs before the ones of me in a body cast.
I soon found a nice rhythm. I would slide down to the gutter with my legs behind me and my left arm holding a sandpapery shingle for support. I'd pull out the leaves on top and the muck below. I would slide over a few inches and repeat. After a few dozen turns I took a break. Leaves and gunk were thrown down, and when they hit the roof of the screened-in porch in the back our skittish yard kitty Patches ran away in terror.
It was nice to be on top of the world and see that our roof was in much better shape than any of our neighbors. Sunday was the right day for this because Saturday was almost hot and the cooler temperatures in the 60s meant that I didn't overheat.
After about an hour of effort I had my biggest challenge. I had to get down. From my prone position I couldn't see the ladder. I finally got my feet on the top step. That was the issue. I was unable to see my target and I would have to somehow turn around once I got on the ladder. The solution was having my wife push the ladder out so I had better balance. I finally got my feet set, turned around and took the stairs to ground, wonderful ground.
Naturally, as I type this I remember that I didn't clean the gutters on the far side of the car port. It's going to be a while until my fool self tries to get on the roof again.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Pride of the Lions: Query
When you write a manuscript, there's one surefire way to remain unpublished. Never send it to anyone. I recently broke out of the egocentric, show nobody my book funk by joining a couple of online critique groups. That's step one. You can learn a lot when people tear your words to shreds, or give it a few nice words that are so darn encouraging.
I made a connection. Through a friend who had been published by a small university press, I got the name of the editor at said press. My natural next move was to hide under my desk. No, I read as much as I could about query letters and composed one of my own. I wrote it, had the wife review it and add some of her own helpful hints. I wrote the initial e-mail and saved as a draft. I needed a subject line. Drat! If only I worked in the e-mail marketing industry! Oh yeah, I do. After finding out that the general query letter has a subject line of Query: Title, that's what I added. I saved as draft again.
This was like the epic stare-down I had with the pool when I was ten. My mom offered me a trifling sum, probably a Transformers toy, if I would dive off the diving board just once. I was afraid to do it. As my stubborn nature would indicate, I stared at the pool for an hour before jumping in. I wouldn't even dive at the starting gun of swim meets. I eventually got over it.
I hit the send button.
I made a connection. Through a friend who had been published by a small university press, I got the name of the editor at said press. My natural next move was to hide under my desk. No, I read as much as I could about query letters and composed one of my own. I wrote it, had the wife review it and add some of her own helpful hints. I wrote the initial e-mail and saved as a draft. I needed a subject line. Drat! If only I worked in the e-mail marketing industry! Oh yeah, I do. After finding out that the general query letter has a subject line of Query: Title, that's what I added. I saved as draft again.
This was like the epic stare-down I had with the pool when I was ten. My mom offered me a trifling sum, probably a Transformers toy, if I would dive off the diving board just once. I was afraid to do it. As my stubborn nature would indicate, I stared at the pool for an hour before jumping in. I wouldn't even dive at the starting gun of swim meets. I eventually got over it.
I hit the send button.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Criticize me, but be gentle
There is one big irony in my writing. It may be hard to write, but it's harder to share my writing. Last summer I started writing a manuscript. I worked on it every day for about an hour, and after about four months of toil I finished. The end of the first draft is really what they sometimes call the end of the beginning. I had completed a manuscript that detailed the 2011 NFL season when the 2010 NFL season was about halfway over. The football details, which I didn't really finalize until January, might have been the hardest part. I had to decide when to break from reality into my fictionalized world.
I'm calling this my year of humiliation and pride. I say humiliation because when the world doesn't go my way I will own up to it and move on. Pride means I will take ownership in what I've accomplished. It's an honest way of looking at oneself and it's as scary as it sounds. I have sent part or all of the first chapter of my manuscript to a couple of writing groups and one friend of a friend who is a published author.
I sent the first chapter to an online critique group sponsored by the Atlanta Writer's Club. The four-day wait for the first comments was torture. That's the weird limbo you get in. When you click the send button, it's out there and you can't retract anything. It's on the Web which means it's there for eternity, at least until the zombie apocalypse. I was nervous during the first day. On the second I calmed down a bit. By the third I thought, "did anyone read this?" By the fourth I wondered if everyone on the list read it but decided as a group that it was such poor form that it was not even worthy of comment.
Last night the comments started trickling in. I wrote the opening scene in a rapid-pace point-of-view style and there wasn't room for the usual commas and semicolons. I wanted it to flow quickly. It clearly frustrated my first commenter. She sent me my chapter back, and unlike the middle-school papers that returned with lots of red pen marks, there were lots of comments on the right margin. She did point out the many times that I made statements that would be unclear to the reader. Even if I want the reader to go through this chapter as fast as the guy saying the disclaimers at the end of the commercial, I don't want them to be confused. I would only want the reader to be confused in terms of, "what the hell is this crazy guy going to come up with next" instead of "I like it, but when he said that the guy reached into the bottom right and two sentences ago he said top drawer, where exactly is he reaching?"
The best response I received was "It reads well in spite of the language." I try to keep my blogs relatively clean, but in the fiction realm, I have a potty mouth.
I'm calling this my year of humiliation and pride. I say humiliation because when the world doesn't go my way I will own up to it and move on. Pride means I will take ownership in what I've accomplished. It's an honest way of looking at oneself and it's as scary as it sounds. I have sent part or all of the first chapter of my manuscript to a couple of writing groups and one friend of a friend who is a published author.
I sent the first chapter to an online critique group sponsored by the Atlanta Writer's Club. The four-day wait for the first comments was torture. That's the weird limbo you get in. When you click the send button, it's out there and you can't retract anything. It's on the Web which means it's there for eternity, at least until the zombie apocalypse. I was nervous during the first day. On the second I calmed down a bit. By the third I thought, "did anyone read this?" By the fourth I wondered if everyone on the list read it but decided as a group that it was such poor form that it was not even worthy of comment.
Last night the comments started trickling in. I wrote the opening scene in a rapid-pace point-of-view style and there wasn't room for the usual commas and semicolons. I wanted it to flow quickly. It clearly frustrated my first commenter. She sent me my chapter back, and unlike the middle-school papers that returned with lots of red pen marks, there were lots of comments on the right margin. She did point out the many times that I made statements that would be unclear to the reader. Even if I want the reader to go through this chapter as fast as the guy saying the disclaimers at the end of the commercial, I don't want them to be confused. I would only want the reader to be confused in terms of, "what the hell is this crazy guy going to come up with next" instead of "I like it, but when he said that the guy reached into the bottom right and two sentences ago he said top drawer, where exactly is he reaching?"
The best response I received was "It reads well in spite of the language." I try to keep my blogs relatively clean, but in the fiction realm, I have a potty mouth.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Coldlanta Day 3/4
Today was going to be the day. It would be the first day that I would get to the office. I was overdue. Unlike some, I had showered every day and shaved three times this week. I had even put on pants once or twice. I was not unprepared, to construct an awkward phrase. We received the e-mail this morning stating that the office would open at 10:30. This was an e-mail steeped in legalese. Coming in was optional. If you did come in, you should pay attention to your footing and look for ice. Parts of the parking lot would be blocked off that were too full of ice.
I didn't care. I was ready to take on the elements. Well, I was until I saw the 11 alive twitter feed. All I saw were major road closings and accidents. The I-285 Buford connector I use every morning just had opened. There were plenty of entrance/exit ramps that were not open. My car is a 2008 Scion. It's not made for the elements. I passed on coming in. Out of our team of four, one person came in, and he owns a Jeep plus he used to live in Colorado where they get hundreds of inches of snow a year.
I would complete that thought by saying that they would laugh at the weather that practically shut Atlanta down for three days. That's until I decided to take an innocent trip to Publix. We were not out of food. We were curious more than anything else, and what better remedy to the weather than buying the components of a few crock pot meals? We passed on walking and I decided to drive. The driveway was fine due to my excellent shoveling work. The street directly in front of our house was starting to show pavement. Directly to the right and left it still was an ice rink.
That's what the roads were like. Either ice rink or wet pavement. I gained as much momentum as I could on the pavement parts and held my foot off the gas for the ice rink. We slid a bit a couple of times but all in all it wasn't so bad.
The parking lot at the Publix was another ice rink. Neither my wife nor I own proper winter footwear, so our running/workout shoes would have to do. We braved it.
I thought the grocery store would be one of two ways. Either it would be teeming with people dying to get out of their homes or it would be barren. I mean barren in terms of customers and food. It was neither. I have to say it was like a Publix normally is on a Thursday morning. Nothing was out of stock that we wanted and it was a fairly pleasant experience.
The drive home was a breeze except for the other drivers. We had a left to take, but the 4 Runner in front of us going right went all the way to the left lane and did not move even when the light turned green. We found a crevice and made it through. As we got to our home street, a car was stuck in the ice and a truck was to its right. We had to take the long way back. Again we experienced the combination of Ice Road Atlanta and the sunny patches that were almost free of moisture. We made it home and I decided that I made the right decision.
Most of the schools are out for the week, which means they get another week off a few days after the Christmas holiday. Yeah, the kids are going to be so prepared to come back. I do not envy my friends and family who are teachers.
I didn't care. I was ready to take on the elements. Well, I was until I saw the 11 alive twitter feed. All I saw were major road closings and accidents. The I-285 Buford connector I use every morning just had opened. There were plenty of entrance/exit ramps that were not open. My car is a 2008 Scion. It's not made for the elements. I passed on coming in. Out of our team of four, one person came in, and he owns a Jeep plus he used to live in Colorado where they get hundreds of inches of snow a year.
I would complete that thought by saying that they would laugh at the weather that practically shut Atlanta down for three days. That's until I decided to take an innocent trip to Publix. We were not out of food. We were curious more than anything else, and what better remedy to the weather than buying the components of a few crock pot meals? We passed on walking and I decided to drive. The driveway was fine due to my excellent shoveling work. The street directly in front of our house was starting to show pavement. Directly to the right and left it still was an ice rink.
That's what the roads were like. Either ice rink or wet pavement. I gained as much momentum as I could on the pavement parts and held my foot off the gas for the ice rink. We slid a bit a couple of times but all in all it wasn't so bad.
The parking lot at the Publix was another ice rink. Neither my wife nor I own proper winter footwear, so our running/workout shoes would have to do. We braved it.
I thought the grocery store would be one of two ways. Either it would be teeming with people dying to get out of their homes or it would be barren. I mean barren in terms of customers and food. It was neither. I have to say it was like a Publix normally is on a Thursday morning. Nothing was out of stock that we wanted and it was a fairly pleasant experience.
The drive home was a breeze except for the other drivers. We had a left to take, but the 4 Runner in front of us going right went all the way to the left lane and did not move even when the light turned green. We found a crevice and made it through. As we got to our home street, a car was stuck in the ice and a truck was to its right. We had to take the long way back. Again we experienced the combination of Ice Road Atlanta and the sunny patches that were almost free of moisture. We made it home and I decided that I made the right decision.
Most of the schools are out for the week, which means they get another week off a few days after the Christmas holiday. Yeah, the kids are going to be so prepared to come back. I do not envy my friends and family who are teachers.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Coldlanta Day 2
I'm "stuck" at home for the third consecutive day. The snow started falling Sunday night around seven and since that time I have been inside the home with few exceptions.
I had trouble as many people do who aren't used to being at home all day. Work was tough to accomplish since we don't have access to our work hard drive at home. Getting organized to do personal things was a lost cause. I couldn't even get enough motivation to work on my stalled book project. So I exercised as I've done almost every day this year.
On Monday we tried sledding. The sled was an improvised recycling bin cover and the results weren't great. I tried again. This time I had an audience. Our neighbors across the street and next to them were outside. One neighbor shoveled her driveway while the other made calls on a Bluetooth. I made my first sledding attempt. It's hard to get any momentum despite our pretty steep hill. I tried once on my butt, once on my stomach and a final time on my butt. Yeah, it's not the same as being a kid. You have no fear and don't realize when you're tired.
I saw my neighbor and the shoveling and thought that my driveway could use a cleanup. We've been in our house almost one year and have not said hello to them. We joke that it's a commune because the driveway is filled with as many as four cars and there's often a car parked in the street. I walked over and introduced myself to the woman who opened the door. She was friendly and let me borrow the shovel.
I was loaded. I had a shovel, my jacket, and my iPod. The only issue with the iPod was that the cord got stuck on the shovel a couple of times when I switched from leading with my left to leading with my right. My next-door neighbor was in the midst of his own shoveling project when I started and at first it felt like a contest. He gave up after 30 minutes. I felt like I had barely started at that point. I went side to side but carved one line up the side for variety. It was freaking endless. I later told the wife that we needed to make more money to install heaters in the driveway for the one time in five years that we get this kind of snow. I took off my jacket. It wasn't that cold. At the time the trees were starting to drip which meant that it was above freezing. Shoveling wasn't too hard but a lot of spots had ice under the snow which was hard to remove.
I came inside after my labors and the wife gave me a cup of hot chocolate. We relaxed as I warmed up. Physical labor can be a nice distraction. I wouldn't say that I want to do it for a living, though.
I had trouble as many people do who aren't used to being at home all day. Work was tough to accomplish since we don't have access to our work hard drive at home. Getting organized to do personal things was a lost cause. I couldn't even get enough motivation to work on my stalled book project. So I exercised as I've done almost every day this year.
On Monday we tried sledding. The sled was an improvised recycling bin cover and the results weren't great. I tried again. This time I had an audience. Our neighbors across the street and next to them were outside. One neighbor shoveled her driveway while the other made calls on a Bluetooth. I made my first sledding attempt. It's hard to get any momentum despite our pretty steep hill. I tried once on my butt, once on my stomach and a final time on my butt. Yeah, it's not the same as being a kid. You have no fear and don't realize when you're tired.
I saw my neighbor and the shoveling and thought that my driveway could use a cleanup. We've been in our house almost one year and have not said hello to them. We joke that it's a commune because the driveway is filled with as many as four cars and there's often a car parked in the street. I walked over and introduced myself to the woman who opened the door. She was friendly and let me borrow the shovel.
I was loaded. I had a shovel, my jacket, and my iPod. The only issue with the iPod was that the cord got stuck on the shovel a couple of times when I switched from leading with my left to leading with my right. My next-door neighbor was in the midst of his own shoveling project when I started and at first it felt like a contest. He gave up after 30 minutes. I felt like I had barely started at that point. I went side to side but carved one line up the side for variety. It was freaking endless. I later told the wife that we needed to make more money to install heaters in the driveway for the one time in five years that we get this kind of snow. I took off my jacket. It wasn't that cold. At the time the trees were starting to drip which meant that it was above freezing. Shoveling wasn't too hard but a lot of spots had ice under the snow which was hard to remove.
I came inside after my labors and the wife gave me a cup of hot chocolate. We relaxed as I warmed up. Physical labor can be a nice distraction. I wouldn't say that I want to do it for a living, though.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Coldlanta
In Atlanta as in many cities not used to winter weather, there's a common joke about the day before a winter storm. "Stock up on milk and bread." The joke is that if you are stuck in your house for days, you're not going to want just milk and bread. The other joke is that Atlanta's usual storm is a snowfall so insignificant that more often than not it melts before it's over.
We just hit the exception. I first heard of this storm last Friday. In typical Atlantan fashion I assumed that the prophecies of doom were exaggerated. Yeah, we might get snow but it would melt the next day. It's going to be too warm for it to stick. The sun will come out soon and we'll be back to our usual pristine Southern winter weather.
Was I wrong. We had the perfect storm, so to speak. It was very cold on Sunday, which meant that when the snow hit, it stuck immediately. Instead of the temperature bouncing above freezing on Monday, it never made it. What made this storm especially nasty was that yesterday we had freezing drizzle. Now the snow is like that magic shell dessert concoction. It's covered in a hard shell.
My office tried to be tough and at first proclaimed a delayed opening for today. That changed to an absolute closing this morning. For once in my Atlanta history, it is possible for us to run out of food. OK, that's rubbish. We have provisions in our cabinets and fridge for at least a week, or one good football game.
When I moved to Nashville at age six, we lived on a giant hill. It snowed a little more than in Atlanta, so when it did our yard was party central for the neighborhood. We actually had a double-dip hill and that's where we spent our rare snow days. In our new house here in Coldlanta we have a hilly driveway. Later in the day after getting bored with Wii Fit I decided to give it a shot. Using the top of the blue DeKalb County recycling bin, I sat down and slid down the hill. It was the slowest sled ride ever. The wife videoed the experience, like every other person in Atlanta did yesterday. It was, shall we say, less than compelling. At least I got to come in, remove my winter clothing, and have some hot chocolate.
If worst comes to worst, we can walk to Publix. Half a mile. In the snow. Uphill both ways.
We just hit the exception. I first heard of this storm last Friday. In typical Atlantan fashion I assumed that the prophecies of doom were exaggerated. Yeah, we might get snow but it would melt the next day. It's going to be too warm for it to stick. The sun will come out soon and we'll be back to our usual pristine Southern winter weather.
Was I wrong. We had the perfect storm, so to speak. It was very cold on Sunday, which meant that when the snow hit, it stuck immediately. Instead of the temperature bouncing above freezing on Monday, it never made it. What made this storm especially nasty was that yesterday we had freezing drizzle. Now the snow is like that magic shell dessert concoction. It's covered in a hard shell.
My office tried to be tough and at first proclaimed a delayed opening for today. That changed to an absolute closing this morning. For once in my Atlanta history, it is possible for us to run out of food. OK, that's rubbish. We have provisions in our cabinets and fridge for at least a week, or one good football game.
When I moved to Nashville at age six, we lived on a giant hill. It snowed a little more than in Atlanta, so when it did our yard was party central for the neighborhood. We actually had a double-dip hill and that's where we spent our rare snow days. In our new house here in Coldlanta we have a hilly driveway. Later in the day after getting bored with Wii Fit I decided to give it a shot. Using the top of the blue DeKalb County recycling bin, I sat down and slid down the hill. It was the slowest sled ride ever. The wife videoed the experience, like every other person in Atlanta did yesterday. It was, shall we say, less than compelling. At least I got to come in, remove my winter clothing, and have some hot chocolate.
If worst comes to worst, we can walk to Publix. Half a mile. In the snow. Uphill both ways.
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