Balancing Wonder Woman, 2 Kids, and Biff While in a Bikini
The day started with an omen. I put on my new bright blue Wonder Woman t-shirt. Simone, my 4-year-old daughter told me it was too young for me and I shouldn’t buy it but I bought it anyway. When she saw me wearing it, she was mad because she wanted one too, and who can blame her? I’m obsessed with Wonder Woman.
The day started with an omen. I put on my new bright blue Wonder Woman t-shirt. Simone, my 4-year-old daughter told me it was too young for me and I shouldn’t buy it but I bought it anyway. When she saw me wearing it, she was mad because she wanted one too, and who can blame her? I’m obsessed with Wonder Woman. Who wouldn’t want to be her? Long dark hair. Killer cleavage. Gold bracelets. And an INVISIBLE plane. I thought I could use some her juju. On went the shirt.
I spent the wee hours of the morning cooking, cleaning, watching the kiddos. Simone gave me a hug then pulled a long sticker that was on my boob. It was marked LARGE. So, yeah, the only thing I channeled from Wonder Woman was an invisible sticker that let everyone know I have big knockers, and with the right push-up, killer cleavage.
She's Hot. Who Wouldn't Want to Be Her?
Good thing I didn’t go out like that.
Biff joined us around ten. He met the kids yesterday and much to my surprise, he wanted to come back. I’ve been struggling with the idea of having him meet the kids or not. Some people say you wait six months and until you’re super serious; some say you introduce them right away. We debated this. In the end, I decided that I wanted him to meet them. We are serious, I think. Serious enough at this stage. And I do feel like I’m living a double life, and I’m tired of keeping the two sides separate.
While it’s not exactly a Clark Kent/Superman kind of life, I do have the one side of me that is a sexy, single woman who’s passionate and artistic and emotional; the other side of me has two kids, wipes noses and bottoms, cooks, cleans, says ridiculous things like “Do not put your butt in each other’s faces!” and wears yoga pants even though I don’t do yoga. It’s not pretty.
I guess I was scared to let Biff meet the kids for a couple of reasons. What if they hate each other? What if he’s mean to them? What if the kids are mean to him? What if once he sees me as a Mom he’ll just see me as someone who once lactated? And how sexy is that?
And then, at lunch, Louis (he’s 5) said “So, Biff, do you have a wife?”
I about choked. Biff just smiled and said, “No. No, I don’t.”
Louis shrugged his shoulders and then said, “Well, you could marry my mom if you wanted.”
Yep. I was officially dying.
Biff said, “Would you like me to do that?”
Louis shrugged again. “If she wanted to. It’s her choice really.” Then Louis came over and gave me a kiss. I thanked him for taking care of me. I sort of feel like in that kiss he was telling me that whatever I wanted was okay with him. That's pretty spectacular from a five-year-old.
The kids liked Biff. I think they want to see me happy and I have to say that today, I was. I was also terrified. I am terrified. What if I made the wrong decision? What if Biff is freaked out by the demands of dating a woman with kids? What if, what if, what if.
I don’t know.
It’s night now and Biff is home and my kids are asleep. I just put on my yoga pants and slipped back into my Wonder Woman t-shirt. If anything, she reminds me that a woman, no matter her situation, is powerful. She can fight crime, work during the day, fly a jet, be an Amazon, and look sexy while doing it all. That’s all I’m trying to do right now with my life…everything. Some days, I think I manage okay.
Why I Need To Just Shut Up & Enjoy
I went for a run today in my cute new running shoes in the hopes that my shooting bone-pain in my foot would stop shooting. I put on the soundtrack to Glee (Yes. Yes. I did.) and started running
Yes yes yes. I know I blogged yesterday. But I was grumpy. And depressed. And possibly hormonal. Now it’s a new day and I’m none of those things. (Except I’m probably still hormonal.) I don’t know if it’s because it’s pretty outside or that I went for a run today and wasn’t in horrible pain, or if I’ve finally had an afternoon to my selfish little self. It’s probably all of the above. And my cold medicine has made me very relaxed.
Okay. So I went for a run today in my cute new running shoes in the hopes that my shooting bone-pain in my foot would stop shooting. I put on the soundtrack to Glee (Yes. Yes. I did.) and started running. Once I got over the oh-god-my-boobs-move-like-juggling-cantaloupes I started to think. Thinking is good. Obsessing, not so good. This thankfully was just run-of-the-mill thinking (with no horrible bone pain).
In my Intro to Literature class we’ve been talking a lot about irony or, you know, the difference between reality and fantasy. So if Willy Loman in a “Death of a Salesman” knew earlier and accepted that he was just a mediocre salesman, an average guy, could he have been okay? Was it his desire to be #1, to be well-liked that ultimately destroyed him?
It occurred to me that the beauty and drama in writing happens not with actions between characters, but with their emotions. It’s the things in life that we want but cannot have, the lies we tell ourselves, the dreams we have that keep us interesting and involved…and sometimes they can break our hearts.
It’s hard to live in the moment and be happy with what you have. My mind is always onto the next thing. Always wanting more, wondering if I’ve made the right decision. Mostly it’s good. It keeps me striving. But in relationships it gets especially tough. If you have an image in your mind of Mr. Right then how can you recognize your friend Harry waiting in the wings? Yes, that’s a reference to When Harry Met Sally. One of the greatest love stories ever. Here are these two people who are perfectly compatible, but they’re so stupid they don’t even realize it. Doesn’t everyone wonder if they’re standing right next to the One, but you don’t see him because you’re looking in the opposite direction?
I don’t know where I was going with this.
Oh, yeah. Reality. Fantasy. Sometimes though if we’re looking so hard for that movie fantasy, then we miss out on the life we’re having. Maybe if we’re looking for Harry we don’t notice the tall, skinny guy in the corner. It’s so confusing. And if we’re always focused on the life we want instead of have, then we don’t enjoy our friends or our jobs because we’re so busy trying to do something else.
I’m really close to an epiphany. Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop…
Hmm. Not going to happen today.
I probably need to run a little more. It calms me down and helps me focus. I don’t know exactly what I’m trying to say right now except even with all my neuroses and obsessing and questioning, I really am happy with my reality. Today I got to sit in my backyard and read a magazine. How decadent! I got to talk about literature this morning. Tomorrow I’ll have my kids and I’ll narrate an audio book. Tonight I might go see a movie with Biff (he doesn’t know this yet because I just decided). Next week I’m hanging out with my girlfriends and a hopefully a dear friend who likes to talk to me about soup.
Then why don’t I just shut up and enjoy myself for a while, huh?
Awwww, yeah. That’s the epiphany! I need to shut up and enjoy. I’m going to go sit back outside. Crack open a bottle of wine. Sit back and…
It feels gooooood.
Cheers.
I'm So Moody, I Exhaust Myself--Or--Single Parent & Venting
In which I throw a tantrum of "I can't do this on my own!"
Just when I think I’m old enough and mature enough and got it together enough…well…just at that point I throw another tantrum. Really, I’m so moody I exhaust myself. Is there anyone else out there like this? And I’m frustrated and exhausted by the countless choices I make every day. I’d just like someone to take over for a while. You know, there are times when I think, wow, I should let people on Twitter decide everything for me from what I eat for breakfast to who I date.
Then again, I guess life is being man enough to make your own choices. Or woman enough.
Bluh. I’m pouting. Again. Or still. Why? Why?
Because life is hard. Last night my son threw a tantrum that lasted about an hour and a half. The house was hot, he was overtired from the weekend and I’d stopped at Subway as a treat for dinner. But I got him a juice box and not the Big Person Apple Juice. It doesn’t matter. Whatever I’d have gotten wouldn’t have been enough. He was tired. And he went into hysterics. I spent an hour and a half carrying him up into his room for time-outs, trying to stay calm myself, dealing with his kicking and screaming and telling me that he hates me. I felt like ‘nothing I do is good enough’. By the end, my arms were shaking from being physically exhausted and he’d fallen asleep in my lap at 5PM after I read a Star Wars book to him. I set my daughter up with a movie downstairs, talked to my fella, and then preceded to have at typhoon of a cry.
When you’re a single mom there are moments, really tough moments, when you feel…
I’m dropping the second person.
Last night I felt alone. And weak. And scared. How can I do this? How do I raise two kids on my own? How do I keep going? How do I have enough energy to work every job I can, to write, to promote, to have a social life, to tend and care to the kids…how is any of this possible on my own? My ex’s wedding is next month and I’m jealous that he doesn’t have to do any of this on his own. I’m jealous that he found a partner who is willing to take on the role of a co-parent and that they seem so easily in love. They're going to Hawaii for their honeymoon. They both have good jobs. Their income is twice or three times what I make. On the personal side, I like how things are going with me and Biff…but Biff is having some personal trouble so I feel like I have to be strong for him too even though he's not asking me to. It’s okay, I just wish sometimes that, well, I’m not writing this so he feels bad. I just wish things were easier, because there are times when I feel like I don’t have the strength left over from being a mom and a worker and a writer to be anything else. It would be nice if someone could be strong for me for a while.
It isn’t like I have a choice about this. I’m just throwing my own tantrum. I don’t want to work all the time. I don’t want to have conflicts with people. I don’t want to start a creative project and have other people push me out of it. (That’s another story.) I don’t want to have to be strong. But I don’t have a choice. This is my life. And it's a life of my choosing.
My son slept for thirteen hours. He’s a new person this morning. Sweet. Loving. And I’m hoping after my day today, maybe I’ll feel like I can do it. It’s the first day in a couple of weeks that I have to myself without kids or work. I did have my mini-vacay, but you know how that was laced with some stress. Today, I’m going to get a pedicure and see a movie and see Biff later. I’m hoping we just have fun and not worry about life so much. I’ll work a little, of course, and blogging is good. And I’ll make a million little decisions on everything. I’m hoping, like my son, that after my tantrum, I’ll feel better.
Venting is supposed to be therapeutic, yes?
I don’t know. Other single parents out there…feel free to chime in. I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s felt overwhelmed. Tell me it gets better?
A List of My Faults & Yes, I'm Still with Biff
There’s something funny in there with a friend telling you to read the blog you just wrote. So I did read it. Oh. Okay. I see where you could infer that. No. I didn’t break it off. I was ready to. Internally, I had my car keys out and was making all the leaving noises I could: “That was fun. See ya later! Take care!” But then something stopped me. Two things, really. First I talked to Biff again. And secondly, I talked to myself.
Over the last few days I had several conversations with friends that began with “So, uh, did you break it off with Biff?”
“Huh?” I said each time, truly perplexed.
“Well, I read your blog and it sure sounds like you broke up. You should read it.”
There’s something funny in there with a friend telling you to read the blog you just wrote. So I did read it. Oh. Okay. I see where you could infer that. No. I didn’t break it off. I was ready to. Internally, I had my car keys out and was making all the leaving noises I could: “That was fun. See ya later! Take care!” But then something stopped me. Two things, really. First I talked to Biff again. And secondly, I talked to myself.
I’m not like those circus people, you know half-man, half-woman…with one side looking like Diana Ross and the other just looking like a prepubescent teen with a bad mustache. I mean, I let myself get quiet and I figured out what I wanted. Did I want to give up on Biff because of a few things he said? No. I didn’t. I don’t. And why? Because he’s human. And so I am.
In an effort to be fair, all my blogs and experiences are from my perspective. And while I try to be honest, I haven’t been 100% honest, because who can do that? Here, then, is a list of my faults:
1) I’m neurotic. I think Woody Allen actually vacations in my brain.
2) I’m emotional and sensitive. Good things usually, but sometimes it gets me in trouble.
3) I have Trust Issues. What this means is that I expect people to let me down. Childhood thing. So sometimes it’s easier to break something off first or get all cold and sort of force them to lose interest, than it is to risk getting hurt.
4) I want to give up gluten because like 4 people in my family have issues with it. They gave it up and lost their belly fat. But every time I decide I’m going to give up gluten, I somehow drive to Kentucky Fried Chicken and eat chicken and biscuits and then have a side of biscuits and then I have biscuits for dessert. When I decide to eat gluten, I don’t want KFC or biscuits.
5) I’m high maintenance. This is progress actually. I used to be low maintenance which means I did what everyone else wanted me to because I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Now, when something doesn’t feel right, I say so.
6) I’m honest. Is this a fault? It is when socially you’re supposed to keep something to yourself, but you just blurt out your emotions. An example of this is over a perfectly nice dinner telling your boyfriend “I don’t think this is working” simply because you sort of feel that way at that precise moment.
7) I worry that I don’t know how to make the right decision on anything from choosing the right bra to the right partner in life. I’d really like someone to give me a rulebook. I’m great at rules.
8) I’m creatively cocky. I like what I’m working on, I like the stuff I’m creating and if someone gives me grief about it, I get cranky.
9) I’m cranky 80% of the time.
I’m not going to do a #10 because a redheaded vixen told me that 9 is a magical number.
So. No. I didn’t break it off with Biff. Before we made any big decisions, we decided to figure out just exactly how long we’ve been dating. “It was cold when we went out first, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure,” he said.
Silently, we counted the weeks together on the calendar. Huh. Six weeks. “That’s it?” I asked. “Feels like longer.”
“I know,” he said. We didn’t mean in a bad way, it just felt like we were more comfortable with each other than just at six weeks. “You really can’t have this serious of a freak-out right now,” he said.
“I can’t?”
“No. It’s too early. See?” He pointed to the calendar. I thought about that. It sort of made sense.
“When can I have a big freak-out, because I’ll tell you right now, I’ll have one.”
He didn’t even pause. He said: “Week sixteen.”
“I can have a big freak-out at week sixteen? Is that a promise?”
“Yes,” Biff said.
That made me smile. That and he mowed my lawn.
That’s not a euphemism people. He actually cut my grass.
Still sounds like a euphemism.
He tended my lawn with care? He trimmed my bushes?
Aw, fuck it.
He made me laugh is reason enough.
Mimosas and Morals -- Mini-Vacay Part Two
Day two of my mini-vacay, and the lessons I learned.
Saturday morning of my mini-vacay started with waking up slowly next to Biff. I thought, “Hmmm. It’s awfully nice waking up next to him,” but he couldn’t stay for breakfast. He had to meet his dad in the morning. My morning was spent, then, slowly on my own. I went for a run in the mist and fog. It was only my second time running on my foot. I felt heavy. My body moved in ways I didn’t like. It’s the extra 7 pounds I put on since breaking my foot. If I don’t suck in, it looks like I could be pregnant. Bluh. The run, though, was lovely. I toured the town and houses, imagined getting a cottage someday. Half an hour later, I was back at the B&B in the shower. Then it was breakfast on my own. I grabbed a paper and sat at my own table. I ate berries with cream. I liked the quiet. I actually need solace now and again so I just savored my mimosa and homemade pecan roll.
An hour or so later, Biff came back and met me at the coffee shop where I was working on the next book. (It’s a memoir. I know. I know. But it is.)
We walked the town. Went shopping. I bought a little picture of a cottage surrounded by red flowers. We ate lunch. We took naps. We ate dinner. And at dinner, I had all these thoughts that were coursing through me and they sort of went like this:
What am I doing here with Biff? We’re so different. He hates his job. I love mine. I have kids, he doesn’t. He smokes and likes American food. I run and have a sick fascination with lentils. He’s skinny; I’m a little tubby right now. He doesn’t want to be married. I do.
Wait a minute! WHAT?
I don’t know how I started the conversation but I said something like “We’re so different. Do you really think this is working?”
He looked dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t know, you said you never wanted to be married and I have to think about the kids. I mean, if you’re my boyfriend, then I should introduce you to the kids, but what does that mean? I don’t want them to start to count on you.”
And then he said something about the truth was that if he were called on a movie in Prague or New York he’d go. That the truth was that he was a ‘live in the moment’ guy, but he didn’t say he NEVER wanted to get married.
I nodded. What else do you do? “Okay,” I said.
“I’d really like to meet your kids. I’m nervous about it, but I’d like to.”
“I know,” I said. “But you can’t meet them yet.”
The thing is, I’m a mom. And I can’t risk introducing them to someone who lives only in the moment. That’s my truth. And it’s so hard that I can’t just do what I want and live in the moment and not think about tomorrow and tomorrow, but that’s because I’m a parent. And being a parent and being single means there’s a real possibility I’ll spend the majority of my adult life alone.
There was deep awkwardness after the conversation and though we didn’t decide anything, something in me has shifted and shut down. I have let’s say ‘trust issues’ and need very tender handling. The subtext of the conversation, what I heard was “I’m having a great time with you, Tanya, but when something better comes along, I’m out of here.”
It’s okay. It’s sad. But it’s okay. We walked out of the restaurant. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yep,” I said, and smiled.
By 8PM we were sitting in our cramped little room, Biff typing on the computer, me trying not to fall asleep when I blurted the truth I’d been struggling with for most of the day. It had to be said. Best to say it in one breath. “Biff, I’m bored.” I flinched as I waited for him to go on and on about a waste of money and only boring people are boring (like my ex used to do.) Instead he said, “Thank god. I’ve been bored most of the day.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, let’s go home then.”
By 8:30 we were in the car. By 9 we were at home. By 9:30 we were in my basement watching Battlestar Galactica. The next morning, we did super fun stuff like go to Lowe’s and lawn work. Biff helped. I loved it. I really did.
So what’s the moral of this mini-vacay? There is a moral, or at least some lesson I learned. I learned that I am not a good fit for a Bed and Breakfast. I want more attention from my vacation. I want a big tub with jets and room service. I want a workout room. So now I know.
But I also learned something bigger. I want to be married again. I didn’t know that I did until this weekend, but the truth is, I do. Talking to Biff just crystallized it. The sad thing is, I don’t know what that means for me now. I have an image of my future husband and he’s crazy about me and we understand each other and we have passion. And he’s a hard worker and he wants to be not only a good friend to me and the kids, but he also wants to be a good role model. He likes my cooking. He doesn’t mind when I don’t wear makeup and I put on my crazy plastic boots to feed the birds or water a plant I neglected for a month. Sometimes he’ll grab me and kiss me just so that I don’t forget that even though I’m his wife and a mom, at the heart of it, I’m also a woman.
This is a surprise to me. I thought I’d given up on that idea of love and marriage, but I haven’t…it’s just changed form within me. I no longer feel like I have to be in a relationship just to be in one. And I know that the relationship I want is waiting for me. It’s just not the time yet. So for now, I’ll simply enjoy my life as it is. And avoid B&B’s at all cost. Literally. They’re expensive.
A Leg and a Thigh (mini-vacay part one)
In which I tell about our first night at the B&B. Awkward.
After two weeks solid of narration, and three busy weeks with the kids, and starting a new session of classes and one I haven’t taught before…well, I was feeling way overwhelmed and desperately needed a vacation. But where can you go when you really only have a day and a half off? I decided to book an expensive inn in Saugatuck, Michigan. I could pick up Biff after work, drive twenty more minutes, and we’d be there. Romantic inn, walks along the beach, total relaxation.
Now I’ve stayed at B&B’s before and I always found them a little creepy, but this one was highly recommended and from the website the rooms looked pretty spacious and private. More quirky hotel than creepy inn. When I talked to the innkeeper I told her I was a writer and needed a room with a desk, something private and relaxing. “We have just the room for you. It’s called the Kyoto.” Okay. I envisioned a spacious room and a bubble jet bath and me lounging around in my bathrobe while Biff volunteered to give me body rubs. Mmmm.
Walking up to the inn felt pretty okay. We walked a lilac lined sidewalk and past giant white tulips, a beautiful miniature Japanese Maple, and into the inn. We were welcomed by a little old woman with snow-white hair. She complained of allergies. Suddenly, there was a twist in my stomach. It felt a little creepy. It felt like staying at your grandparents’ house, if you have grandparents you don’t know very well and are afraid might punish you if you’re too loud.
Up the creaky stairs and into the spacious Kyoto with….wait a minute…it wa a teeny, tiny room loaded with wicker furniture and a shower that (as Biff said) you had to battle to get into because of the hundred curtains. It was also 80 degrees. “A little trouble with the heating,” the innkeeper said then she adjusted the thermostat. I think she turned it up.
It was okay. We were having hor dourves and wine in half an hour and it was my mini-vacay, time to relax, be romantic, and eat.
I’d envisioned a group of hip thirty-year-olds (like us, yes?) in town for min-vacays too. Maybe we’d meet other writers and movie people and artists. Then I got the second twinge in my stomach. We were the youngest (by decades) of the twelve couples. And everyone was having an anniversary or a wedding. “Someone’s going to ask us if were married,” I said. “Tell them that we are married but not to each other. We’ll say we’re here to have an affair.” Biff agreed.
Later as Biff stood in line for seconds (the appetizers were good: bruschetta with lots of garlic, zucchini straws, fancy cheeses) I heard someone ask him if we had just gotten married. “Noooooo,” he said. “Been there, done that, don’t think I’m doing that again.” And that’s when I got my third twinge. Not that I want to marry him, for god’s sake, it’s even too early to even think such a thing, but there was something in that phrase that scared the crap out of me. Will need to see my therapist to figure it out.
“I don’t want to talk to people,” I said.
“That’s okay, me either,” Biff said. We ate. We smiled. Then listened as the old people around us talked about the massive infestation of tent worms, how you can here them crunch under your feet. At the time I was crunching bruschetta with garlic chopped in pesto. I imagined crunching caterpillars. I set it down.
Then we went to dinner. We walked the block into town and settled in at Phil’s, a local pub/bar type restaurant with brown paper on the tables. It smelled like fish. I like fish so that was okay. We sat reading the menu waiting for our portabella fries to be delivered.
“They have chicken, Biff. Look!” I pointed to the fried chicken platters at the bottom of the menu. Biff does a good job of trying all the weird kind of food I like, but at the heart of it, he’s a simple man. Not simple as in, uhm, mentally challenged, but as in a Midwestern eater. That sounds bad. I don’t mean it to. At any rate, I pointed to the chicken.
He looked at me intensely. “I’ll take a leg and a thigh.”
I blinked. Why was his voice all low? I lowered mine too. “Ohhhhh, that sounds good. You must be a dark meat man. I prefer white meat. I like wings the most…” I was purring it, channeling Eartha Kitt.
He just looked at me, exasperated like. “Tanya, no. I was flirting with you. I wasn’t saying I wanted dark meat. I was saying I want YOUR leg and thigh. Can I have YOUR leg and thigh please?”
Oh.
I laughed for about five minutes over that one and then said “Sure.” He ended up having an open face steak sandwich, and to broaden my horizons I ordered a steak salad (it still had spinach and goat cheese so I was comfortably within my safe zone.)
We walked back to the inn. Crept quietly up the stairs. I took a shower. A perfectly nice shower but I still mourned that there was no tub shooting massaging water. I put a robe on. I kissed Biff a little bit. And then fell deeply asleep. It was 9PM, and I was tired. Exhausted. But relaxed.
A Day In The Life--Me as Narrator
A day in the life of a narrator.
I recently had a suggestion from S. Esperanza to blog about what it’s like being a narrator. Funny, I’ve never really written about it…mostly because I thought it would be boring. Then I stopped to think, well, just because I do it and am used to it, doesn’t mean it’s necessarily boring. If you were watching me narrate it would be. I’m not supposed to move because every movement projects a sound, so basically you’d just be looking at me sitting perfectly still while my face contracts and pinches. Not pretty. Still, though, maybe it is interesting.
A day in the life, then.
A standard book takes about three days to narrate. Think of the books you see in gas stations or grocery stores, you know, the New York Times bestsellers. All about three days. Longer ones, especially fantasies, can take much longer. As a narrator, the actual reading aloud of the story is really a unique experience. It feels really intimate to me. Not in a naughty way, but in a deeply personal one. When you read out loud, you somehow crawl inside a story, you inhabit it. You try to become the characters and the narrator, and for a while, the whole world slips off your shoulders and you’re just transported. Books that I wouldn’t necessarily choose to read on my own, have been delightful surprises. I’ve been inside romances and adventures, terrifying chases, car crashes, breakups, and I’ve fallen in love over and over and over again. And everytime it’s something new. I’m getting off track though.
SAMPLES OF MY NARRATION
So the day starts like this: Coffee and food. Coffee for energy and food, lots of it, so that my stomach doesn’t start growling at 10:30am. I’ll wake up at 5:30AM, write, coffee up, and then in the car by 7. Sometimes I stop and get a big breakfast sandwich, or I’ll eat something at home. And I have to pack a snack. Yogurt and berries. A pb&j sandwich. I love crunchy vegetables and vegetarian food, but when I’m narrating, I can’t eat those things. My stomach works to hard. It’s embarrassing how many sounds your body makes while you narrate. You swallow so much air while reading you start to burp like Homer Simpson. So, I stick to sandwiches. Or, sammiches, as I call them. It’s a good thing I’m a fan.
In the studio at 8:15. There’s four studios to choose from A, B, C, and D. A is freezing, B is hot. C is pretty okay but there’s a ghost there. D is cold and hot and there’s ambient noises from the shipping area RIGHT NEXT DOOR. You get a director and an engineer. They air lock you in the room, you have a stack of pages in front of you and you read. You try to avoid falling into a pattern with your voice or the narration will be monotonous. They give me a special S filter because I happen to be a little sibilant. I don’t use my talking voice. It’s too high and whiny. I slip into my lower register. It’s comfortable there…like slipping on silky pajamas.
I used to highlight all the different characters in different colors and assign descriptions to them: High & Whiny, Pinched Nose, Side Talker, Sexy, With Gravel. Just little clues to help me figure out which voice to read. You don’t want every man to be deep, or that’s boring. And if you listen to people, you realize there’s a whole range of voices besides high and deep. There’s breathy, and tentative, fast talkers, and enunciators. There are speakers who sound angry, and speakers who have voices warm and round as honey flowing. Now I don’t highlight. I’ve gotten enough practice that when I read aloud something, my eye skips ahead for any descriptions or what’s coming up next. It’s weird and hard to explain.
We break for lunch at 12:30. Sometimes I hang out with the engineers and other narrators where we talk about books and issues with words (is ‘angst’ really pronounced ‘ahhhngst”) or we talk sci-fi or movies. Many of the conversations start with “Did you hear about…” and it’s a superhero character or a weird fact or something about food. They always make me laugh.
Or if I’m stressed or tired from talking (it happens) I head over to Panera bread where it’s soup and sandwich and internet access. At 1:30 it’s back to the studio, and I narrate until about 4:30 when my energy bar is so zapped I can’t read a sentence without screwing up. I can read 4 or 5 pages without a mistake if I’m on a roll. That’s like 7 minutes. Dick Hill and Sandra Burr, narrators extraordinaire, have been known to read over twenty minutes without a mistake. Not sure how long Joyce Bean or Laural Merlington can go, but I’m sure they’re in the twenty minute range too.
Hmmm. Taken out of context, you might be confused about what I’m talking about there.
Then I pack up and head home. An hour drive. I listen to NPR so other people can talk.
I listen to audiobooks because I love them and I’m trying to get better. The first two books I narrated a decade ago were such colossal bombs that they almost destroyed my career. In fact, after reading Seven Up by Janet Evanovitch, there was so much hate mail against me they actually pulled the narration. I didn’t work again for 6 years. But I have gotten better. If anything, that’s a story of how you can come back from the brink of disaster. They gave me another shot with the Meg Gardiner series following cool chick Evan Delany. Fast paced action, murder mysteries. Loved that series. Then I was given a book called “The Post Birthday World” by Lionel Schriver with a story so beautiful I actually cried in the studio. You can hear it on the recording. Deen Koontz chose my voice once, as did Philip Roth. And now my favorites are the Susan Mallery series and I highly enjoyed the Nora Roberts book. Plus books by Alex Kava and Tess Gerritsen. I do worry that the authors won't like my voice. Sometimes I wish I could talk to them directly so I'd know what they want, but we're not allowed. Seems funny to me, but I guess I get it. Every once in a while I hear from an author, but it's rare. I do try to make them proud.
I don’t know if this is interesting to anyone or not…but sometimes I look around in the studio and I think “I actually get to do this? Who gets to do something so cool?” And, of course, how did I get so lucky. I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know that every book I read, I fall in love a little bit more…with language, and stories, and just the creative spirit.
I’m a lucky girl. And it’s time for me to eat a sammich.
Me. Throwing a Tantrum.
Me, pouting like a mofo.
Has it really been ten days without blogging? Really? Well, no wonder I’m crabby. It’s certainly not for lack of topics. I could blog about any number of things, which is why I haven’t blogged about anything. I’ve been too busy curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth. I do this when I’m stressed.
Actually, that’s not an accurate description. A more accurate description is I put on an old pair of pajamas, put my hair up, take off my makeup and then I schlep around my house, open the refrigerator and just stare—trying to will food to appear. That’s how I handle stress, by general schlepping and staring. I’m like a Tennessee Williams heroine that way.
Here’s what’s got me acting like a crazy lady: (AKA stuff on my mind.)
1.
Last week I couldn’t walk in Kendall’s graduation. Even though they cashed my rental check for the gown, somehow it didn’t appear. One of the professors said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not personal.” Today I got an email saying that I wasn’t qualified to be interviewed for the full-time teaching position. I can teach there full-time and fill in where they need me, but for a sustained job with benefits, I’m not good enough. Talk about a blow to the ego. Beyond a blow to the ego. That’s a karate chop to the groin.
2.
I’ve been narrating for two weeks straight. Three books. This means driving an hour there and back every day, through crazy construction, while trying to take care of my two kids and cook decent food and make sure I’m there for them. It’s sucked up entire days and brain cells. This isn’t a complaint exactly. I love narrating and being inside a book…I just wish that the timing had been different.
3.
Went mushroom hunting this weekend. It was great, but sucked up my entire weekend from book prep and prepping for the next class that (apparently) I’m not qualified to teach. It took 3 ½ hours to get up there and another 3 ½ back. On the plus side, I had a great time with the kids and remembered why I love my family and the woods and the lake.
4.
Just had a conversation with Biff. We’re having a mini-vacation this weekend. Basically, I need to get away before I explode, Monty Python character style. Then he asked (half-jokingly) if I were his girlfriend. He doesn’t really like the term girlfriend because it sounds teenage-y. But then, what do you say? “Here’s the person I’m involved with”? That sounds medical. “Here’s the girl I’m seeing”? No soul to that. “Here’s the person I have fantasies about and occasionally sleep with”? Hmmm. That’s nice, but doesn’t quite cover it, and it leaves too much interpretation as a booty-call only. I told him to think about it and see what he comes with. Translation: Yes. I’d like to be his girlfriend but only if it’s because he wants, specifically, me…and not because I’m currently the only option. If that’s the case, if he’s got feelings for, specifically, me…then I’m just fine with the teenage term. Let other people be uncomfortable with it. I’d be too busy giggling to care.
5.
I have three grants to write for nonprofits that I support and no time to do it.
6.
I can’t feel my toes. This isn’t a medical concern. It’s because I remember the scene in Die Hard where Bruce Willis walks on his toes to give himself a massage and I tried that to relax, but then my foot cramped. Further proof that I’m old…maybe even too old to be a girlfriend.
7.
I left my cell phone charger up north. I'm about to lose power in 3, 2, 1....
8.
And did I mention I didn’t get interviewed for the dream job I’m currently in? You know, the one I’m doing but am not qualified for? Oh. Yeah. I did mention it.
Sorry for the bitch fest here, but seriously, sometimes a girl gets so overwhelmed she can’t even breathe. And by girl, I mean me. I mean I’m overwhelmed. And now entirely freaked out about this mini-vacation I’ve planned.
Breathe breathe breathe.
I think I’ll walk around talking in Southern accent for a while. That always helps Tennessee Williams characters. That and saying “I am so hot. Boy, is it hot in here.”
Harrumph.
New Misadventures with Biff OR Why I'm Still Blunder Woman
There was a Lover’s Lane when I was growing up. I never went there but I did give other people directions on how to get there.
I’ve been blogging a bit about past loves. I left off at college and I might return to that story, but right now, it’s current dating I’m thinking about. So, at 36, I’m finally dating again. I’ve met men over the last year and had a sorta relationship for a few months, but this is different. This is old school nervousness, sweaty palms, and general stuttering. You’d think that with all my ‘life experience’ I’d be a pro at this.
Okay. If you read my blog, you probably would not think this at all. The truth is, I’m just as awkward at this as everything else in my life. The only difference is that now I can laugh about it.
So, the guy’s name? Biff Turlington. Yeah, that’s right. Biff. Turlington. (No way is that a pseudonym, is there?) He’s not my usual type. I tend to be drawn to dark, short Italian men for some reason. And they’re usually stocky, like they could probably lift dead bodies over their heads and drop them off at the wharf. This guy? He’s tall and thin and equally awkward. A little neurotic. Sometimes pretentious. Funny. (And I know you’re reading this. I’ll expect a list of return compliments.) I won’t go on with the list, but I will say I feel really comfortable with him. Even when I totally make an ass of myself.
Apparently, there are all these hidden dating rules that I’d either forgotten or was just never been clued in to. Take for example the night when we were acting like teenagers (do I need to go into detail?) and there was a pause and I said breathlessly “You could stay over if you want.”
Biff said, “I’ve really got to go. I have to work early in the morning.”
I thought, oh, okay, so I did the most natural thing. I quickly walked him to the door, told him good night and then shut the door firmly so that no passing marauders could bust in to my house.
Days later, I was at dinner with a girlfriend, a lovely red-headed vixen who really could be my sister. (I don’t mean we look alike. She’s cuter than me, but we’re so similar it’s possible our parents dated.) Biff then tells her the story and she bursts out laughing. “What?” I asked.
“Tanya, he didn’t really want to go to work.”
“Didn’t he?”
“No. You were supposed to convince him to stay.”
“Or at least walk me to my car and give me a long kiss,” Biff interrupted. “Not shove me out the door.”
Really? “But you said you had to work. I was being respectful.”
Apparently, in dating, you’re not supposed to be respectful. See, you make an offer, the guy tries to be polite, and then you attack him. I get it now. Really.
It took me a couple of tries to understand though.
On the day of my potluck, Biff came over to help set up. He yawned and said, “Boy, I’m tired. I think I’ll go upstairs for a nap.” Then he just sort of stared at me.
“Okay. Enjoy!” I said, then I happily went about making my pavlova.
Later I find out that here again was another subtle ploy. He meant to say: “I’m going for a ‘nap’.” Subtext: come upstairs with me now.
Subtlety just doesn’t work for me. I’ve talked to him about it. We now have a secret signal that when he’s following these unwritten dating rules of not saying exactly what he means, he’ll give the signal and I’ll know “Okay. This is flirting.” and/or “It’s time to attack him”.
I can do this. I can totally learn this new way of flirting. And if not, then he’ll just have to spell it out for me. Literally. He might have to write it down, and then I’ll understand it. I told him last night that there was a Lover’s Lane when I was growing up. I never went there but I did give other people directions on how to get there.
Maybe now, I’m hanging out there. I don’t know quite how it happened or what to do now, so I’m sort of just stumbling my way through it, sweaty palms and all.
Dark Love OR Poetry, Nirvana, and More with Darkman
So after my final day of working at the Dairy Queen, I packed up, and entered school with two goals: 1) To have all night conversations about poetry and 2) To finally Do It. And by Do It, this time, I mean, Do It. According to my timeline, this is what you did in college. And you learned how to drink coffee.
College years. I chose Grand Valley because they gave me a scholarship and said I could be in their Honor’s College. I liked the sound of that. Plus, I could commute from Coopersville, and ‘save money’. That was a serious mistake, but, hey, I was 18.
So after my final day of working at the Dairy Queen, I packed up, and entered school with two goals: 1) To have all night conversations about poetry and 2) To finally Do It. And by Do It, this time, I mean, Do It. According to my timeline, this is what you did in college. And you learned how to drink coffee.
Classes were fun, important. There was one super cute guy I followed into my first class: The Renaissance. He had floppy hair and wore plaid, flannel shirts. (This was 1991-92 and that was the thing.) I stared at him, enamored. He also wore Polo and was extremely smart. Clearly out of my league. I gave up on that idea and focused on where I belonged, the dark recesses of the theater.
And in the dark recesses of the theater I met my First Love. Honestly, he wasn’t even a First Love. He was more like the First Time. He was perfect. He was tall, and dark, and tormented. He smoked. He wore a long dark trenchcoat. And they called him Darkman (after the movie) .
I’m not even kidding. He also had a girlfriend. It didn’t matter. Torment called to us. One night, we bonded over coffee and cigarettes while Nirvana played on my boom box. I read my poetry to him. He nodded in the right places. He listened. And then Darkman showed me his arms.
He’d carved LOVE on one arm and DEATH on the other. I traced the red lines with my fingers. Here was a boy whose torment was deeper than mine. And while it’s sort of funny and dramatic now, at the time, it was rather heartbreaking. Actually, it still is heartbreaking. He told me that he was a Jehovah’s Witness and his parents had disowned him. He’d never had a birthday, a Christmas. He felt invisible.
I didn’t have scars to show him, but I had stories. I felt invisible too. And I told him about my parents and the house and the fear. It was comforting meeting someone equally damaged. We took off our cardigan sweaters, our plaid shirts, our baggy jeans. Put “Prospero’s Books” on the VCR and that was my first time. It was heartbreaking, and dramatic, and filled with angst and I remember thinking while it was happening “This is a really weird movie” and “This is what all the love poems are about? Really?”
By the time Kurt Cobain committed suicide, Darkman and I broke up. I got that Cobain’s death was sad, but I also thought it was stupid. Darkman felt like his world was shattered. Mostly, I wanted to get away from the darkness. I wanted something happy. Something secure. I didn’t like coffee and cigarettes and even poetry was beginning to bore me. So I fixed Darkman up with another girl, and then went back to school.
The next semester, the cute boy in the Polo shirt knocked on my desk. “Hey, Tanya,” he said. “I was hoping I’d have you in another class.”
“Really?” I said, and what I meant was “You noticed me?” It seems he did. We were together 5 years. We moved to Detroit and Miami. We were engaged. I broke his heart. He wrote a New York Times Notable Book. And, yep, that’s another story too.
Secret High School Romance or What Will Everyone Think?
“What will everyone think?” is something I’ve repeated in my head so often and for so long that it’s actually had a deep affect on my life. Some of it’s good like, “what would people think if I shaved a bald spot onto the top of my head just to see what it would be like?” But then...
Obvious admission: I spend a lot of time roaming around in my own brain. I think that writers become so because their minds just won’t shut up and it’s the only way to quiet themself down. My mind has a frequent mantra: “What will everyone think?”
I hate that mantra, even more than I hate What Would Jesus Do?
“What will everyone think?” is something I’ve repeated in my head so often and for so long that it’s actually had a deep affect on my life. Some of it’s good like, “what would people think if I shaved a bald spot onto the top of my head just to see what it would be like?”
But then that same annoying thought has stopped me from other things like: “What would people think if I didn’t do all the things I’m supposed to? What would people think if I hurt someone’s feelings by saying no? What would people think if I lived exactly the way I want to…”
What would people think if you became the Authentic You? If you stopped pleasing everyone and started pleasing yourself? Huh. Not talking masturbation, here, but you know what I mean. What if instead of taking the tiny overcooked piece of turkey on the plate, you took the most succulent, the one you’d usually save for someone else? You know what would happen? You’d have a great dinner that you didn’t have to drown in gravy.
I’ve got lost in my own metaphor here.
FLASHBACK:
High school. Me. Poetic girl trying to hide in baggy clothes with half my hair shaved, the other half long and covering my eyes. (I looked like the guy from Simply Red, and that was not hot, let me tell you.)
I could hide behind my hair, my clothes. I could be quiet. Because, you know, what if someone saw me? What if they knew what kind of family I had? What if they saw how scared I was all the time?
In my senior year, I met a boy. He was two years younger, which seemed an impassable ocean of time. We had Spanish together. We hated each other in public. In private, I’d drive over to his house at night, sneak past his parents’ window and creep up to his room. We’d make-out for hours. Every time I felt nervous and sick with the thought of “What would people think if they knew?” I also felt alive because for once, I was doing something I wanted to do.
One night, lying in his bed, he lifted the hair from my eyes, pushed it back so he could stare at me. He said nothing. I was terrified of what he was thinking. What would he think of me? “What?” I asked. It was all I could manage. I couldn’t say: “What are you thinking about me?” All I could say was “What?” my voice quiet as a butterfly fluttering, as if the words themselves hurt.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
It was the first time anyone had ever called me that. And I felt like it was the first time someone really saw me and told me not what they thought of me, but what I wanted to think of myself.
I’ve learned over the years that it doesn’t really matter what people think. What matters is what you think about yourself and your actions. There are so many ways we can be controlled: by rules, by families, by our passions. It’s all outside stuff. So that constant mantra in my head—I’ve reworded it. Now I say: “What do you think, Tanya? Are you okay with this?” And it’s transformed me. It really has.
Honkey Love
...Then something strange started to happen. There was a day where Ian and Missy were making out on recess instead. I don’t remember seeing them make-out, but I like to imagine they were in a corner, with those giant red bouncy balls smacking all around them as kids tried to eliminate each other through dodge ball.
Where Heartbreak Started
Let us go back, back , back…not to the absence of my father or inferiority feelings about being the youngest and a girl, no. That’s all psychobabble. Maybe it’s true, but it’s not fun. And I want to go back to the moment I think my bad luck with dating began. That's where the fun is.
It was in 6th grade. Central Elementary School. Traverse City Michigan. By some freak accident, I hung out with the popular kids. I shouldn’t have. They were too fast and rich for me. I went to the barber to get my hair cut. I wore clothes from the JcPenny catalogue. But on recess, when everyone was bored, they could say “Tanya, tell us a story where we’re on a tropical island” and I would. I’d fill it with details. I made everyone a hero. I was never in the stories.
Then something strange started to happen. There was a day where Ian and Missy were making out on recess instead. I don’t remember seeing them make-out, but I like to imagine they were in a corner, with those giant red bouncy balls smacking all around them as kids tried to eliminate each other through dodge ball.
At any rate, that was the day when Sex started to happen. No actual Sex. We were in 6th grade and didn’t have the Internet, but suddenly kids started to pair off. Dave was the most popular. He could Go With anyone. (It was Going With then, although no one ever Went anywhere that I know of). Jason was smart and popular. I liked Todd. He was the class comedian, but he showed no interest. Dave paired with Cathy, the French girl who just moved to live with her dad and had enormous knockers. Meredith went with Jason. Little Bob was with Rachel, and Big Bob went with I can’t remember who.
Everyone was paired up. Except me. I blame two things. One) I had a deep fascination with Michel Jackson and Madonna. I dressed like their love child. Two) I had no desire to Go With anyone. I just wanted to tell my stories.
Then the rumors started. Rumors that something was wrong with Tanya. She’s so weird. Look at her clothes. Maybe she’s not really a girl. I didn’t understand these rumors at first, but I knew that I had to stop them. So when Abe Honkey (Yes. That’s a real name. If you’re reading this, send me a note.) So when Abe Honkey in his thick glasses asked me to Go With him, I said yes.
(As an aside, maybe this is why I like guys in glasses. I’ve always been grateful to Abe.)
After school, Abe waited for me. He reached out his sweaty hand and grabbed mine. I imagine everyone on the playground watching, except Ian and Missy. They were still making out. We walked three blocks to my house. I wanted to throw up. When we got to my house, I said “Thanks, Abe. But I’m afraid I can’t see you anymore.”
“You’re breaking up with me?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
He shook his head, looking like I’d just destroyed every illusion about love he’d ever had. Maybe he knew I'd only dated him to make people stop talking.
That’s the moment where It started. I was mean to him. I'd used him…and in the breeze there was a slight scent of it in the air and Karma caught it. It would be many years before I paid for that cruelty of using someone else…but eventually it would happen.
(And then I’d write a book about it, but that’s another story.)
Fingers Crossed
Now What?
I’ve met someone. I’ll just put that right out there. And it’s super new and fragile and awkward…but the truth is, I like him. And of course, I don’t know how to handle it.
When you’re a teenager, you sort of makeout whenever you can and in the cover of darkness. Sometimes you have sex. In college you have sex whenever and wherever you can and sometimes you make out. In your twenties you have relationships that sort of erupt overnight like mushrooms, and then somehow become marriages. And sometimes you get divorced. Sometimes you get divorced and you have kids. After that, the dating world transforms. It’s not even a world anymore. It’s a universe…and it’s alien at that.
So this man…he’s smart, and funny, and flirtatious, and cute, and nerdy, and I’m pretty certain he likes me too. At 36 it feels ridiculous to wonder, “Should I call him?” and “Does he like me?” and “If I text him am I contacting him too much?” and then…eventually… “When is it okay to sleep with him?” They’re all ridiculous questions, and all things I’ll figure out if I can talk to him. Which I think I can.
Mostly, I just want time to get to know him. I’d love to hang out and watch movies, cook dinner for him, go out. Finding time between jobs and responsibilities and kids and everything is doubly tricky.
And of course, there’s the real potential of heartbreak. Dating doesn’t usually work out. Someone gets bored or pissed or starts showing you all those dark places they’d been hiding. Then again, what’s considered successful dating? Marriage? I rather like to think that successful dating is where you remain authentically you. You talk. You connect (er…physically, yes, but emotionally too) and that all lasts as long as it can. So if you’re true to yourself you get this daily gift of another person sharing some time with you, and maybe a little bit of their self. For however long you can. That’s success.
And, dear sir, If you’re reading this, no worries. I’ll tell you all this when I see you again. I feel pretty certain that will happen.
And for anyone I’ve pissed off through my fumbling and flirtations, I really am sorry. I haven’t blogged about the dates I’ve been on over the year, but they are rather humorous, so I just might…and I’m sorry for that too. Not to be insensitive, but sheesh, when a guy says he can’t see you anymore because he’s got to go on a weeklong ‘cleansing’ with his guru, well he's sort of asking for it.
And as for this new guy in my life…I’m glad I met you. Be tender. I will too. And everyone else out there who’s been following my divorce and disasters…maybe…maybe after you go through that, you also find something delightful.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed at any rate.
(Coming soon: I revisit old boyfriends from childhood on. Not literally visit them like in "High Fidelity". Just in mini-profiles.)
My Obsessive List of Back-to-Dating Questions
I list a whole hunk of questions that would keep any therapist employed for a couple of months.
After a self-imposed exile (is that the right word?) of dating, I find I want to do it. Uhm, dating, that is, and not Do It…which is an entirely different thing, but yes, something I’d like to do too.
I’m having a little trouble in this area though. Mostly, it’s my brain. It’s getting in the way. At 36 and divorced and a single mom, I have a whole new list of dating questions and I don’t know the answer to them.
Here are a few:
1) Can I blog about a man I’m seeing if he reads my blog? (If I’m seeing you and you’re reading this, you may want to stop. Seriously.) My blog could prove awkward. A girl needs secrets…and while dating you want to appear perfect and like you always smell of scented lotion. You do not want to come off as neurotic, strange, or possibly obsessive…which are all conclusions you could make about me if you read my blog.
2) And if I blog about dating, can I do it while I’m dating or do I have to wait until months later? I keep envisioning me on a date that’s going really well, so well, we’re on some couch somewhere making out like teenagers and I say “Oh! Hold that thought! I want to tell everyone I’m making out like a teenager!” Then I run to the computer, type away, and then run back.
3) Do I wait for a man to approach me and ask me out or embrace newfound Cougar-within and approach him? And what are the new rules? When do I talk about my kids without making it sound like I want a new Daddy. I don’t, but the kids are an essential part of who I am. Like down to the DNA.
And men my age are usually divorced and/or fresh out of relationships or wounded by relationships. Do I wait until they’re more well-adjusted? Is someone who’s bitter about their ex best to be avoided? Or do I just jump in there and say “Hey! I’m here! Let’s do it!” (Dating, again, people. Not Do It. That’s for later.)
4) Can I date someone whose friend I dated but that was like in college when I didn’t know any better? That’s probably asking for a whole lot of drama.
5) Are all my former students who are now in their thirties off limits still? Because role-playing could be fun. No. That’s off the list. If you’re at my school looking to hire me, I would never NEVER date a student. (Again.)
6) Do I immediately mark off the list anyone who is living with their parents. Times are tough. It’s a new era, and lots of people need to get back on their feet.
7) Could I possibly have a fling? One that doesn’t necessarily mean anything? That would be free and easy, wouldn’t it? A passionate fling on a beach somewhere where I have long hair and a bikini body that makes the gods jealous? (Oops. Just slipped into fantasy there.)
8 ) I just answered my own question. I don’t think I’m a fling type of person. My heart always gets in the way.
And most importantly….
9) How do I stop that heart from getting broken? I’m terrified. Absolutely terrified of falling in love with the wrong person. I’m also terrified of falling in love with the right person.
10) I don’t really have a #10 but I felt like I couldn’t end a list on 9.
So that’s my obsessive list for dating. Who knows the answers to these questions? I could ask my therapist, but he’d probably tell me to just trust myself. I’d rather have someone just tell me what to do and not do. It would be a whole lot easier.
Why We Need Each Other...& A Little Kissing
My aunt says that the reason therapy works is that they’ve done studies (can’t cite them though) on brain waves and brain activity and neurons are actually strengthened by talking. So by talking to each other, connecting with each other, it actually heals us, makes us stronger.
Last week I tried posting some writer type things. For those of you who write, I hope it helped, at least to know that everyone struggles, gets frustrated, and is a little neurotic. Just a postscript: when I talked about sharing your work, I didn’t mean everyone needed to try to get published. One reader is all you need. Just find one person that you trust.
I guess that’s sort of true of life, and what I’m trying to do. Trying to find one person I can trust to share all those little awkward, wonderful details with.
As for writing…well, I’ve now reached that point where I point where I broadcast intensely personal aspects of my life and blog about it. Why? Why do I do this? My aunt says that the reason therapy works is that they’ve done studies (can’t cite them though) on brain waves and brain activity and neurons are actually strengthened by talking. So by talking to each other, connecting with each other, it actually heals us, makes us stronger.
Maybe this is why I’m so obsessed with the idea of relationships. And love. And dating. And, yes, making out. When we’re with someone, really present with them, we feel more alive. Brain science proves it.
Of course, I could be making all this up, but it sounds good doesn’t it?
So…stay with me here…if connecting with someone heals us, then perhaps the opposite is true. If you’re in a relationship where there is no more communication, no more physical contact, no more being present with each other, maybe this is harmful. Maybe it really does hurt you, and not just emotionally. This is what happened to me in my marriage. I was doing a slow disappearing act. It came from being ignored and not listened to, and I think my little grey cells were shutting down.
Now, of course, I’m connecting all over the place.
Er….Maybe I should reword that.
I’m talking to friends. I’m laughing. I’m asking for help. I post my writing for everyone to read. I go on dates. Sometimes, if I’m lucky (but not that kind of lucky), I may even kiss someone. It all reminds me of how beautiful life is. And ugly. And hard. And painful. And ultimately miraculous.
Life? It’s messed up. It’s hard. And that’s why we need each other. Really, physically, need each other for help.
It’s brain chemistry, really. Or magic.
That in each other we find…well…a kind of peace. And everyone deserves that feeling.
And to be kissed.
Kissing is good too.
Guest Comments from Elizabeth Searle
Published writer Elizabeth Searle offers a couple of thoughts On Writing.
I met Elizabeth Searle at the MFA program I attended through the University of Southern Maine. While we never worked directly together, I did get to be in one of her workshops and saw her perform...and we clicked. Both of us have performance backgrounds and a love for theater. She even wrote a rock opera about the Tonya Harding saga called "Tonya and Nancy". Plus, she writes erotic fiction so steamy you really need someone to read it to you. :) Here's a comment from her with a great reminder. And check out her blog and writing.
"Hi Tanya & Tanya fans– I just want to chime in with Blunder Woman that she’s got the right approach here– as in the title of her first book: Easy Does It. Inch in with small steps and get your footing. Don’t overlook the opportunities of small mags, online mags; publish there, anywhere, and that gives you cover-letter fuel to approach the bigger fish with more crediblity–
as in fishing, PATIENCE and PERSISTENCE (and lots of red wine) are key– Thanks Tanya, for telling it like it is-"
Elizabeth
http://www.elizabethsearle.net
blogging at:
http://celebritiesindisgrace.wordpress.com
Guest Blog: TM Camp "3 Areas Writers Let Themselves Down"
T.M. Camp, novelist, playwright, and marketing guru has some great ideas for writers. And he's the one that got me started with online promotion. Beyond being deeply talented, he's also very wise, and a good person to boot. Here's what he has to say On Writing:
There are three areas in which writers typically let themselves down.
The first is absolutely in their control, and yet they often act like it is not. That is, they do not actually write. They don't sit down every day and put new words in front of each other. There are always excuses that get in front of it -- there's no time, it was a hard day at the office, the laundry's piling up, I'm too tired, I'm having a "block"... But writers (by definition) write.
Whether it's only for fifteen minutes or four hours, whether it's fifteen words or two thousand... Writers need to write every day. It's a responsibility, a stewardship of the gifts you've been given. And, ultimately, it's how you demonstrate your commitment, how you improve, and how you lay a foundation for your dreams.
Whether you're striving to be an Olympic athlete, a power forward for the New York Knicks, or the World's Best Mom... If that's how you define yourself at your core, you need to put in the time every day.
And, as a writer, it's one of the few things that you can actually control in the process. Too easily, we let ourselves off the hook.
The second area where writers fail themselves is in the professional arena. They know words, they know how to tell stories and develop characters, they write things that people want to read... but they let their own ignorance of the industry keep them from doing what's needed to get to the next level.
In all honesty, this has been my biggest failure. I've been writing for 25 years. I've only seriously dug into the publishing industry in the past few years. For too long, I allowed my ignorance to undercut all of my hard work and effort. It's regrettable and the feeling that you're making up for lost time is not a good one; it shortchanges your enthusiasm and gets in the way of the work itself.
Writers need to educate themselves, not just about their craft but also about their industry and how it connects them to their readers. They need to understand the business side of publishing, the ins and outs of it all and who the gatekeepers are.
Although the best practices and standards are variable from player to player -- that is, there's a lot of subjectivity and inconsistency across the range of expectations that agents and publishers bring to the table -- the industry is pretty well structured and documented. Writers should know it all, inside and out.
We need to have more than a vague familiarity with how that all works, so that we can plan our own approach to it all. Each writer needs to craft a professional thread for themselves, something they can follow... They need a guiding line that allows them to navigate the maze and avoid the pitfalls and fight the monsters along the way.
And thirdly, writers need to get very comfortable -- if not adept -- with new technologies, new media and emerging channels: Blogging, Social Networking and Marketing, Podcasting, Crowdsourcing, Print on Demand, Online Distribution, Creative Commons, and so many other buzzwords making the rounds... The opportunities presented by these still-evolving concepts are largely misunderstood, dismissed, and/or untapped by most writers.
Whether or not you think each and every one of them will be viable in the future, the impact that these things will have (the impact that is already apparent) on publishing is undeniable.
We've got a long way to go, but the ability for a writer to connect with an audience and build a platform for their work has never been more available to us.
And, from my perspective, it's never been more exciting to be a writer.
ABOUT T.M. CAMP
From a very early age, T.M. Camp has been making up stories and then writing them down. There is no reason to expect that he will stop any time soon. In addition to his long career in advertising, T.M. has written over thirty plays, numerous short stories and poems, and two novels. His plays have been produced by theatres in California, Michigan, Iowa, and Tennessee. A few of his scripts have even won awards. One of his plays — “The Red Boy” — broke into the top ten of the 2001 Writer’s Digest playscript competition. In 2007, T.M. finished his first novel “Assam & Darjeeling“, following it up with the novella “Matters of Mortology” in early 2008. In addition to a number of smaller, ongoing projects, T.M. is currently at work on his third novel, entitled “Pantheon”.In all of his work, T.M. explores boundaries — The boundaries between worlds… boundaries between the physical and the supernatural… the boundaries between people… and the boundaries within ourselves.
Check out "Matters of Mortology" by clicking HERE.
Random Thoughts: Best with Depressing Music
bluh
I know. I know. It’s bad form to double-post. But the previous post was from writer-Tanya and this post is from whining-Tanya. They are two entirely different people (on good days). My DVD player is broken and I drank too much wine and then waited and took a valium for the dentist tomorrow (per prescription. Don’t worry about the wine. I ate and waited first) and now I feel all wobbly. And I feel old. And lonely. Whaaaahh!!!
*insert pathetic babyish crying here*
Random Thoughts
#1 Two weeks ago I went to Comedy Monday at Dog Story. I’m not currently performing there because organizning and producing the radio plays took too much energy for very little reward. I just can’t keep doing it. So I was there to run box office and to help out. It was a fun night, though people seemed to look through me since I was “Box Office Staff” and not “A Real Person”. And then I was going to stay and do the open improv jam and I looked at all the people staying and they were all in their twenties. A few were in their thirties, but they’re still single and I felt…well….really, really old.
When you’re single, divorced, a single parent, it does something to you. First, it makes you unreliable because there are always issues with babysitters and the kids and family and job obligations. Second, you just can’t seem to shake a constant sense of responsibility. Third, it makes your boobs droop.
So I looked at all the young people and single-no-kids people and I thought “We don’t have a thing in common”. And then I drove home.
#2 I love my house. I love it. My kids love it. And now they’re at their dad’s. He lives, now, a couple of blocks away. His fiancée now answers his phone when I call to talk about the kids. He needed to pick up some things for our daughter and sent his soon-to-be-step-daughter to pick it up for him. And I sat on my deck and had a glass of wine and I thought “Huh. 6 years ago we were married and now I talk more to his fiancée than I do to him.” Our would-be-anniversary was yesterday. The whole day passed and I didn’t realize it until today.
#3 I decided to stop online dating. By stopping online dating and waiting to meet that Special Someone naturally, I’m now not dating at all. And I want to be. I’ve had a few offers from very nice men but I can’t…I just….I need someone who’s my age or older. Who knows about life and struggles.
#4 I miss kissing. I miss lying next to a man in bed and falling asleep with our bodies touching. I miss cooking for someone and adding just a little bit of sexiness into a meal. Food is sensual after all. I miss phone calls and texts. I miss someone thinking about me during the day. I miss daydreaming about coming home to a man and kissing him before he can say a word.
#5 Even food isn’t appealing anymore, though I eat a lot of it.
#6 My pants are tight. My broken foot caused me to gain weight, and though I’m trying to up my activity level, the weight stays on. It’s like a bad memory I can’t shake, because it’s not a memory at all. It’s with me all the time.
#7 I don’t know what I’m doing anymore in my career. I want my teaching to be permanent. I want health insurance.
#8 While life is varied and complex and mysterious, I also wish it weren’t so blasted lonely and hard.
#9 I want to buy a sundress and wear it for someone special.
#10 I want my fantasy life for just a while to match my real life.
I think I’m depressed. I need a good cry. I need to go for a run. I need to make out. I’m not kidding. A good old-fashioned makeout session would cure all of this.
Maybe it’s back to online dating after all. God help me.
“Write for Yourself” is Bunk. We Write So Others Will Read.
Here's where I talk about getting your stuff out there. Writers don't write something and put it in a drawer. We share it. We're givers. That's what we are. Givers.
I’m currently sitting outside on my deck and there’s a nice warm breeze. I’m drinking wine and listening to the birds, and it’s utterly peaceful. All it’s missing is me in a sundress and a man with his hand on my thigh slowly working his way up and under the fabric of my dress.
Uhhhhhhhh
This is supposed to be about writing. And it is. It’s also about relaxing and enjoying life. Which I’m doing.
Okay. So there’s something I want to address here. It’s the whole question of publishing. Now, when you’re trying to get published and it’s just not happening, you may encounter the loving person who says “Don’t worry about it. And anyway, you should just write for yourself.” I’ve heard this so many times, and while I know it comes from a place of love, what I want to say is “No. Actually. I don’t write for myself. I write because I have something to say and I want someone to read it.”
Something you’ve written and haven’t shared is a secret. And it’s a rare thing for a secret to be good. No. We write because something compels us to share our story. Something written without readers is like a song without music. It doesn’t work. We want our work read, and we want it read now, and we want people to be touched and to think we’re geniuses.
I don’t think that’s just me. Really. I think that’s all writers.
Now comes the trouble. How do you get people to read it? You can try to get an agent and get it published. Many try this; many fail. A few make it. Bully for them. I can’t get an agent to look twice at me. Even when I run around in a bikini like I’m a girl on that old Benny Hill show. Blast. I can’t even get a phone number.
So then you submit directly to a publisher. Luckily, Champagne Books took me on. I like them so far. Hope they like me. And while it isn’t my fantasy world of being a Big Published Author, it is a Published Author, and I’ll find more readers through them than I could on my own.
I didn’t start with Champagne though. First, it was hard liquour. (Now that’s just plain silly.) No. What I mean to say is…first…I made my family read my stuff. Then my friends. Then I joined a writing group. Then a second writing group. Then I started reading my stuff out loud on the street corner (or at Dog Story Theater). Then I started a blog. Then I self-published “Easy Does It”. And then, and only then, did I get a gig with Champagne Books.
In my opinion, writing is about telling your story and then sharing that story, in any way you can. So what if you’re not making loads of money? you might. In time. Start small. Start by asking someone those terrifying questions. Even more terrifying than “Will you make out with me?” or “Do these jeans make me look fat?”
No.
You start with this: “I’ve written something. Could you read it and tell me what you think?”
Regardless of your reader or what they think, once your piece is read, it becomes real. You’ve told your story. Now tell another one. And maybe, just maybe, somewhere, somehow, an agent will listen and take you on. And if they don’t…well…fuck ‘em. Get your stuff out there another way. Any way possible. And keep doing it.
Here’s where I raise my wineglass to you and say “Cheers”.
For new, rusty, and reluctant writers
Pressfield says: “Never forget: This very moment, we can change our lives. There was never a moment, and never will be, when we are without the power to alter our destiny. This second, we can turn the tables on Resistance. This second, we can sit down and do our work.”
I wanted to try and do something a little different with the blog this week. Why? Good to stretch the muscles. I’m not sure of what, exactly, but change keeps you flexible. So this week, it’s about writing. I’ve collected a few comments, suggestions, and questions and I’ll start here: