I remember friends and family asking, when both of my girls were only a few months old, if we had a schedule yet. Someone would call up and suggest visiting and then ask if that would disturb our routine. Or they'd want to know what time the baby had a nap so they could come another time. My response was usually that we didn't have a schedule—other than the girls eating or sleeping as they needed.
As they got older, the routines developed. When we moved to northern Alberta, Sunshine was about six months old. As my husband and I fell into routines around his job and the things we had to do, Sunshine also found a routine. She woke up around 8 am when we did and went to bed around 8 pm. She normally napped for about three hours mid-day, and I wrote during that time. Then we moved again, and I went back to work, and our schedules became unpredictable.
This fall, as we settled into school, I looked forward to getting into a routine again. Lily was a bit older, a bit more ready to have a rhythm to her days. And some days, we have that rhythm. Again, they wake us up around 8 am and go to bed around 8 pm. Sunshine doesn't usually nap now, and Lily might nap at 11 am... or at 12... for an hour or for three. Sometimes I remember Sunshine's consistent, steady nap and wonder what I'm doing wrong with Lily. Then I remind myself that she's a different child, with a different personality and different ways of doing things.
I like routines. I like knowing what's coming up, being able to prepare for things and expect them. I know that Mondays and Thursdays are school days, Tuesday is play group, Friday is swimming. Yet I am also learning to change plans, to accept that some days the nap happens and other days it doesn't, to work with my husband's changing schedules (and to make sure we talk about it). I need to be flexible to my girls' needs and to be ready to adjust the routine if it doesn't help them. Instead of watching the clock, I watch Lily for yawns and eye-rubs and that, instead of an hour, is nap time.
Sometimes, I compare myself to other moms, like the mom I babysat for during high school, who had snacks and meals carefully planned for her children. I tell myself that this week, I will make sure Sunshine gets a snack at 10 am and 3 pm and eats a decent lunch, and that I won't let Lily wake up early from her nap or go to sleep early. Yet that only stresses me out, especially if Sunshine isn't hungry or Lily isn't tired. One day this week, Sunshine napped longer than Lily. So instead of comparing myself to other moms, I recognize that, like me, they are doing what works for their family.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
The "Terrible Twos" in Retrospect
Sunshine turned three this week. At times, it feels like the last three years have flown past and I wonder how I ended up with this quirky, cute little girl. Other times, those three years seem like forever—so much has changed, other than Sunshine growing up a bit more.
Everyone knows the cliche about the "terrible twos" and in some ways, it's true. Sunshine has learned to communicate more during the last year, but with that has come frustrations when she can't communicate—or when Mommy and Daddy don't understand what she's trying to communicate. She's learned to push boundaries, to see what we'll let her get away with. And sometimes, since howling gets her little sister attention, she tries to howl just to get attention for herself. When we were looking for babysitters in the fall, several potential sitters expressed concern about how young Lily was. I thought, "Oh, she's the easy one—she doesn't talk back yet!"
At the same time, there's nothing terrible about this time. When she was younger, different moms would tell me (at different times), "Oh, I love this age—it's so much fun." I've decided that all ages and stages are fun, just different. Sunshine might whine more than I like, but she sleeps through the night. She might not do what I ask her to do right away, but I can ask her to help put toys away or sort socks or set the table.
For her birthday, my husband and I decided to get her a little kitchen set. We've shopped around a bit, comparing features of different kitchens and watching for a sale. On her birthday, we borrowed her grandparents' van to go get the kitchen (there are some disadvantages to driving a Jeep TJ). However, we stopped at three places to do some last-minute comparisons. By the time we decided which kitchen we wanted, Sunshine was wailing, because we'd promised her a kitchen but we kept leaving the store without it. I don't think she believed all my promises that we were going to buy the kitchen until she actually pushed the big box up to the counter and watched me pay for it. We've enjoyed watching her delight in playing with it since (even if she's frying "chocolate-covered bagels" for "supper.").
So now we have a three-year-old in the house... who just got used to being two and now says "I wanna be two!" when she tell her she's three.
Everyone knows the cliche about the "terrible twos" and in some ways, it's true. Sunshine has learned to communicate more during the last year, but with that has come frustrations when she can't communicate—or when Mommy and Daddy don't understand what she's trying to communicate. She's learned to push boundaries, to see what we'll let her get away with. And sometimes, since howling gets her little sister attention, she tries to howl just to get attention for herself. When we were looking for babysitters in the fall, several potential sitters expressed concern about how young Lily was. I thought, "Oh, she's the easy one—she doesn't talk back yet!"
At the same time, there's nothing terrible about this time. When she was younger, different moms would tell me (at different times), "Oh, I love this age—it's so much fun." I've decided that all ages and stages are fun, just different. Sunshine might whine more than I like, but she sleeps through the night. She might not do what I ask her to do right away, but I can ask her to help put toys away or sort socks or set the table.
For her birthday, my husband and I decided to get her a little kitchen set. We've shopped around a bit, comparing features of different kitchens and watching for a sale. On her birthday, we borrowed her grandparents' van to go get the kitchen (there are some disadvantages to driving a Jeep TJ). However, we stopped at three places to do some last-minute comparisons. By the time we decided which kitchen we wanted, Sunshine was wailing, because we'd promised her a kitchen but we kept leaving the store without it. I don't think she believed all my promises that we were going to buy the kitchen until she actually pushed the big box up to the counter and watched me pay for it. We've enjoyed watching her delight in playing with it since (even if she's frying "chocolate-covered bagels" for "supper.").
So now we have a three-year-old in the house... who just got used to being two and now says "I wanna be two!" when she tell her she's three.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Tracy Krauss Launches My Mother the Man-Eater
Tracy Krauss, author of "edgy inspirational" fiction, is launching her book My Mother The Man-Eater on today at amazon.com. You can help Tracy achieve "best seller" status by purchasing the book at amazon.com TODAY! You can also check out my December interview with Tracy about the release of her book.
About the Book:
Loaded with humor, action, intrigue and romance, My Mother the Man-Eater is the story of a woman whose search for meaning in life finds an unexpected outlet. Joleen Allen is on the hunt for a man. Unfortunately, every time the mother of five meets one, he falls for one of her daughters instead!
At forty-four, Joleen has lived a tough life. She became a mother at sixteen and her daughters are now grown. Her ex-husband, Harold, is out of prison and looking for revenge. He’ll stop at nothing—even murder—to ruin Joleen’s reputation as well as her relationship with their daughters. My Mother the Man-Eater makes for some truly tempting and redemptive reading.
About the Author:
Tracy Krauss is a prolific author, playwright, director and artist. Originally from a small prairie town, she now resides in Tumbler Ridge, BC, known for its scenic mountain vistas and many waterfalls. She received her Bachelor’s Degree from the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon and currently teaches high school Art, Drama and English.
DISCLAIMER: This Best Seller book launch has been coordinated with the help of the John 3:16 Marketing Network and many other generous supporters. The free gifts are deliverable electronically over the internet or by email by individual authors and supporters. They are not in any way associated with, nor deliverable by, amazon.com.
About the Book:
Loaded with humor, action, intrigue and romance, My Mother the Man-Eater is the story of a woman whose search for meaning in life finds an unexpected outlet. Joleen Allen is on the hunt for a man. Unfortunately, every time the mother of five meets one, he falls for one of her daughters instead!
At forty-four, Joleen has lived a tough life. She became a mother at sixteen and her daughters are now grown. Her ex-husband, Harold, is out of prison and looking for revenge. He’ll stop at nothing—even murder—to ruin Joleen’s reputation as well as her relationship with their daughters. My Mother the Man-Eater makes for some truly tempting and redemptive reading.
About the Author:
Tracy Krauss is a prolific author, playwright, director and artist. Originally from a small prairie town, she now resides in Tumbler Ridge, BC, known for its scenic mountain vistas and many waterfalls. She received her Bachelor’s Degree from the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon and currently teaches high school Art, Drama and English.
DISCLAIMER: This Best Seller book launch has been coordinated with the help of the John 3:16 Marketing Network and many other generous supporters. The free gifts are deliverable electronically over the internet or by email by individual authors and supporters. They are not in any way associated with, nor deliverable by, amazon.com.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
What is Art?
This semester, I've been taking an art photography course along with my two writing courses. So far, we've viewed and discussed numerous photographs and several videos, as well as preparing and viewing two projects of our own—a portrait project and a video portrait project. One thing that keeps coming back to me during this class is the question, "What is art?"
One set of photographs we looked at were taken by a lady whose friends during the '70s were primarily drag queens. Most of her photographs are of these drag queens and transvestites, hanging out at bars or doing drugs in their small, messy rooms. She is now considered a leading "art photographer," yet as I viewed her pictures, I wondered what made them art, as opposed to the pictures of any other drinking, drug-doing teenager in the '70s.
On another morning in class, we viewed a birthing video. I personally found this rather amusing, but I've seen birthing videos before and have two kids (so I viewed the video thinking "oh, that's what it looks like when that's happening!"). However, most of the people in my class are 18-year-old first-year arts students, who probably found that video a bit shocking. Again, I wondered—what makes that video art (especially when the camera was at times shaky and out of focus) as opposed to, say, the video my husband could have taken if I'd let him when I was giving birth? (That video would have showed much more action and much less nudity!)
Perhaps it's all a matter of perspective. When we were viewing our portrait projects, we saw one black and white picture of a young woman, dressed in black, sitting on the ground in the corner of a patio. Her face is partly turned down, away from the camera. I would have called the photo "depression"; it shouted emotion to me. Yet our prof looked at it quizzically and said, "What is going on here? I don't know what this picture is about. It doesn't do anything for me." I, on the other hand, thought it was the best of the four that my fellow student had taken.
Or maybe art is just done by those who call themselves artists. We looked at the work of another art photographer who left his career as a commercial photographer to pursue art. Our prof mentioned that he wasn't readily accepted in the art world—many established art photographers told him to go back to commercial photography. Yet he persisted, demanding art exhibits and pushing himself into the art world. He's been called arrogant, yet according to our prof, if he hadn't done that, he woudn't have been recognized as the great photographer that he is. So is art then just about being pushy, about calling what you do "art"?
What art do you enjoy? And what do you think makes it art?
One set of photographs we looked at were taken by a lady whose friends during the '70s were primarily drag queens. Most of her photographs are of these drag queens and transvestites, hanging out at bars or doing drugs in their small, messy rooms. She is now considered a leading "art photographer," yet as I viewed her pictures, I wondered what made them art, as opposed to the pictures of any other drinking, drug-doing teenager in the '70s.
On another morning in class, we viewed a birthing video. I personally found this rather amusing, but I've seen birthing videos before and have two kids (so I viewed the video thinking "oh, that's what it looks like when that's happening!"). However, most of the people in my class are 18-year-old first-year arts students, who probably found that video a bit shocking. Again, I wondered—what makes that video art (especially when the camera was at times shaky and out of focus) as opposed to, say, the video my husband could have taken if I'd let him when I was giving birth? (That video would have showed much more action and much less nudity!)
Perhaps it's all a matter of perspective. When we were viewing our portrait projects, we saw one black and white picture of a young woman, dressed in black, sitting on the ground in the corner of a patio. Her face is partly turned down, away from the camera. I would have called the photo "depression"; it shouted emotion to me. Yet our prof looked at it quizzically and said, "What is going on here? I don't know what this picture is about. It doesn't do anything for me." I, on the other hand, thought it was the best of the four that my fellow student had taken.
Or maybe art is just done by those who call themselves artists. We looked at the work of another art photographer who left his career as a commercial photographer to pursue art. Our prof mentioned that he wasn't readily accepted in the art world—many established art photographers told him to go back to commercial photography. Yet he persisted, demanding art exhibits and pushing himself into the art world. He's been called arrogant, yet according to our prof, if he hadn't done that, he woudn't have been recognized as the great photographer that he is. So is art then just about being pushy, about calling what you do "art"?
What art do you enjoy? And what do you think makes it art?
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Cathedrals
Last night, we went to Mass at the Cathedral downtown. My husband told Sunshine we were going to a "tall, beautiful church." Like us, she's already noticed all the huge, gorgeous churches around here—a reminder that Victoria is a slightly older city than those in Alberta. When we're driving around downtown, she'll point out all the churches (or any building that looks like a church).
I could probably count the number of cathedrals I've been in on one hand, but St. Andrew's is among the fanciest I've seen. It's huge inside. Every window is stained glass. There's carvings, paintings, statues, a huge pipe organ, lovely Stations of the Cross, even Aboriginal artwork on the altar and candlestands. After Mass, we wandered around the church, looking around.
The Cathedral reminded me again of the idea that the building itself praises God. The Middle Ages may have been knicknamed the "Dark Ages," but when it came to building churches, they were englightened. My husband and I have been watching Pillars of the Earth lately and I love the parts about the building of the cathedral.
The Sydney YHA was right next to an Anglican cathedral. Often, when I stayed there, I could hear the church bells ringing for service. One Sunday morning, not wanting to look up a different church and try to figure out how to get there, I wandered into the cathedral for worship. It was probably the first time I'd been in a church so fancy and I was awed. The towering ceiling and tall windows created a sense that this was a place to sit and be reverent. This contrast was even stronger to me because the last church I had been to—a world-famous church my mom told me about—met in what felt like a gymnasium, with folding chairs, floodlights, and big screens so we could see what was happening on stage.
I like old churches, whether wood or stone, small or large. They have a sense of character, a sense of thought in their architecture, an idea that this place cannot hold God but must somehow make us turn our thoughts towards Him.
 |
| St. Andrew's Roman Catholic Cathedral, Victoria, BC |
I could probably count the number of cathedrals I've been in on one hand, but St. Andrew's is among the fanciest I've seen. It's huge inside. Every window is stained glass. There's carvings, paintings, statues, a huge pipe organ, lovely Stations of the Cross, even Aboriginal artwork on the altar and candlestands. After Mass, we wandered around the church, looking around.
The Cathedral reminded me again of the idea that the building itself praises God. The Middle Ages may have been knicknamed the "Dark Ages," but when it came to building churches, they were englightened. My husband and I have been watching Pillars of the Earth lately and I love the parts about the building of the cathedral.
 |
| Stained Glass Window in the Cathedral |
I like old churches, whether wood or stone, small or large. They have a sense of character, a sense of thought in their architecture, an idea that this place cannot hold God but must somehow make us turn our thoughts towards Him.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
When an Editor Says No
I can still remember the first rejection I received as a writer. I had submitted a query to Reader's Digest (yes, I was reaching for the stars!) about a short story that had received an Honourable Mention in an ICWF writing contest and already been published in The Old Albertan. Reader's Digest, however, sent me a polite rejection letter with a page of information on submitting to their magazine.
I threw the letter in the recycle bin. Then I stormed around the house, cleaning out my desk and doing some other random things. After about ten minutes of that, I realized why I was reacting the way I was, and I sat down for a few minutes to think. Okay, the magazine didn't want my story. It wasn't the end of the world. I fished their letter out of the recycle bin and put it in my writing binder. Then I told myself to develop a tough skin and submit it again.
And I've been doing that for roughly the last ten years. Sure, it's still disappointing to receive a "no" from an editor when I hoped for a "yes." And yes, every "yes" is a huge excitement, especially if it comes with a cheque. Both "yes" and "no" have taught me about the magazine, though, so that next time I submit to them, I have a better idea of what the editor is looking for. I've learned to use the editor's response—whatever it is—to challenge myself to do better and to submit again.
Last week, Pages of Stories publisher Darlene Poier emailed me with a request that made me smile. She's hosting a workshop for writers and wanted to discuss rejection:
If you are a writer, do you remember your first rejection? How do you deal with "no" from an editor?
I threw the letter in the recycle bin. Then I stormed around the house, cleaning out my desk and doing some other random things. After about ten minutes of that, I realized why I was reacting the way I was, and I sat down for a few minutes to think. Okay, the magazine didn't want my story. It wasn't the end of the world. I fished their letter out of the recycle bin and put it in my writing binder. Then I told myself to develop a tough skin and submit it again.
And I've been doing that for roughly the last ten years. Sure, it's still disappointing to receive a "no" from an editor when I hoped for a "yes." And yes, every "yes" is a huge excitement, especially if it comes with a cheque. Both "yes" and "no" have taught me about the magazine, though, so that next time I submit to them, I have a better idea of what the editor is looking for. I've learned to use the editor's response—whatever it is—to challenge myself to do better and to submit again.
Last week, Pages of Stories publisher Darlene Poier emailed me with a request that made me smile. She's hosting a workshop for writers and wanted to discuss rejection:
I was wondering if you would mind if I used you as an example in my workshop. I realized today, that perhaps it needs to be said that when a publisher doesn’t accept a story for publication that it’s not personal. There might be lots of reasons for it, but it’s not in any way a reflection on the author personally.
The reason I’d like to use you as an example is that I think you are the only author that has submitted work for each issue of the magazine. I think it shows a lot of confidence in your own ability as a writer to have kept sending in stories even though it wasn’t quite as successful for issue #2 and #3. But that you were successful for the Winter 2011 shows a lot about your tenacity and belief in yourself.I appreciated Darlene's perspective on the matter, as I've appreciated her encouragement with each submission I've sent to Pages of Stories. And she's right: it isn't personal when an editor says no. As I compare the two stories that Pages of Stories accepted to the two stories they rejected, I get a better picture of what the magazine is looking for. The stories that weren't published there will be published somewhere else (when I have time to look for that "somewhere else"!).
I’ve come to realize recently, that some authors have been offended because I didn’t accept their stories. In most cases where this has been a problem, the authors have just started to dip their toes in the writing waters or they are quite young (by my perspective). You have been a stalwart supporter and it’s much appreciated.
If you are a writer, do you remember your first rejection? How do you deal with "no" from an editor?
Monday, February 14, 2011
One of Those Days
Oh right... it's Monday—a day I usually blog on.
Let's just say it's been one of those days.
It began around 4 am, when Lily woke up to eat and didn't go back to sleep. After she'd wiggled around our bed, stuffed her fingers in my mouth, and kicked off the blankets, I put her in her crib and turned the mobile on. It ran its course and silence ensued, and I was almost asleep again... when Sunshine began talking to Lily.
I dozed off and on as they babbled back and forth. Sometimes I thought they were both asleep, and then one would say something. Finally, Sunshine began yelling, "Mommy, she wants you!" So I brought Lily back to our room and, when she ate and still wasn't tired, put her on the floor to play with the bath toys while I dozed again (with the door closed, so she couldn't explore further than our room, which is one of the few places in our house, ironically, that is fairly baby-proof).
The girls then slept in until 9 am, when my husband and I breakfasted and showered and got out the door—he to his classes and me to drop off some baking for the YPY, who were hosting a bake sale to raise money for a bursary for single moms. Back home, I dropped the girls off with their babysitter, who gave me the sad news that she's been put on semi-bedrest and I'll have to find a new babysitter for March.
After class, I threw supper in the crock-pot, checked my email, let Sunshine watch her favourite movie, and talked to a friend of mine. Then we biked over to meet my husband after his class, and he biked home with the girls while I went to my class. When I got home, he took off for work and I fed the girls, then played with them a bit, and that's been the day.
I could think about the things I wanted to get done and didn't—the poetry I was supposed to read for my class this morning, or the more interesting blog post I could have written, or the hamper of clothes I should fold for the girls... or I could remember that I bounced on the bed with my toddler and connected with a friend and made supper for my hubby and tried to learn a bit more about writing so I can apply it next time both girls are playing quietly.
Let's just say it's been one of those days.
It began around 4 am, when Lily woke up to eat and didn't go back to sleep. After she'd wiggled around our bed, stuffed her fingers in my mouth, and kicked off the blankets, I put her in her crib and turned the mobile on. It ran its course and silence ensued, and I was almost asleep again... when Sunshine began talking to Lily.
I dozed off and on as they babbled back and forth. Sometimes I thought they were both asleep, and then one would say something. Finally, Sunshine began yelling, "Mommy, she wants you!" So I brought Lily back to our room and, when she ate and still wasn't tired, put her on the floor to play with the bath toys while I dozed again (with the door closed, so she couldn't explore further than our room, which is one of the few places in our house, ironically, that is fairly baby-proof).
The girls then slept in until 9 am, when my husband and I breakfasted and showered and got out the door—he to his classes and me to drop off some baking for the YPY, who were hosting a bake sale to raise money for a bursary for single moms. Back home, I dropped the girls off with their babysitter, who gave me the sad news that she's been put on semi-bedrest and I'll have to find a new babysitter for March.
After class, I threw supper in the crock-pot, checked my email, let Sunshine watch her favourite movie, and talked to a friend of mine. Then we biked over to meet my husband after his class, and he biked home with the girls while I went to my class. When I got home, he took off for work and I fed the girls, then played with them a bit, and that's been the day.
I could think about the things I wanted to get done and didn't—the poetry I was supposed to read for my class this morning, or the more interesting blog post I could have written, or the hamper of clothes I should fold for the girls... or I could remember that I bounced on the bed with my toddler and connected with a friend and made supper for my hubby and tried to learn a bit more about writing so I can apply it next time both girls are playing quietly.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Book Review: My Mountie and Me
There are some people (like me!) who read a lot of books and talk about books a lot. There are others who seldom mention the book they are reading, so you pay attention when they do. At Christmas, my father-in-law told me I should read Nora Hickson Kelly's autobiography My Mountie and Me: A True Story. He'd mentioned it to me back in the summer, but he was still reading it then. So I brought it home and added it to my "to read" pile.
Even without my father-in-law's recommendation, I would have been interested. My Mountie and Me reminded me of stories like Mrs. Mike (one of my all-time favourite books) or Janette Oke's Canadian West series. All of these are about wives of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP).
Nora is a teacher in rural Saskatchewan when she meets Bill, a Mountie. While other young ladies are swooning over young, eligible Mounties, Nora isn't interested. She sees the RCMP as an authoritarian male organization and she has no intentions of getting involved. But their love of music draws Bill and Nora together and soon they are talking of getting married.
There's just one problem: the RCMP requires that its members serve for a certain number of years before marrying. Bill and Nora endure several years of waiting before finally getting married in a small ceremony in Toronto, where Bill has been transferred. He is able to take three days off from his busy working schedule for their wedding and honeymoon. Then he's back at it, and Nora realizes that she's married a workaholic and must find her own way of keeping busy.
Nora includes tidbits of RCMP history and interesting historical details about Bill's work, especially his cases in Ontario during World War II. She talks of his frequent transfers and the start of her own writing career. Through it all, she maintains a sense of humour, despite her loneliness and health issues. In one case, Bill was transferred to a new city and they lived there for only three weeks before he received another transfer.
Black and white photographs of Bill and Nora are scattered throughout the chapters, adding to her detailed descriptions of their clothes, houses, and cars. Nora writes in a very conversational way that was easy to read and kept me wanting more. It was like sitting down with a good friend to hear the latest news about what she's been doing.
This book was lent to me by my father-in-law.
Even without my father-in-law's recommendation, I would have been interested. My Mountie and Me reminded me of stories like Mrs. Mike (one of my all-time favourite books) or Janette Oke's Canadian West series. All of these are about wives of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP).
Nora is a teacher in rural Saskatchewan when she meets Bill, a Mountie. While other young ladies are swooning over young, eligible Mounties, Nora isn't interested. She sees the RCMP as an authoritarian male organization and she has no intentions of getting involved. But their love of music draws Bill and Nora together and soon they are talking of getting married.
There's just one problem: the RCMP requires that its members serve for a certain number of years before marrying. Bill and Nora endure several years of waiting before finally getting married in a small ceremony in Toronto, where Bill has been transferred. He is able to take three days off from his busy working schedule for their wedding and honeymoon. Then he's back at it, and Nora realizes that she's married a workaholic and must find her own way of keeping busy.
Nora includes tidbits of RCMP history and interesting historical details about Bill's work, especially his cases in Ontario during World War II. She talks of his frequent transfers and the start of her own writing career. Through it all, she maintains a sense of humour, despite her loneliness and health issues. In one case, Bill was transferred to a new city and they lived there for only three weeks before he received another transfer.
Black and white photographs of Bill and Nora are scattered throughout the chapters, adding to her detailed descriptions of their clothes, houses, and cars. Nora writes in a very conversational way that was easy to read and kept me wanting more. It was like sitting down with a good friend to hear the latest news about what she's been doing.
This book was lent to me by my father-in-law.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Run-on Sentence to One Sentence
On Monday in one of my writing classes, our instructor gave us an exercise: write a run-on sentence. As long as you can. No rules; just write. Then we had to write a seven word sentence, a six word sentence, a five word sentence, and so on until we finished with a one-word sentence. When we'd finished that exercise, we turned it around and started with a one-word sentence, finishing with a run-on sentence.
It was an interesting exercise to contrast the difference between writing with no restrictions and writing with tight restrictions (or rules). Both were, in their own way, challenging. I'm an editor; writing a run-on sentence was hard. There were so many places where I just wanted to put in a period and start another sentence, but I was supposed to keep going. Yet that was when the writing flowed easily. When I had to write the shorter sentences, and count each word in the sentence, my writing began to sound silly, chopped, forced.
Here's what I came up with in class:
My favourite music is country music, but it wasn't always and I should clarify that I don't like any and all country music — I like country music because so many country songs tell a story, like the old joke goes: "Play a country song backwards and you'll get back your wife, your kids, your job, your house" — that's stories, although I like the positive stories better, the ones with a "feel-good" note or a lasting value, the ones that make you think for a while or just hit you "right there" and make you ache or cry or want to write such a story yourself. My brother gave me this music appreciation. He played country radio all day. I learned the tunes, chords. The music behind the words. It sang within. I felt. Learned.
It was interesting to me to play with the differences in writing, when there were rules or no rules. There was a time when I wrote for fun, just to play with the words and tell the stories. Now, before I even start writing, I'm aware of word count, whether or not I can use first or second person, grammar and spelling and so many other considerations. These are, of course, part of a writer's life; as an editor, I understand the necessity of articles of a certain length and type. As a writer, I just want to write. Thus I strive for balance between the two and in it all, to keep that joy of just playing with words and sentences.
It was an interesting exercise to contrast the difference between writing with no restrictions and writing with tight restrictions (or rules). Both were, in their own way, challenging. I'm an editor; writing a run-on sentence was hard. There were so many places where I just wanted to put in a period and start another sentence, but I was supposed to keep going. Yet that was when the writing flowed easily. When I had to write the shorter sentences, and count each word in the sentence, my writing began to sound silly, chopped, forced.
Here's what I came up with in class:
My favourite music is country music, but it wasn't always and I should clarify that I don't like any and all country music — I like country music because so many country songs tell a story, like the old joke goes: "Play a country song backwards and you'll get back your wife, your kids, your job, your house" — that's stories, although I like the positive stories better, the ones with a "feel-good" note or a lasting value, the ones that make you think for a while or just hit you "right there" and make you ache or cry or want to write such a story yourself. My brother gave me this music appreciation. He played country radio all day. I learned the tunes, chords. The music behind the words. It sang within. I felt. Learned.
It was interesting to me to play with the differences in writing, when there were rules or no rules. There was a time when I wrote for fun, just to play with the words and tell the stories. Now, before I even start writing, I'm aware of word count, whether or not I can use first or second person, grammar and spelling and so many other considerations. These are, of course, part of a writer's life; as an editor, I understand the necessity of articles of a certain length and type. As a writer, I just want to write. Thus I strive for balance between the two and in it all, to keep that joy of just playing with words and sentences.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Advice to My Younger Self
The other day, as I walked through the university buildings, I noticed a hand-painted poster declaring "Volunteer in RWANDA!" My first thought was of a certain movie, and war, and poor African countries, and I thought, "Not me."
Later that week, as I walked past that poster again, I questioned my initial reaction. If I didn't have a husband and two kids, that would be a great opportunity to learn more about a part of the world I know very little. To challenge my own assumptions and widen my horizons.
As I thought about that, and thought back to my first four years in university, I regretted the opportunities I missed. I wouldn't have been any more likely to volunteer in Rwanda six or eight years ago. In fact, one summer in university I had the chance to work in a mountain resort town. An acquantance said she'd give me a recommendation and we could spend the summer hiking together. I didn't think my dad would let me go, so I never even tried, though it sounded intriguing. Not intriguing enough to fight for, I guess.
As I look back on my life so far, I feel like the one big thing I've done was to go to Australia (and there were opportunities I wasted there as well, because I was too timid). Sometimes I'm jealous of my husband—he's been to Scotland and Rome and Texas and has covered most of Canada by bus. I've seen four provinces and have only left Canada twice.
If I could go back to my younger self, I would tell her to step out of her comfort zone a bit more. Too often, I let excuses get in the way of something I could have done. But I can't change the past, so instead of dwelling on that, what can I learn about myself for the future?
Even now, I make excuses—"I have two little girls so I can't do ______." Instead of saying I can't go bike riding, I can put them in the trailer and take them with me (it's just a better workout). Instead of saying I can't scrapbook, I can let my toddler "help" with it. And instead of looking at the things I can't do with them, I could find other things that I can do with them.
It comes down to a matter of perspective—looking at possibilities instead of the impossible. So may posters like the one about Rwanda remind me to think about those things that I can do.
Later that week, as I walked past that poster again, I questioned my initial reaction. If I didn't have a husband and two kids, that would be a great opportunity to learn more about a part of the world I know very little. To challenge my own assumptions and widen my horizons.
As I thought about that, and thought back to my first four years in university, I regretted the opportunities I missed. I wouldn't have been any more likely to volunteer in Rwanda six or eight years ago. In fact, one summer in university I had the chance to work in a mountain resort town. An acquantance said she'd give me a recommendation and we could spend the summer hiking together. I didn't think my dad would let me go, so I never even tried, though it sounded intriguing. Not intriguing enough to fight for, I guess.
As I look back on my life so far, I feel like the one big thing I've done was to go to Australia (and there were opportunities I wasted there as well, because I was too timid). Sometimes I'm jealous of my husband—he's been to Scotland and Rome and Texas and has covered most of Canada by bus. I've seen four provinces and have only left Canada twice.
If I could go back to my younger self, I would tell her to step out of her comfort zone a bit more. Too often, I let excuses get in the way of something I could have done. But I can't change the past, so instead of dwelling on that, what can I learn about myself for the future?
Even now, I make excuses—"I have two little girls so I can't do ______." Instead of saying I can't go bike riding, I can put them in the trailer and take them with me (it's just a better workout). Instead of saying I can't scrapbook, I can let my toddler "help" with it. And instead of looking at the things I can't do with them, I could find other things that I can do with them.
It comes down to a matter of perspective—looking at possibilities instead of the impossible. So may posters like the one about Rwanda remind me to think about those things that I can do.
Monday, February 7, 2011
February Write Mama
Welcome to the February 7, 2011 edition of the Write Mama blog carnival. I have to confess that January was so busy, I almost forgot about it! Thankfully Blog Carnival handles everything and I just have to make it look pretty at the beginning of the month. Thanks also to all the contributors for this issue—it's so exciting to see new faces in the carnival.
Mothering
Natalie presents Naughty or Nice? posted at Motherhood: Take 2, saying, "The ups and downs of motherhood!"
Debbie Cluff presents Setting My Mothering Priorities Straight posted at The Cluff Family Files, saying, "Seriously?? I have to confess… Shh, don’t tell anybody, but for some reason I am pretty shocked at my mothering skills and how good they are prioritized on a daily basis. To tell you the truth, I actually suck at a lot of things, but for the most part, I have to say I do have my priorities straight about being a mother."
Bonnie Way presents Using a Cloth Diaper Service posted at The Untrained Housewife, saying, "New parents may not think of a cloth diapering service, but it offers the convenience of disposables with the ecological and economical advantages of cloth diapers."
Debbie Cluff presents If you are 30, or older, you might think this is hilarious! posted at The Cluff Family Files, saying, "When I was a kid, adults used to bore me to tears with their tedious diatribes about how hard things were when they were growing up, what with walking twenty-five miles to school every morning... uphill... barefoot... BOTH ways… yadda, yadda, yadda..."
Writing
Cynthia Merritt presents 20 Acclaimed Authors and Their Unique Writing Rituals posted at mastersdegree.net.
Mark Johnstone presents Your Dissertation Plan - 18 Free Tools posted at Postgrad Blog, saying, "Not specifically for mothers, but this post has 18 tools for saving you time when you're writing and researching." (That sounds good to me!)
Charles Chua C K presents 7 Article Writing Pitfalls to Watch Out posted at All About Living with Life.
Kathleen Gage presents Using Your Kindle Book To Gain Market Reach posted at Street Smarts Marketing & Promotions, saying, "If you've been dreaming of being a published author and are not yet there, Kindle is a great first step. There is virtually nothing easier."
Moms and Writers
Pam Brooks Crump presents Life is like a box of chocolates? posted at joytoolsfrompam.
Debbie Cluff presents Finally 34! posted at The Cluff Family Files, saying, "I will be the first to admit, I am obsessed with my birthday. It is not one of those healthy obsessions, but rather a day of the year that even my husband, sisters, cousins, and parents fear. Before I was married, my birthdays consisted of a week (or longer) long tradition of something we 'Roberts' fans like to call 'The Birthday Bonanza'."
That concludes this edition. Submit your blog article to the next edition of Write Mama using the carnival submission form (c'mon, just do it! It's so much fun!). Past posts can be found on our blog carnival index page.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Working Writer
Several of my instructors here at the university have described themselves as "working writers." They use the term with pride and at first I thought, "Yeah! That's what I want to be!" They mean that they are supporting themselves by their writing—whether they write books or for magazines and radio—and by teaching about writing.
Then I stopped and thought about the phrase. Why do we have to use the word "working" with "writer" to describe what we do? My brother doesn't call himself a "working mechanic." Everyone knows when he says he's a mechanic that that's what he's doing to pay the mortgage and put food on the table. Technically, I'm still on maternity leave right now, but if I were a mechanic, I'd probably do it part-time because of my girls. Just like I'm writing part-time with the girls. So why do I have to clarify that it's my job, what I'm trying to do to make a bit of extra money to support us, instead of just my hobby or my passion?
Maybe it's because writing falls into the field of "art" and it's hard to make a living at anything artistic. My first violin teacher had a chance at a career as a concert violinist, but he choose to pursue his talent with computers instead, because it would provide a better living for himself and his family. Actors, artists, sculptors, writers, photographers—I think those of us who are serious about it know that it's hard to make money at it. Unless you're Angelina Jolie or Stephen King or Ansel Adams.
Each "yes" that I get from an editor is a bolster to my sense of myself as a writer. When I ask myself why I'm back at school again, I remind myself that I'm pursing a career. I want to be a working writer.
Then I stopped and thought about the phrase. Why do we have to use the word "working" with "writer" to describe what we do? My brother doesn't call himself a "working mechanic." Everyone knows when he says he's a mechanic that that's what he's doing to pay the mortgage and put food on the table. Technically, I'm still on maternity leave right now, but if I were a mechanic, I'd probably do it part-time because of my girls. Just like I'm writing part-time with the girls. So why do I have to clarify that it's my job, what I'm trying to do to make a bit of extra money to support us, instead of just my hobby or my passion?
Maybe it's because writing falls into the field of "art" and it's hard to make a living at anything artistic. My first violin teacher had a chance at a career as a concert violinist, but he choose to pursue his talent with computers instead, because it would provide a better living for himself and his family. Actors, artists, sculptors, writers, photographers—I think those of us who are serious about it know that it's hard to make money at it. Unless you're Angelina Jolie or Stephen King or Ansel Adams.
Each "yes" that I get from an editor is a bolster to my sense of myself as a writer. When I ask myself why I'm back at school again, I remind myself that I'm pursing a career. I want to be a working writer.
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