NaNo, NaNo, It's Off to WRITE I Go!

So I know I have one billion and twenty-three other endeavors going on right now, but this challenge is too tempting to walk away from.

November is, apparently, National Novel Writing Month. Or, if you prefer, NaNoWriMo. The goal is to write 50,000 words entirely in the month of November. The idea is, in a word, awesome.

A global community of writers individually write themselves silly and document their progress online. Last year, I believe 30,000 writers met the goal. Can you believe that? 30,000 novels produced in a single month???

I feel that my chances of getting published are pretty slim. They just got even smaller, knowing that 30,000 novels were written in November alone, last year (and that's not even considering all the writers finishing books not part of the NaNoWriMo phenomenon, in November and all other months of the year).

Afterall, I have not been wildly successful in getting my first novel (Like Joe and Marilyn, 70,000 words, commercial fiction) noticed. And sheesh, that one took me seven years to write. Granted, I was also having babies and getting a B.A. and an M.A. and teaching college and teaching high school and parenting and waitressing and blah blah blah...

But still, now, I'm attempting to pop out another book in thirty days? After the first one took seven years?

Sure. Why not. Call me crazy. Along with the thousands of other nutty writers participating.

The emphasis is on quantity of words produced over quality, anyway. And it should really be a neat undertaking to force myself to write every single day this month.

Because while I love it, writing is a luxury I can't usually afford.

But here's the thing... if I'm serious about being a career writer, I can't treat it as a hobby. I have to give it the time it deserves.

And even if the next thirty days produce nothing but thirty days worth of crappy writing, at least I will have shown myself that I DO have the discipline necessary to be a novelist.

Discipline? I think so. Only the next thirty days will tell.

Talent? Well, that's a whole other story.

But I do have the heart. That much I know.

So, if you are interested in joining me and writing your own self delirious, click here.

If you yourself are not interested in this bout of literary insanity, but you'd like to show me some support by checking on my progress, you can click here.

And if you aren't particularly interested in any of this... here's a story for YOU (which, I promise, I did not make up).

Late Saturday night, just past midnight, so moving into Halloween morning, technically, my brother and I were on our way back from our restaraunt jobs at the beach. We're jabbering along, enjoying hypothetical, philisophical conversation that may or may not have been partly fueled by alcohol consumed by one of us (not the driver) when out of absolutely nowhere, these huge DOGS, wild dogs, come flying out of the woods across Rt. 50.

So I brake as fast as I possibly can, which was nowhere near fast enough, and THUD, I hit the first of the two creatures head on.

I won't get into all the grizzly details, but I kid you not when I say that thing had a deathwish, to use my brother's words. I mean, this puppy SAILED through the air before coming to it's sad and, for my brother and I, shocking, demise.

I was screaming my head off, and then laughing, as I tend to crack up in really inappropriate scenarios occuring in the ridiculous happenings that seem to plague my life.

I really thought it was a wolf.

I mean, who hits a WOLF! On Halloween? Seriously?? Do we even have them around here?

Yes, this really is my life.

I have since been told it probably was a coyote, which makes me feel NO better about the situation. Whatever it was, the animal was the size of a husky (WAY bigger than a fox, or Johnny's helpful suggestion, an armadillo), at least, and after I killed it dead with my little Honda Fit, there was NO WAY I was going back to check that bad boy's corpse out. Particularly since there were two of them, and the other one was still alive, and, so far as I could guess, probably pretty irritated that I just killed its partner.

Anybody else feel like the only thing missing in your life to turn it into a slap-stick comedy movie is a co-star along the lines of Chris Farley or Jimmy Fallon?

Or am I the only one?

Falling into Place

Do you ever feel that everything is finally coming together? That all the pieces of your life are finally, gloriously, falling into place?

Apparently, I felt that so much so last evening, I decided to demonstrate this symbolically.

By literally falling down the steps.

I have to say, that while I didn't have the best view of this event, I am quite confident that it had to have been one of the funniest sights lucky observers were priveledged enough to witness.

I was exiting a brand new small group meeting (my church's version of Bible study). Honestly, it was our inaugural gathering. Now, two of the members (other than myself) were not perfect strangers--they were members of our previous small group that had...well, become a large group. So we split 'er up and branched 'er out. But yes, there were also two brand new people present in this group, and yes, I did make a total moron out of myself in front of them and my two close friends from our old group.

We'd had a great night discussing the Word, forming friendships, laughing, and just generally making merry, but alas, it was time to go. So I slung my schoolbag over my shoulder, (I should mention that this contained, among other items, my laptop, my Bible, and a stack of papers yet to be graded), said my farewells, and headed out for the front door, clicking along confidently in my high-heeled, open-toed shoes.

I didn't get too far.

I wish I could see it in slow motion, because it happened so fast--I didn't even know I was falling until I was on the ground.

No kidding.

And not just a little stumble.

Total, utter faceplant.

I missed the first step in my heels, so consequently, I missed all of them. (Luckily, I think there were only three--but then again, I don't know--I missed them all!)

All I know is that it was dark, and I was literally FLYING, and then I was on the ground, staring at the concrete, wondering how the heck did this just happen?

And then: Oh, please, tell me that did NOT just happen.

But it did. And I really wish I could get a slow-mo instant replay. Seriously, it would have to be priceless. The expression on my face alone would probably be enough to induce tears of hysterical laughter--poor sap, she never even saw it coming! Really--I don't think my expression changed until I actually picked myself up off the ground.

But I'm no worse for the wear if you ignore the nicked ankle, the slight bruise on my knee, and the slightly bigger bruise to my ego.

And, hey--somebody had to lighten the mood.

And perhaps I should also go lighten my bag, to avoid future catastrophes.

And now, for a rant of a completely different nature...

I would just like to state, that, for the record:

A) It is rude to take something that is not yours.
B) It is even more ridiculously rude to leave evidence of your having stolen said item in the face of the person you stole it from.
C) Everyone should learn, by age six, that you don't put something back into the fridge if you empty the container. And might I add... DUH!

So to whichever of my family members confiscated and consumed the remnant of my wine (white merlot, chilling in the fridge)... and that had the AUDACITY to put the bottle BACK in the fridge--

What's up with that?

Is it like, oh, look, I drank the last of your wine, and at the exact moment that I know you'll most desire a glass, when your daughter is finally asleep, and your papers are finally graded, and you want... hmmm.... ten seconds to yourself to relax, and think, wow, it might be nice to enjoy an adult beverage whilst relaxing... I hope you open the fridge and fine a well-chilled EMPTY bottle of wine??

How not cool.

Take the Hatred Elsewhere...

Today, the Aryan Nations are planning a public rally to be held in, of all places, the Bethany Beach Bandstand.

I am so disgusted by this, I barely know what to say, except that I feel something must be said.

The town officials say that the group had the right to get access to the Bandstand because of freedom of speech.

I understand that the same freedom of speech that allows me to express my personal, religious, and moral beliefs protects others, allowing them this right. I know it is what our country is built on, and that this has to apply to everyone, no matter how sickening or twisted their beliefs may be. Freedom of speech allows freedom of beliefs, and that founding principle of freedom is what makes our country such an amazing place.

I just can't believe, however, that a group so blatantly racist and discriminatory can be granted permission to broadcast their message of hatred in a public, town-sanctioned, family-friendly venue such as the Bandstand.

I grew up five miles from Bethany. I work there, still, at a lovely restaurant, the last Saturday of every month through the school year, and more often in the summer time. Waitressing puts a little extra cash in my pocket, and even though I live a good forty minutes from Bethany now, I make the trip once a month, even in the off-season, not just for the cash, but for the nostalgia of my hometown. The bustling, touristy, summer days under a shining July sun, the sparkling waves, the salty smell of the ocean--they all bring me directly back to my childhood. The smell of DB's Fries, best french fries in Bethany Beach, thank you very much--that was my very first job, as a fry cook at DB's in the late 90's, when I was just fourteen. The brightly colored shops, the clunking sounds of quarters being deposited into meters, the parents yelling after the children, the scuffling scrape of beach chairs being dragged across the sidewalk and off to the boardwalk, the teens rolling by on skateboards and the leashed dogs being proudly shown off by their owners... all of these make up a million priceless memoriese for me, as I gradually transitioned from child to teen to young adult to where I am now, slowly preparing to exit my twenties.

My whole life, Bethany Beach has been a part of who I am. The Summer Bethany, which I have always known, have always visited, even if I've lived elsewhere. I have always returned to the summers that have shaped my experience of my favorite season. The autumns there, where the tourists grow fewer, dwindling down to retirees and those from surrounding states who take a quick weekend getaway. The fall sun still beams down over a cooler, quieter Atlantic. The winters, where the town is all but deserted, yet you can still go to the beach and watch the wind whip over the waves. Spring time, when the stroller pushing mothers resume the streets, the restaurants begin to open again, and life pumps back into the town.

I have always loved Bethany. I have always been proud of where I come.

Today, I am not proud to claim Bethany.

I grew up believing that people should not be judged by the color of our skin. It is a view I have defended many times, as I entered into a relationship with a man whom I love deeply, who happens to be African-American. Thankfully, we live in a time when our relationship is possible. But racism is still very much alive today, and many of us choose not to admit this. Some of those who remain in the prisons of their prejudiced views fear voicing them in this age of tolerance.

The sad thing is, their prejudices which they are afraid to air are most often born from fear. Fear of differences, fear of change.

I say to those people: My daughter, a biracial, beautiful five-year-old gem, would change your mind, should you spend an afternoon watching her play. She is a fierce ball of energy-- play a game of tag, hide-or-seek, or catch, and see who gets tired first. Give her a topic, and she can ask you a question that you won't be able to answer. She is a laughing, hyper, squealing, gorgeous little girl, who can already write her name, help me pack a picnic, and "read" her favorite book (Five Little Ghosts--but she prounounces it "Five Little Ghost-es). She ran one and a half miles with me last week. She takes tap and ballet lessons. She wants to be a cheerleader, a ballerina, a farmer, and a geologist. She can recite multiple Bible stories, and the beginning of the 23rd Psalm.

She knows that God loves us. All of us.

She is kind, compassionate, and generous. To everyone she meets. Without question.

How I wish we could all see the world through the eyes of my daughter.

I pray for those misguided people who claim the revolting message that the Aryan Nations cling to. I pray that they realize the destructive error of their ways. I pray no one attends their rally, so that no one's ears may be poisoned by their message of hatred.

Again, freedom of speech, religion, and beliefs are beautiful rights. People have died to protect those rights, and I am not ungrateful. I realize that some might be offended by my religious views, if I decided to rent out the bandstand and preach about Christ. Others might be offended should a different religious group take the stage, sharing their views. I believe that the right to air views publicly, regardless of what those views are, and whether or not I agree with them, should remain a right.

Except in the case where the message is one of blatant racism, prejudice, and hatred. Toward any group of people. For any reason, disguised as any message. In a family-friendly venue, this should not be a right.

If my daughter and I planned to go the Boardwalk today, as we do often in the summer and September, we should be able to go to that public place without fear for her safety, or fear of the evil message, directed against her and many others, by those disillusioned people.

I sincerely hope this group never returns to Bethany. I plead with the town officials that if at all possible, they revisit their operational guidelines to see if something cannot be done to prevent this from happening in the future.

"This is my commandment: That you love one another, even as I have loved you." --John 15:12.

Please, let us keep injustice out of Bethany.

Why I Write: A Literacy Autobiography

It might be easier to define my life in terms of what it would be without being literate, than to describe myself in terms of being a literate person. Reading and writing are so much a part of who I am, that without my love for them, I could not possibly be the person I am today. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I venture to say that I am so much a reader and writer, that to take away literacy from my life would be to take away my self.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved to read and I have loved stories in all forms. It may have started when my grandmother read to me as a baby, and when a few years later I “read” the books myself, making up stories to go with the illustrations. Some may have thought it unlikely that I would care so much about reading, and later on, writing. My father, after all, was a very bright man, but he was illiterate. And while my brothers and my childhood friends would be scrambling around outside engaging in any physical activity they could find, I was more often than not planted in the corner, nose stuck firmly in a book. Of course I have other interests, but whenever I have to fill out any kind of form requiring me to name my interests, reading and writing are what I list first, without even thinking about it.

Therefore, since literacy has been so ingrained in my lifestyle for such a long time, it’s difficult to pinpoint “milestones” which led to this quality’s importance to me. I won local library’s summer reading contests by reading anything and everything I could find, I had an original poem printed by the local newspaper when I was nine, I wrote (mostly crappy) poetry all through high school. I don’t think it was a surprise to anyone when I decided to major in English and education in college. I was so carried away with my identity as a writer, that during my senior year, I actually switched my major from the reliable field of education in order to concentrate on my literature classes and add a creative writing minor. I went on to attend graduate school and major in Rhetoric and Composition, winning a teaching assistantship and writing all the while. Of course, when I decided to start my family, I was fortunate enough to be able to go into public school teaching despite my somewhat unorthodox college background--being a starving artist tends to work out better if one’s daughter isn’t starving alongside beside you!

To date, I’ve not been published (unless you count that brilliant fourth-grade poem—“A Christmas Tree Mystery”), but I have completed one novel, and several short stories, so I hope to see my name in print someday. However, if that’s never the case, I am still a writer—I write because I need to write, not because I need to impress an audience. I’ve been blessed to have the opportunity to develop my love of teaching as well—I’ve taught everything from English 101 at ********* University to Inclusion 10th Grade English at ****** High School. I’ve taught Honors World Literature to high school sophomores and Basic Writing to community college students. The constant for all of these experiences is my joy of passing on my love of reading and writing to others—be they aspiring writers such as myself, or struggling readers with learning disabilities, such as my father, who passed away three years ago. Despite his difficulty with reading and writing, my dad loved a good story—who among us does not? I believe that all of us, regardless of past experiences, innate ability, or any other factors, can relate to each other and better understand ourselves through a sharing of our stories.

I know that’s why I read, and why I write. And I am a writer—regardless of whether or not I ever sign a contract, or get to choose the cover of that first novel. I am a writer, because if I was not a writer, I don’t know who I would be.

Perfect Day

Perhaps those perfect moments we're in search of, those ones that are so elusive, are so rare because our standards are so high.

It's easy to long for those breathtaking snapshots of time during the hustle and bustle of everyday life. I close my eyes and remember that moment I got engaged, when the man I love told me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. Or the moment I first held my darling daughter in my arms. Or calling my grandmother, squealing in uncontainable excitement, about my twenty thousand dollar scholarship.

And then there are the other moments--the ones that make up the majority of our lifetimes.

Right now, for instance. My overly energetic four-year old is rushing around my grandmother's house in improvised pajamas-- a tie-dyed t-shirt, belonging to my mother, that fits her like a slightly large dress. She will not, despite my numerous requests, leave our dog, poor Sue Yung, alone. School has, for the third time this week, been cancelled due to inclement weather, which would be fantastic... except that instead of Christmas in July, I shall most likely be Teaching in July.

I have taken a hiatus from my South Beach Lifestyle (I like Lifestyle more than Diet; it's less restricting) during these cabin-feverish days trapped inside, during which I have existed mainly off of potato chips, cookies, and soda. Consequently, I feel sluggish and disgusting.

I have answered endless inquiries regarding dog's brains, the merit of eggs as part of a healthy diet, the function of and title of "Snow Plows" (as opposed to "Pushing Trucks," as my daughter would call them), requests regarding purchasing Honey Nut Cheerios, and why dogs need tails (can anyone help me out with this one?) from my pre-schooler, and it's not quite eleven o'clock.

I'm faced with, on my lovely agenda today, having forms from my insurance company notarized to move forward the settlement from totaling my SUV last month, taking my persistant daughter out to play in the cold, wet, snow; dropping by the dreary, empty high school to try and figure out just where exactly I left off with my teaching before Delaware got blasted with snow last weekend, and, I suppose... trying to restart my South Beach Lifestyle (Anything before eleven doesn't count... as I've already indulged in Dorritoes and Dark Chocolate Peanut M & Ms).

A less than perfect day.

Or maybe not. Maybe perfection is all around us, if we open our eyes to see it. I know this is no ground-breaking philosophy, that I'm not the first person to preach about seeing a glass as half-full as opposed to half-empty. But sometimes I just need to remind myself of that, in between telling my kid for the four hundreth time in two hours to just please leave the dog alone, in the midst of no less than twenty buzzing interruptions on my Blackberry, most of which contain random Facebook comments on other people's status alerts that really pertain to me in no way at all... sometimes you just need to remind yourself.

So maybe it is a perfect day, of sorts. Because of my daughter's dimples, and her giggle. Because of Sue Yung the dog's exteme, unfathomable patience with having a four-year old attempt to plait her hair. Because of being inside, snuggled up with my daughter and my dog on the loveseat, my beloved grandmother sipping coffee in the other room. Because of the hope that I have in the fact that the latest agent to view my manuscript has yet to reject it. :) Because I have my health, my happiness, and so many people who love me. Because the snow is beautiful (and even though it will turn to a disgusting dirty mush, it hasn't yet!) Because I can read my Bible and reflect on His word. Because my precious child and I have a full, wonderful day to spend together, and she still wants to do that with me, even if her constant chattering distracts me from my blogging, and even if she wants to drag her summer-loving mother into the cold, wet snow. And even if every other phrase out of her mouth is "Why does..." or "How come..." or "I want..." and she hasn't stopped talking or moving for three and three quarter years and I'm going gray at 27.... I'm blessed to have a healthy, beautiful, SMART little girl.

And here's to today, perfect day to spend with her :)

Starting the New Year Off with a Bang

So... I managed to have a pretty eventful start to TwentyTen (sidebar: I love saying TwentyTen. It's so futuriffic).

It was the last day of Christmas Vacation (one of the many things I love about being a teacher). After two relaxing weeks off full of fun, family, and cheer, I was on my way from my mother's to school, to, well, um... start grading papers. (Procrastinating is one of my many talents).

So on a cold, bright, January Sunday, I'm driving along on the highway, singing along with my Blackberry as it's playing Bette Middler's "The Rose." My taste in music, by the way, is not normally quite so atrocious, but I'm singing this song at a friend's wedding tomorrow, so dork that I am, I was practicing in my car, belting out "Some say Love/ It is a River--" when all of the sudden, I came to a sudden realization:

Which was, terrifyingly... my brakes were no longer braking.

I pushed the pedal, once, twice... and they were just gone.

So hysterical young woman that I am, I prayed, calling out to Jesus, then (I am ashamed to admit) yelled a bad four letter word (a REALLY bad one... twice), and in a desperate last moment attempt to stop my car, threw it into park just before slamming full speed into the truck ahead of me.

It didn't occur to me until later, at a friend's questioning as to why I didn't use the emergency brake, that I realized I probably should have used the emergency brake.

The story ended happily. No one was hurt, or even that angry. I was shaken up, but mostly so, so thankful that no one was hurt. But here's the kicker. The truck in front of me?

Being driven by no other than the one and only superintendant of my small-town school district.

You can't make this stuff up folks.

Long story short: I'm really blessed to be here. I hit his truck at fifty miles an hour while he was stopped at a red light. The air bags didn't even deploy. Thank God for seatbelts, but furthermore... I know He was watching over me. My truck (a used Hyundai Santa Fe) was pronounced totaled a few days later. Thank God, no one was hurt. Thank God, my daughter wasn't with me. But mostly, God, thank you for guiding me through one of the scariest situations I've ever been in. And even letting me see a little humor in it.

Superintendant?? REALLY? Of ALL the people in the world??

Quite a way to cap off my Christmas Vacation. I feel like Chevvy Chase would be proud....

So, smashing start to my twentyten... but grateful to still be here to ring this year in. Also, just finished a unit on irony with my sophomores... nothing like real life examples, eh?