Through The Looking Glass

So the other day I was thinking about what a rotten jerk I was when I was about eleven, and some of the contributing factors to my jerkiness, and how it wasn’t really my fault but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be accountable. There was more but that basically sums it up.

I’ve always thought of twelve as the year that I kind of fell apart, and there was a nice tidy explanation for it all ready-made because that’s the year I got my period so I can blame EVERYTHING on hormones, but in looking back eleven was just as bad but way more subtle about it.

GOD, pre-teens suck.

(I mean the age, though most pre-teen people suck too, because of the way being one sucks.)

So I was thinking about all of this, and my brain kind of sneaked in a tiny little thought about how nice it would be for eleven year old girls if there was a book out there about an eleven year old girl who fucked up left and right the way I did. And my brain, while it was being a sneaky sneak who sneaks, suggested that I could write that book.

And that is when the panic started because I cannot write an entire novel, even a middle grade novel (they’re shorter), I just can’t. Not only do I doubt my ability to plot out enough story, but I know I don’t have the time.

So all this is by way of saying that I am NOT writing a book about a sixth grader who is a little bit like me. Really, I’m not! I’m not even thinking about it. At least not on purpose.

(This is, by the way, partly the fault of a certain sixth grade classmate who posted our class picture on Facebook. If this story forces me to try writing it, I am naming a character after you as revenge. So there.)

Can someone please clear something up for me? Because it doesn’t make ANY sense at all and it CAN’T be true and yet…apparently it is true.

So if you could either explain how this happened or assure me that it is, in fact, just a vicious rumor, I would so appreciate it.

How the HELL is it July tomorrow?

It really drives me nuts when a knitting pattern has you split your work in two and work one side with complicated shaping, then simply instructs you to “repeat for other side.” Well, no. You can’t do that. You have to reverse all of the shaping. Which I am perfectly capable of doing. However, the pattern-writer has already done it and it is just lazy to not include the instructions.

I don’t want my hand held. I can follow Elizabeth Zimmermann patterns, for heaven’s sake. I know how to knit, I am very good at it, and I understand what I am doing. But skimping on instructions unnecessarily is just rude. I put more work than that into the patterns I write and I expect the same of the patterns I buy.

On Saturday I posed for a friend of mine who is a painter. He paints from reference photographs, so thank god each pose was for about five minutes rather than the who-knows-how-many-hours it would take to sit for an actual painting (can you imagine?) but oh my WORD am I ever sore. I had to stand in a way that I do not normally stand–not a particularly abnormal position but it worked my calf muscle in a way it is not accustomed to. And now I can barely walk.

This is entirely my own fault for being so incredibly out of shape. I was doing so well and then the pregnancy fatigue took over and now I am just OW. And of course this is on top of a terrible crick in my back and neck that has turned into pain all the way down one side of my spine. I AM FALLING APART, YOU GUYS. I was just starting to get my energy back and now it is all ow. Please send plane tickets for my sister to come take care of me.

The level of negotiating and explaining that is currently required for me to get Sam to go along with anything I want him to do is getting exhausting. It’s easy as anything, but so very time-consuming.

Earlier today:

“Sam, it’s time to put the laundry in the dryer!”

He ignores me. I decide on a bribe, since I could use a treat myself, and suggest something he’d asked for earlier.

“Sam, would you like ice cream?”

“OKAY!”

He runs over to the fridge and looks up at the freezer.

“No, no, we have to buy it. Let’s go to the store. But first we need to put the laundry in the dryer.”

“No no no no no no.”

And this is where the all-important technique comes in:

“Sam, would you like some ice cream?”

“Okay.”

“Great, let’s go put the laundry in the dryer so we can get ice cream.”

“Okay.”

So we go to the store, we buy the ice cream plus stuff for dinner plus Fritos because I am hungry and pregnant, and then we walk home. And he dilly-dallies like crazy.

“Sam, do you want ice cream?”

“Okay!”

“Let’s go home so we can eat it.”

He picks up the pace for approximately five seconds.

This whole process was repeated, with a lot more repetition in the explaining and negotiating, half an hour later when we had to go get the laundry out of the dryer and he wanted to watch a movie instead. I am learning patience, I guess.

I know that Mama sitting at the computer trying to write looks almost exactly like Mama sitting at the computer goofing off.

Nevertheless. Would it kill you to LEAVE ME ALONE when I say that I am working? You have snacks and drinks and Little Audrey cartoons and I AM BUSY.

Love,
Mama

Just received a (moderated) spam comment on this post calling it “Easily some of the best writing online.” I am so flattered! Oh, what the heck. Here’s the entire comment:

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Comment:
Easily some of the best writing online. Amazed to see this level of detail (for free or for a fee). Keep up the good work, and thank you for opening my eyes to a new thing.

So I want to start writing again. For real writing. I don’t know if it’s the thrill of finishing up the knitting pattern I’ve been working so hard on or what, but I feel ready RIGHT NOW.

Only… I have a problem. I am not sure WHAT to write.

Will and I will always work on our screenplays together. In fact, before I start any other projects I’ve got to finish some work that I was in the middle of when I got this damn cold that still hasn’t completely gone away why won’t it go away I want it to go away now. But it’s not the #1 priority for either of us. Perhaps this is foolish, since we have a manager who is interested in us. I don’t know. But Will’s novels are at the very forefront of his world and they should be. When he talks about writing he is so happy. Only Sam makes him happier, for real.

I have tried to write novels. Or really, I have tried to write the same novel a couple of times. It is not a very good novel and I do not enjoy writing it. And frankly, none of my ideas are novel-sized. So I think that is not the path for me.

Several years ago I got an email from a reader (who is now a friend!) suggesting that perhaps I should write a parenting book for people who want to parent in the manner that I do (which is–um–pseudo-hippie? I don’t have any idea, actually) and don’t know how. Which is a nice idea, but 1) I don’t think I have enough knowledge to impart, and 2) the parenting market is way over-saturated and I don’t feel like fighting for my place in it.

That said…

I was re-reading Raising Demons, one of Shirley Jackson’s books of humorous stories about her children, and I once again felt that it is exactly the kind of thing I should be writing. But do I have enough funny stories? Lately I haven’t even felt like blogging, and what is this if not the perfect practice for that very genre?

In conclusion, I have no conclusion.

On Saturday Californians made a coordinated effort to protest the proposal to close 200 state parks to help with the budget crisis. (They have already cut funding for low income children’s health care and for shelter animals. Do not get me started.) We met up with some folks at Will Rogers State park for a picnic.

More photos after the cut.

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Announce on Twitter that you’ve just cooked testicles.

Seriously, it works like a charm. I got five or six new followers inside of an hour, and only one of them was a spammer.

I also got some truly hilarious reactions from assorted friends, many of whom were horrified. Clarifying that the testicles formerly belonged to a bison didn’t really help, either.

Anyway, just an FYI.