Motivation Strikes Again

I've had a few weeks of ho hum.  A few weeks of, "I can't do what I really want with this stupid leg fracture, so I'm just going to sit on the couch and act like a baby." 

Then I tried on a pair of my jeans, and they were getting tight. Everyone knows that feeling, right?  You slip into your jeans, expecting them to fit the same way they did last time you put them on, but instead they are hard to button.  Your belly fat hangs lasciviously over the rim of the denim fabric, and you justify it to yourself, "That's because I just washed and dried them yesterday.  Denim tightens up, it will loosen up as I wear them through the day."  But then it doesn't loosen up, and you realize something (like Trixie!!!)..."I've gained weight!!!"

Yes.  Ten stupid pounds.  Ten pounds of, "I can't do what I want, so I'm not going to do anything and I'm going to sit here on the couch and read books, watch TV, and stuff my face." 

Enough of that.  That's stupid (the word of the week, Miranda Grace).  That doesn't get you anywhere except for maybe two or three sizes up. 

I really have my oldest sister to thank for the motivation.  She signed up for MyFitnessPal, and I added her as a friend.  She messaged me and said, "Input your food, girl!!!"  So, I did.  I started on Saturday, and then I input it again on Sunday, and already I'm feeling better.  I can tell I was eating too much.

Yesterday, I did my own strength training class at home, complete with medicine ball, sit-ups and push-ups.  Then, I picked up my bike from my parents' house, and I rode it home.  I'll tell you riding a road bike after years of not doing it is not as easy as it looks.  It took me nearly 30 minutes to go 4.59 miles!  The wind was pushing against me, and I pedaled and pedaled, but I really wasn't getting anywhere fast.

Still, I woke up today, and I could tell a difference.  Not in pants' size yet, but in my attitude.  I simply feel better when I exercise and eat right.  It makes a huge difference in my moods, and I know I have to incorporate it in my life in anyway I can. 

www.citegrade.com 

Field Trip Fun

Yesterday, I chaperoned on Son Number One's field trip to Camp Chandler.  I hadn't been to Camp Chandler in a long time. I think the last time I went there was for the Indian Princess games with my dad when I was about seven.  His name was Sharp Knife.  I was Moon Glow.  I still have our totems. 

We drove up, dark clouds loomed in the sky threatening rain.  We parked on the big grassy knoll.  I remembered it.  I remembered the exact way it looked.  I remembered doing egg races there, and losing but being so excited to receive a ribbon that said, "I tried." 

The kids were excited.  They bounded off the bus, and we gathered around the flagpole.  Our group got to hit the canoes first.  Our tour guide decided, since we had such a small group, the kids could do paddle boats instead.  There's no risk of tipping or rocking the boat with paddle boats.  I was all for that.  They were safely secured into their life vest, and off they went.

After paddle boats, we hiked up a hill, the kids running far ahead of us and all the parents complaining about how out of shape they are, what diet they're on, and the man boasting about how his wife started a low carb diet that week and he somehow managed to lose 10 pounds.  I told him a man could decide NOT to look at a candy bar for a week and lose 10 pounds.  Men generally have it easier in the weight loss department.  He laughed.

We went onto Indian Games.  The tour guide here separated the kids into three groups: Creeks, Choctaws, and Seminoles, and she made them play Indian/Native American Games to see which one was the strongest.  They had to grab each other's arms and pull and try to pull each other across the bag. 

Wouldn't you know it?  Three girls won.  That's because girls are always stronger than boys, in so many ways.  Oh yeah, also there was an unfair advantage: the land they were standing on was sloped, so the person down hill always had an advantage.  Plus, girls have better lower body strength than boys.  Boys have the upper body strength.  But still: girls are better than boys.  At least that's what I took away from the 8 year olds!

Around this time we ran into Frank, the camp's mascot. 

The poor pig was assaulted by about 50 screaming, arm-flailing 8 year olds yesterday.  I do hope he's still alive.

After Indian Games, we had lunch.  Then we went to Archery.  Unfortunately, I didn't take any pictures at Archery, because I was too busy exhibiting my awesomeness.  They lined the kids up on the bench, and they each waited their turn to shoot the bows.  Number One had his turn, and he didn't want to shoot left handed so he went with his right (which probably handicapped him a little).  He had the strength, but he couldn't really aim at the target, so his arrows went far but not into the target.

I was just dying to get my hands on the bow.  I used to love archery as a kid.  I became quite skilled at it during summer camp, and later my Dad and Mom bought me a bow for Christmas.  I still have that bow, somewhere.  I may take it out again and go to the archery range, who knows?

After all the kids had their turn, I asked our guide if I could shoot and he said sure. 

My first shot went into the ring right around the bulls eye.  The kids thought I was unbelievable!!!

They started chanting, "Go Number One's Mom!  Go!!!"  I heard them tell Number One I was awesome, and I'll tell you what: there is nothing like being cheered on by a bunch of 7 and 8 year old kids to stroke your ego!

Last night, after we were home I went out, but Hubby said at bedtime Number One said, "Dad, Mom got all her arrows into the target.  It was awesome. She's such a bad ass!"  Ok--I don't condone the language, but to be called a bad ass by your 8 year old, well that's pretty bad ass!!!

The World of Writing

Yesterday, I finally downloaded iTunes to my new computer.  I need the music for writing, but instead I played the Sims and blogged about the past.  I've had a problem with procrastination this week.  I attribute it to the fact, that mostly, I've been feeling under the weather.

I had an asthma attack yesterday morning.  I hadn't had one in almost five years.  I sort of knew it was coming.  I keep waking up to cough at night, and I cough almost every time I exercise.  All of these are signs of asthma.  I felt puny from it until about noon, and then I sort of rebounded and felt better. 

I think the lack of exercise is getting to me, and due to the asthma attack yesterday, I didn't ride the bike at all.  I'm feeling like I'm getting out of my routine exercise-wise, and it's driving me nuts.  I like the outlet.  And speaking of outlets: let's talk about writing for a bit...

I've been slowly submitting my first work to agents.  I am also almost constantly editing. I've added a few more aspects to my character, tried to make her real, three dimensional.  I had a lot of feedback that she seemed cold, out-of-touch, heartless in her relationship...so I changed that.  I didn't want her to come across like some heartless person.  I wanted her to come across as a person who needed to make a tough decision in her life to see where she needed to go next.  We've all been through that right? Tough decisions.

The revision process is hard.  I actually really hate it.  I hate reading through and trying to act like I have new eyes.  I hate adding and cutting, and trying to add feeling that wasn't there in the first place.  In fact, I found a great cartoon that shows exactly the way I feel when I revise, except for I do my revisions on the computer, not on paper.  Don't kill all those trees!

From: http://secondary-writing-instruction.wikispaces.com/The+Writing+Process

I received three rejections in a span of two days.  I've made a spreadsheet to catalog who I've sent out to, who has sent me rejections and who I haven't heard from.  I still have four out there I haven't heard from.  I haven't submitted at all this week, because mostly I've been working on a new piece.

I was taking a different route and working on a piece of historical fiction from the 1920's, but I haven't had time to research.  I had some inspiration from the Boston bombings recently, and I spun another story, which is surprisingly easy to write.  In fact, the words just roll out, and much less research is involved (although still some--there is always some).  I actually am feeling pretty good about this new work, and I've already written about 10,000 words.  I work on it every day, and it seems to be coming together. 

I'm reading Rust Hills, "Writing in General and The Short Story In Particular," and so far it's ok.  I tend to question how much an actual book or actual class can teach you about writing.  I'm sure I could learn something about structure, flow, plot, character sketches, but I tend to write without an outline.  The story is just drawn out of me like coal from a mine, somewhere deep inside where it's stored, and then it pours out onto the paper.  I think most natural writers have this tendency, and maybe there is something to learn from the plotters and planners, but I haven't found it yet.  I've never been a plotter.  Still, I'll gleam some hint of new information from this book and others that I read, even if it just propels me to write and to submit more, then it is useful. 

That's where I am in the world of writing.  I'm getting organized, finding out how to submit, where to submit, and what to do.  Eventually I will get published, even if it takes the rest of my life.

Wayback Wednesday: Stranger Things Have Happened

When I was in college, I lived in a two story brick house with a finished basement with five other people.  The house was on Albemarle Street.  I loved Albemarle Street, even though I never once for the 2.5 years I lived there ever pronounced it right. 

I had my own room there, up the stairs and to the right, next to the computer room and next to Jandy's room--the resident pretend-like-we're-married couple at the age of 19.  They played Mom and Dad, while the rest of us all played wayward children and griped and complained about their "rules."  Home Sweet Home. 

Willie owned Albemarle Street--not the whole street, but just the house--I'm just not adding the number here in case some person in D.C. (long shot) reads this blog and decides to go see who lives there now.  Right when you went into the door on Albemarle Street there was a door to a left with a tiny, and I mean teeny tiny, guest bathroom.  This bathroom had no vent fan, and it got muggy and unusable, so Angie, who loved The Rolling Stones but hated the Beatles, called Willie and asked that he send a contractor over to install a vent fan.

The contractor came; skinny, bearded, tool belt hanging from his stick-like hips, and a dazed look in his eyes.  He spent a long time in the bathroom, cutting a whole in the ceiling, then said something about parts, and he left never to come back.

When I say never, I mean never.  About two months later, after many late night conversations with various guest about the hole, we finally get a call from the company.  This is how the call went.

"Doug was out there in February to install a vent fan in your bathroom?"

Angie says, "Yes.  He never came back.  What happened to him?"

"Oh.  He died of an overdose, and we're sorry we're just now rescheduling, but there were a lot of people on his list who were never contacted."

Just like that, so passé--so flippant.  Oh--he died of an overdose, as if this kind of thing happened every day to every single contractor you knew.  Angie hung up the phone and blurted it out to us, and we could barely stand it.  Crazier things have happened you know, like your roommate sticking your cats claws into the electric socket, and finding a friend who doesn't know how to ride a bike at the grand age of 21, and trying to teach her in your 9 x 11 backyard while you are all drunk...and there are about 20 other hippies standing around commenting on it.  Yes...stranger things have happened then the contractor ending up dead.

Like the time we went to Halloween at Art-o-matic.  I went as a goth girl, but really I was dressed as a slut.  We were waiting for friends to arrive, and we were already having a party, but Angie and Tiff and I decided to walk up Albemarle to the old Hechinger's, which they had turned into Art-o-matic (I wonder what's there now).  We walked around looking at the art, statues, murals, antiques--every single kind of art, and what some people describe as art that's not really art, was there. 

We left, me dressed as a slut, and I don't remember what Tiffany and Angie were dressed up as, or even if they were dressed up as anything, and we ran into Sideshow Bob and a Bear on the corner.  The Bear was tall, and I wanted to climb him.  And Angie, who doesn't know these people, sticks her tongue down Sideshow Bob's throat and then invites them back to our little soiree at our house.  By this time my other friends had arrived, and it was blatantly obvious that the Bear had little interest in Sluts, although I'm pretty sure Angie and Sideshow Bob were having a little show on the side down in the basement.  Again...memory could be deceiving me. 

I was an undergrad assistant for a Sociology professor, and the next day I had to describe to her why my hair was suddenly pink.  I put it in a ponytail, trying to hide the highlights, and still she discerned it as I was passing out papers to her Grad class and the lecture was about to end.

"Lauren, is your hair PINK?" 

Surprise, surprise.  Stranger things have happened, like your contractor dying of an overdose and the hole in your bathroom never being fixed, and just becoming a conversation piece for a "once upon a time" story.