Novel Pet Peeves

I not only write, I read. I'll admit, that's an understatement. I've noticed a trend over the last few years that has progressively burrowed deeper under my skin. Here's my short list of things I wish I'd never again turn the page and find in an otherwise fine novel...

The word "dollop." It seems that every book has to use that word somewhere. Can't someone use a dab, scoop, or spoonful? How about a bit? Anything but a dollop. I'm just so tired of the overuse of that word.

Rolling of the eyes. Someone is always rolling their eyes. Use dialogue. Use other body language. For heaven sake, stop rolling eyeballs around. It's impolite, and it's been overused. I'd like to get through a book without anybody doing it.

Even if I had to live with the above two, I could handle it, if only I could legally banish everyone from the following—letting out "a breath they didn't know they'd been holding." When I hold my breath, I know it. I'll bet you do, as well. So why, in so many books, do characters seem to not be aware of when they're holding their breath? And why do otherwise careful authors, who can construct a riveting story that connects all the dots and carries a good message, feel it necessary to poke this inane and superficial piece of nonsense in there? It's ridiculous. It's distracting.

There. I've vented. I feel so much better. I'll continue to feel better now, until I come across the next character holding her breath, without realizing it, and rolling her eyes while she adds just a dollop of cream to her chapped hands.

Selfish With My Treasure

Rejoicing over the bit of snowfall here in Colorado, I was unaware that Southern California was once again losing homes to wildfires. The fires broke out in Montecito, six and a half miles from Santa Barbara. It's on the Ventura County side of the city, and as of this morning, well over one hundred homes have been lost. According to the fire department's press conference this morning, they're not even thinking about containment yet. Phrases like "not out of the woods" and "when the afternoon winds pick back up to around 70 mph" made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

Why did I call this blog "Selfish With My Treasure?" I raised three sons in Southern California. I talk to God a lot. Sometimes I call it prayer. More often, I think of it as conversation, even though I know I can't hear Him very well. I try to remember, at least most of the time, that what I want is not always the best thing that could happen. There have been times that I've gotten what I wanted and it hasn't been at all a good thing. Conversely, some of my most reluctant experiences—those I would have turned from if given a choice—have resulted in my deepest and most rewarding blessings.

One prayer I fervently sent heavenward while watching all three of my precious sons grow was, "Please, God, don't let them grow up wanting to be soldiers or fire fighters." I never qualified it. I never once, to the best of my memory, said anything remotely resembling "unless that is Your Will..." It was a selfish prayer, and a regular one. It was accompanied by another, for all the mothers who sent their sons and daughters out to battle the flames and wars for the rest of us. 

I have a fine imagination. I can string together words, envision a story, travel in my mind to places I've never been. I can't conceive, in all the vastness of this mind, a greater pain or emptiness than losing a child of any age. Selfish with my treasure? You bet. At least I recognize them for what they are—always have been. With every fire these days, with every news story of battles and war, my prayer now is, "Thank you for allowing my selfishness. Please protect the treasure of the less selfish mothers."

First Snow

Waking up to a light powder of snow this morning filled me with a sense of joy. It was still dark outside. That made sense because it was just after four o'clock. The only reason I peered out the window was that the room seemed to have a pearly glow that usually means there's a wonderland reflecting back into the warmth within. 

I went into the living room and turned on the deck lights, standing there to watch the slow swirl for a few moments. Then, with a yawn and a stretch, I returned to the bedroom and crawled back under the covers. I even closed the window first for John's sake. He hates it when I leave the window open while it's snowing.  

We don't even have an inch on the ground yet, and nothing new is falling now. I'm not sure, but I think it's done. I realize what's on the ground won't last long. Our temperatures should rise into the forties today, and the rest of the week will be in the fifties and sixties. Still, I always feel the sense of celebration overtake me, like blessings drifting from the skies. 

I'm overwhelmed daily with the realization that we live in a wonderful place. Inside and out, I could never ask for more—and I have never been happier anywhere.

Frivolous Lawsuits

I once lost a friend because I refused to sue someone. My friend was a lawyer. The person I refused to sue was a young driver who was underinsured. It's a long story. I couldn't see that ruining his financial future would ease my pain, and at the time I really didn't understand the lifelong implications of my injuries. Even if I had, I still wouldn't have gone after the kid's future earnings. I still had to sleep with myself.

Tonight I heard on the news that Batman, Turkey, is preparing to file a series of lawsuits against Warner Brothers, Christopher Nolan (Batman—The Dark Knight's producer) and possibly DC Comics as well, for using the name Batman without the town's permission. They further allege that the town's high female suicide rate and a number of unsolved murders are related to the name theft and ensuing publicity.

After ignoring the use of their name since 1939, many people are now asking—and I certainly join in the question—do the current intended lawsuits have anything to do with The Dark Knight grossing over $994 million worldwide so far? Some days I think I should just stop watching the news.

Moving In Again

Normal people simply don’t wear stripes with polka dots. Too late, I remembered my mother’s words. New town, new house, new kid on the playground—again. Working little knitting needles back and forth, making a long strip of nothing, I pretended not to stare at the groups frantically embracing the freedom of sunshine while the outer classroom wall warmed my backside.

Pulling more yarn from my oversized pockets, I realized I had settled onto a pile of dirt. Stripes, polka dots and grime—great way to fit in. I won’t care, I promised myself, and I won’t cry.

As an adult, I look back on all the times we moved into a new home, State, neighborhood, and school. I realized that memories of this move stood out. It was the first time I had consciously decided not to try to make friends or adapt. What would be the point? We were transferring mid-year, and my new classmates would already have formed their tight little clicks. Besides, even if I made friends, we'd never be staying long enough to keep them.

Breakfast had been sad. Daddy was scowling, his uniform so creased with starch it looked unbearable.

“We’re nomads,” I accused, brave for once, saving all my fear for the class of fifth graders.

“We’re military, Kathleen,” was his curt reply. No smiles. No sympathy. Around the table were the tolerant or sullen eyes of brothers and sister who had also lost friends and schools to the constant travel, and Mama, determined to act cheerful.

Sitting against the school yard wall during the lunch break, I reluctantly remembered the scene. Misery doesn’t love company. It prefers to wallow in the belief that its own is unique and precious, shared by none. Unequaled. A hanging thread on the hem of my dress distracted me from thoughts of eggs gone cold amid the silence of unspoken complaints. I pulled the tread, watching it unravel like my past life. The hem parted, drooping like my spirits as the bell clanged, signaling the afternoon’s confinement.

Students were filing inside when I heard the raucous sound of laughter. I erected a glazed wall between my eyes and the students before glancing over. No one caught my gaze, but somewhere between knowledge and suspicion, I always figured the laughter must be at my expense. Quietly joining the end of the parade, I left morning behind.

What can we say as adults about our childhood memories? By the time I graduated high school, I had been in sixteen schools. We traveled more than most military, I think, since Dad was helping set up nuclear power plants. That doesn’t take long. Get it done and move on. We saw most of the country, though, and learned a great deal. As Mom said recently, we were all changed, but not damaged.

Life is full. Some people learn that earlier than others. Insecurity, loneliness and pain can’t occupy the entirety of a human existence. They only serve to illuminate the intermediary spaces. Like a puzzle, I filled my box with pieces, and my self-portrait developed: music, books, writing, crafts, humor. As the picture began to unfold, people gravitated to it, some interested to glimpse details, some willing to share their own.

I love to count my blessings. I just think we should remember our trials, as well. They help make us who we are.

Another Day

It will be another day before I direct my mind toward turning the contest I didn't enter into a blog. Today, however, I am very thankful that I have finally finished all my work on baby blankets and winter-appropriate baby hats. I was determined to finish them before turning my attention back to writing. Post Office, here I come—uh, probably tomorrow...

With that in mind, I am now preparing to sit down in front of the tube with a cup of laced cappuccino to watch Dancing With the Stars. For once, I won't have my attention distracted by counting stitches, changing colors and following a pattern. 

Can I survive this mindless ninety minutes?

The Un-Entered Contest

I almost entered a writing contest. When I saw the topic, I was excited, and immediately wrote my entry. If I had just mailed it in, I could now say I had entered a contest. I'm just not a real confident person. I got a few opinions. Two friends said it was great, a real winner. Another thought it needed some work, so I took it to the critique group.

I got so many conflicting opinions at that group that I just packed it all away, figuring I'd look it over when we returned from our trip to California. Unfortunately, I came home too sick to even think about it, and by the time I remembered, the deadline was the next day. Oh, well. I almost entered a writing contest. 

I think tomorrow I'll turn it into a blog. I'm trying to decide if I'm going to edit it any from my original or not. After all, some of the comments the group members made were good—some weren't, but some were. Let's see how much time I have tomorrow.

I only have a few more yarn hours to go before I can get back to my writing without "Granny Guilt."