Made it!

Dear Loyal Viewer,

I made it to 50,000 words. Too tired to detail it for now -- don't worry it's coming. And December is for you. I swear. I miss you all.

For now: enjoy the Rocky stairs.

So far

A quick update for those of you who stop by now and again. NaNoWriMo is coming along. I'm at the halfway point time-wise, but slightly behind word-wise. I just hit (Seriously, like, 5 minutes ago) 20,000 words for the month, which, frankly, kind of amazes me. It's been a busy couple of weeks, so I'm pretty happy that I've been able to keep this pace. I know I'll have time in the next couple of weeks to catch up, so I'm pretty optimistic that I'll make the goal.

Since it's a crazy sort of pace, I'm just throwing the words on the page. There's nothing wrong with that (for now) and I'd like to think it's freeing me up some. I only have so much time to write, so I just have to go with what's in my head. No time to edit, no time to process. There are days I feel like there's nothing there, but that word count needs to go on, so I do as well.

I'm looking forward to crossing that finish line and taking a breather. It's an exercise, I know, but I hope it works. The plan is to finish the month, then put it aside for a bit (a week, maybe a month?), then go back and edit. I'm sure I'll change a lot, but that's alright. It's about ideas for now. I'm also looking forward to having time to write here once December arrives.

Thanks for stopping by. Just wanted to give you the update.

The write stuff

(Get it? It's a pun!)

First of all, thanks to all who read. Sorry you keep checking back, only to find nothing new here. I've got a bunch of excuses: busy at work, lack of focus, lack of ideas, just plain lazy, but it all adds up to no new posts. Sorry about that.

In case you didn't know, November is NaBloPoMo (you know, National Blog Posting Month), where a post a day is encouraged. Here's my chance to get back on track! I thought. I will do that. It will be good.

But then someone pointed out to me that it is also NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month. Seriously? You don't have it on your calendar?), which is way more ambitious: write a novel in a month. A "short" novel (50,000 words!) but a novel nonetheless. I thought about the wordiness of November. For a day or so I thought I might be able to do both, but I decided that I should probably keep my job (new house and all), so I'm taking on NaNoWriMo. I have an idea for a novel and I kind of want the crazy challenge right now.

I'll probably start throwing down the words and hit a dead end, realize the idea won't work, there's a bunch of possibilities. Who knows, but starting tomorrow, it's fiction time. Which means little time for this blog (so I anticipate). But you never know; maybe I'll want to write anything but that damn novel in a week or so. I just wanted to warn you in advance that the postings aren't going to pick up any time soon. That said, I may make December my NaBloPoMo. Or I may use Garfield Statue to vent about how much I hate those 50,000 words.

Don't go away completely. Check back now and again. I swear: December is for you.

I wish I might

When I was about 12, we went on a church retreat in Michigan. I don't remember too much about it, but I remember it was cool, like it is now. And at night it got very dark. When you live in a city, you don't realize how dark it can get. And this was the type of dark you can only get when you get away from the city lights.

I went to the top of a hill and there were so many stars. More stars than I ever remember seeing. I remember lying on top of that hill, and there were stars all around me. I was surrounded by stars. And after a while it felt like I was floating. It was the strangest feeling. It didn't even feel like I was laying down. I could have been standing; I could have been drifting away. It was amazing and a little bit frightening. I was almost afraid to move, afraid that the ground wasn't there anymore.

It's called a jawbreaker

Wanna get me all riled up? Let's talk Roman Polanski, shall we? Can someone please explain to me who thinks that this is appropriate behavior: (a) Find 13-year-old girl (b) drug 13-year-old girl (c) rape, etc., 13-year-old girl (d) admit to doing so in a court of law (e) don't show up for sentencing because things may not exactly go your way (f) flee country and specifically avoid certain places in order to not end up back in the country to be punished for crime you have admitted to committing and fleeing from that very crime. Seriously, the guy is a pedophile who won't pay for his sins. Why are people defending him?

No, you do not get a pass because you produce art. Sorry, that's not how the system works. Does this mean if he were a mediocre director he could maybe rape an 18-year-old? Or rob a liquor store? The crappy directors, well, maybe they can beat up a guy in a bar.

And, shut up everyone who says that even the girl forgives him. No, that is not true. She wants to put it behind her, that's what she has said. And you know what might help her put it behind her? Seeing her rapist punished for his crimes. Having him serve his sentence with so it's not still news. And, frankly, what's she going to say to get him back in the country? "I want that bastard in jail for the rest of his life"? That ain't gonna get him back in the USA.

Oh, it's been 30 years? Is there a reward for getting away with something for a long period of time? Did I miss that memo? And what is the required amount of time? Was 20 years enough? 10? Oh, wait, he's 76? So what? Go. To. Jail.

And news media, I am over you referring to him as "Oscar-winner" or "award-winning director" or whatever wonderful thing you want to call him. I have yet to see one refer to him as "convicted pedophile" or "child rapist." Even the crime itself: he will have to "face justice for having sex with a 13-year-old girl" like they were on a date or something and he got caught. Yeah, it was just "having sex." Oh, and Jacek Bromski, you really need to shut up. Yeah, Polanski's career really suffered there.

This man is a pedophile. He should be in jail for the crimes he admitted to committing. I'm sorry you had a rough life, but this one you've got to own.

Ironically, I can't think of a title for this one

The other day, a friend of mine called me creative. I said, thank you. She pointed out that not everyone would think it was a compliment. I wondered, who wouldn't think that was a compliment? Doesn't everyone want to be creative?

But then I thought about it a little bit more. Being creative is scary. It's putting yourself out there. It's saying, I'm doing things a bit different and I'm standing behind it. Or, here's something from my very own brain, I hope you like it. And, to me, that one is the scary one. Because, although I might like it, I might think that it's clever or funny or touching, someone else might see it and think, boy, I really hate that. Or maybe not think about it at all.

I guess I will accept that I am a bit creative. But I don't think I'm as creative as I could be. I know that comes from a lack of bravery, a fear of letting go. It's hard to put yourself "out there." I can't stand to watch people read anything I've written. I've distanced myself from my writing at work in order to survive those criticisms. Luckily, everyone has been nice about the writing here. But I'm still a bit shy to actually talk about it. I like that I can write here, someone else can read it miles away, and I don't have to watch or even know they are reading.

This adds to the list of one of the many ways I wish I were braver. I'm working on it, but don't expect me to waving a short story under your nose anytime soon. And, I suppose, in many ways, it may be easier to not be creative. But it's got to be kind of boring.

But I guess I'm already there

Well, most of the boxes are unpacked, but I'm not sure if I'm completely moved in. I'm at that weird, in-between stage. That stage where everything is in places, but I'm not sure if they're in the right places. Where I have certain pictures on the wall because the hooks are already there, that picture fits, but I'm pretty sure it's not the right picture for that spot. And where should I put my bills? My receipts?

I look around and, yeah, it's my stuff, but it doesn't completely feel like it's mine. I'm still working on the rhythm of the new place. It takes a bit longer than I think it should to get ready to go every morning. Where did I put my keys? That bill I meant to pay? My book? I am getting used to having to run up and down stairs every time I need something, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

The good news is that every little thing helps make me feel more at home. Yes, that looks better over there. That basket can be used to hold those papers. Lamps are on tables now, not on the floor. It's coming together. It should be home soon.

Not there to soothe your soul

This Thursday, I went from "getting a divorce" to "divorced." I got the phone call at work, all very casual. "Well, it's official." I'm still not sure how to react, how, exactly, to feel about all of this. I'll admit, my first reaction was to cry a little bit. Of course I knew it was coming, and, yes, it was my doing. Or at least my finishing (we're not getting into a discussion of all the details here.) But, now, it is over.

Thirteen years. That's how long we were married, almost exactly. And, poof, it is over. How do I view those years? If I say I was happy, then why did I end it? If I say I wasn't, then why did it take so long? But I was happy. And then I wasn't. But it wasn't just good/bad, yes/no. I suppose it went from one shade of grey to another. And I'm still not sure why the shade of grey became something I no longer wanted, but I know it wasn't the shade I was planning to live with the rest of my life.

I know that when I tell people I feel sad about about the whole thing, some of them wonder if I regret doing this. No, I know this was the right thing to do. But that doesn't mean I don't miss some things. That I don't have some good memories, and, yes, some of these memories are fairly recent. I hate that, in some ways, I have to pretend that those 13 years don't exist. They do exist; they are a part of me. And I'm still trying to decide what to do with those years.

3 sixty 5

I have joined a 365 club on Flickr. One photo (and only one) per day, every day. It started September 1 and I'm already surprised as to how much of a challenge it is. The first change in behavior is that I'm starting to carry my camera everywhere. Or at least I'm trying to bring it. I forgot to bring it to Sam's Club today and I immediately thought, "well, there goes some of today's possibilities."

Another change is that I find myself looking around a lot more. Looking for something interesting or specific for that day. I've resisted taking pictures of the cat although I'm sure he'll show up on a day where I've found nothing else. I have to do less looking for lucky pennies and more looking for good shots.

I have some days where there are a lot of shots. Yesterday I went to the National game (a come-from-behind win! very exciting) and there were a bunch of shots. Of course, the guys dressed as presidents won (although the Teddy shot shown here did not get the shot of the day. Abe won.) Those days you hate that you only get one picture.

I am enjoying seeing other the other pictures in the group but I see how much I need to grow as a photographer. There are some really beautiful pictures in this group. I am thinking of this amazing one of a tomato with a fork in it. So simple, yet perfect.

So, it's Day 7. Wonder what I'll see today. Maybe the trip to the grocery store will bring something.

Mama Leone left a note on the door

Don't believe the hype: moving sucks. Even though I've been looking forward to actually getting a place to call my own and get my stuff back from Pennsylvania, I have to say that a really, really hate moving. I'm trying to put the good spin on it: at least this is "mine" (well, in 2029, it'll officially be mine!), at least I now have everything in one place, I can try to get organized, but, seriously, I'm exhausted by all of this.

I really do love the new place. Good space, good neighborhood, yep, I made the right choice. But I am really looking forward to the day where I'm not working my way around a box or two every time I go to the bathroom. Or where I can actually find everything I need when I cook a meal.

The good news is that I'm starting to feel like it's going in the right direction. The parents came out last weekend and help whip the main floor into shape. Yesterday I was able to get all the way into my closet ("oh look! There is a back wall!") The internet is up and running ("hello, my pretty.") Yeah, someday this will all be a memory.

For now, it's a little bit at a time. Every box I can get rid of is a little victory. Every trash pick-up makes me happier. I still have way too much stuff, (oh, you have no idea) but it's starting to get under control. Maybe soon I'll invite you over.

Sorry I've been MIA

Just a quick post to explain the absence. It's mostly been moving. I have a lot of stuff, in case you missed it in previous posts. And, currently, I am without internet (quick shout-out the the neighbors who aren't protecting theirs. Oh, can you get a stronger signal -- it doesn't always come in when I need to steal it from you. Thanks!)

I promise more soon. Really. Don't go away, tiny audience of mine.

This is not a happy post

There are days that I just feel like I'm a jerk. That I'm selfish and all I care about is myself. All I think about is my needs, what makes me happy, without really thinking about how it affects someone else. And I hate myself a little bit for that.

I didn't want to hurt Mr. HP. I really didn't. And I hate that I had to hurt him to get to where I am today. Look, I know there were a lot of factors, that we both played our part in this falling apart. I get that. But I was the one who pulled the trigger, who made it all happen. And there are times when I think about his hurt, and I can't believe I could be so awful, to intentionally do this to a person. I think of him alone and I almost gasp that I was capable of causing this.

No one wants to be the villain. And I know that I'm not the villain. But I'm not the good guy either.

C'mon up to the house

Next week, I wake up in my brand new house! Okay, it's not really brand new, but it is brand new to me. I am out of the apartment with its rented furniture and white, white walls. It's a nice apartment, but it's not mine. I could settle in some, but I never really felt like it was home (home-ish, perhaps.) My cd's were in Pennsylvania; most of my books were there as well. Although there are pictures on the wall of the apartment, they are those weird hotel-like pictures that mean nothing to no one. I want to put up the photos I have taken on my trips, the pictures my mom has painted, the family tree.

I want to settle in. I want to put up shelves, and put my stupid, little trinkets on them. I want to (at least think about) painting the walls different colors. I want to make a place that people want to visit; I want people to hang out. I want it to be a place where everyone feels comfortable. I hope it's a place that brings me joy.

I know that part of that will be my attitude. I will have to work on relaxing when people visit. I will have to enjoy their company and not worry if they bang a chair into the wall. It's just a spill; we can clean it up. I need to laugh at the jokes and not worry about the scuff marks.

But I'm really looking forward to taking a bath in that awesome tub!

I never weep at night

Today, after three hours at the DMV, I walked away with new plates for my car and a new driver's license. Oh, and I got my name back. For the first time in 13 years, the name on my driver's license matches my passport.

I never legally changed my name when Mr. HP and I got married. I was going to, but it's a very (very) common last name (not that common), and I just never really got around to doing it. When I got my driver's license renewed after I got married, during those crazy pre-9/11 days, all I had to do was show the marriage license and tell them that I was planning to change my name, and there you go: my driver's license had my married name.

I had two names for 13 years: my work name and my home name. It's actually surprising how easy it is to do this. Paychecks, publications, those are in my work (legal) name; home ownership, driver's license, checking accounting: my home name, Mr. HP's last name. Of course, when I travelled, that got a bit tricky; I had to remember to buy my out-of-the-country tickets in the passport name. When I'd go to check into the hotel, I'd have to remember which name I gave.

Mortgage companies are not big fans of the multiple names, even six years ago. I had to write a letter explaining why I had two names. I resisted the temptation to just write, "because it's not 1950 and not all of us take the guy's name."

I have a couple of things that still have the married name, but today I changed the major ones. It's a bit sad, but it's also kind of nice. No more explaining why my credit card name is different from my license. (An aside: it's shocking the number of businesses that ask to see the identification, and then just shrug off the fact they don't match. I had only one place that refused to take my card because they didn't match. Seriously, why did the others even check?)

Yeah, my name is common, but it's mine again. And I now only have one.

Yeah, I know that guy (or gal)

I think everyone who has worked has worked with That Guy. That Guy who has a higher level job than you and makes more than you, but, seriously, no one has any idea how they got there. That Guy (or Gal: let's be honest, it's sometimes a gal) has a great job. He goes home at a reasonable hour; he has a nice office; he gets to travel. And, yet, no one knows quite what it is he does, what he adds to the whole system. In fact, sometimes, he makes it more difficult.

I look at these people and I wonder, how do I get that job? What did I do wrong that I'm stuck actually working? I think I could do That Guy's job. In fact, I'm pretty sure I could do it better. Or maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself.

Fear of fiction

I have, on some level, accepted that I am a writer. I do get a paycheck as a result of being a writer (a specific type of writer, yes, but they do pay me.) I do this blog, which involves some writing, now and again. So, yes, I guess I have the ability to write. However, what I do not do is write fiction.

I read fiction. I love fiction. I love to tell a story. But those stories have to be based in fact, in actual events. I can't make up a story. Besides assignments in school, I've never written any fiction. And, honestly, I don't know if I could. Fiction requires a bravery I don't think I have. When you write fiction, that's all you. If I'm just telling a story, well, that's the way it happened and there's no changing that. When you make up a story, that's your mind, your heart, that's your story.

I'd like to think that some day I could write a story. But when I start to think about it, maybe to explore an idea, two things happen. One: it always seems like that any idea I have must have been done before. And, most likely, much better than I could do. But, maybe, I talk myself out of that, past that point, and I start to develop it in my head. Well, it just sounds so poorly written (almost "Twilight" bad!) I just can't do it.

So, all you fiction writers, I raise a glass to you. Thanks for being brave. Maybe, one day, I'll try to be brave as well.

Take a cha-cha-cha-chance

One year ago, I started this blog. 187 posts ago (although, in all fairness, Bru wrote one of those posts. Hey Bru, why don't you post more often?) And, boy, it's been a heck of a year.

I suppose a lot of it is my own fault: be careful what you wish for and all of that. Although, really looking at it, all of these changes, in the end, are a good thing. I have to believe this. Now is the time to believe the cliches: everything happens for a reason; when God shuts a door, He opens a window; what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I am clinging to these cliches on some days.

The adventure of the year has been a good thing. I feel like I've done so much. I've certainly done some things I didn't expect. When I started writing, I think it was with the hope that it would help me find some things, things I'd been missing. I doubt if the writing changed anything, but it has been a help. It has allowed me to explore myself and to think of things in a different way.

When I think of the past year, I can't help but look at my left hand. The ghost rings are still there. This both comforts and bothers me. Shouldn't they be gone by now? But I know that one day I'll look and notice that they're not there anymore. And it will break my heart a little bit.

So, happy birthday, Garfield Statue. Thanks to all who have read. Thanks to everyone who has been there for me this year. I needed you more than you know.

Soft the drowsy hours are creeping

When I was a kid and even through early adulthood, I was a champion sleeper. I could sleep pretty much any time, for as long as my parents would let me. I'd fall asleep quickly and rarely wake up during the night. I was one of those kindergartners who actually wanted to nap at nap time. I'd sleep on the band bus. I may have slept between acts at a concert. In a bar. So, why is it so much harder to sleep these days?

There are nights that I just can't seem to remember how to sleep. My body feels all wrong. Like, I can't remember where to put my arms. (How can my arms be in my way? And, yet, I can't get them so that they feel right.) And my mind keeps racing. I just can't relax. Am I worrying that much more these days? And then, once I finally do get to sleep, I probably can't go more than 3 or 4 hours without waking up. And that's when the serious worrying comes in.

Is the worry about anything important? Rarely. But I just can't stop it. And then I start the arguing with myself: stop being ridiculous. You know, you have to get up early. Why are you so worried about such silly things? Of course, if you don't worry, no one else is going to take care of it. Hey, did you ever think that you might be crazy? Hey, what would happen if you never fell asleep again?

Oh, I miss being able to sleep like I was a kid. It may be the only thing I miss about being a kid. Can you imagine: ten hours of solid sleep? That sounds fantastic! Maybe I'll dream about that tonight.

Those days when you were happy

Some of my favorite things are the family pictures I've collected over the years. Now, with digital cameras, cameras on our computers, there seems to be so many pictures of all of us. But pictures of my Nana in her 20s, well, there aren't many of those. I treasure those old pictures of my grandparents when they were young. Pictures of my parents as children. Pictures of my siblings as little kids with my parents looking so very young.

As much as I treasure the pictures of the people I love, when I take pictures, I don't usually take pictures of people. I'm not sure why, but maybe it's that I just can't capture what I see in that person. A photo is such a small part of that person. It's just a fraction, just one angle. Or (she says selfishly) maybe it's that there isn't a picture of me that I really love.

As I grow older I am more aware that this version of myself won't be here forever. Yes, time keeps moving forward. I hate getting my picture taken, but I know that this is the youngest I will ever be.

I have very few pictures of the former Mr. HP. He has almost none of me. I'm not sure why, but this is something that really hurts me. I always get a bit choked up when I think about this. I suppose the idea of all those years represented by a small stack of pictures. That it all can be so easily set aside. (Now, looking at the lyrics to the song that supplied this post's title, I note the phrase "To prove they love each other, a long ago.") I'm not sure that more pictures would change anything. But, for now, it might make me feel a little better. A little more a part of history.

Out of the mist your voice is calling

I just finished reading "Twilight." It was surprisingly bad. Of course I know it's meant for teenagers, but it was just not a good book. Please understand that I have great love for kid/teen lit. Books got me through childhood. I'll still pick up one of those books I read as a kid and most are still fun to read. I love me some "Harry Potter" and "Lemony Snicket." If I pick up a Judy Blume book, I won't put it down until someone drags me away. This, "Twilight", is not good writing.

What I don't get is the adults who like this. I've heard from more than one person my age that, although not deep, it's a good read. It got good reviews from real places: "The NYTimes", "Publishers Weekly." Don't be fooled. Yes, it moves along quickly (which is something, I guess), but it's bad writing. Here's an example: "I didn't feel like mentioning that my stomach was already full -- of butterflies." Ugh, really? (It's the dash; the dash just makes it so much worse.)

By the way, this post is going to contain some spoilers, so don't say I didn't warn you. (The biggest spoiler: the writing sucks.)

I can understand why the book is popular with 13-year-old girls. The main character, Bella, is basically average but just a bit cooler than average -- she could be you, tween girl reading "Twilight"! Of course, she's good at school, well, except icky things like gym and math. And, of course, when she starts at the new school, all the boys go after her, including the super-hot vampire who has never shown an interest in any other girl ever. (And she keeps insisting that she is nothing special, to which the reply is always a version of, "oh, Bella, if you could see how special you are." Please, just stop.)

And what Meyer does to the vampire myth is ridiculous. As far as I can tell, there's no downside to being a vampire, except (a) you have these urges for blood, which, really, who doesn't crave some stuff that's maybe not so good for you? and (b) there some pain when you actually become a vampire, but that goes away. The vampires here are all fabulous-looking, forever young, and have super powers. They can go out in daylight (but they sparkle. I know! What the hell is that about?) They can drive fast. They don't eat real food or have to sleep. They're good at baseball. Seriously, sign me up.

Books like this make me think that I could write bestsellers. But do I have to write so poorly?