Life in progress

Tag Archives: writing


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Emptiness

Last week I found this:

Empty Bug2

Empty shell

It is the empty shell of what I believe is a June Bug. I didn’t even realize they shed their skins, but there you go. [Edit: It’s a cicada.] The thing is, I’ve been contemplating these remains for the past week, and how they  relate to my life.

The fact is, I am full. It would be easy for me to say I need to shed my skin and let out the real me, but that isn’t quite the case. For many months I have felt oppressed by a relationship in which I felt unable to speak my mind. In those months, feelings, thoughts, visions, and opinions have built up which I have repressed, for fear of pissing someone else off. It’s no way to live, especially for a writer who lives to put to paper her every inspiration. It’s difficult to function in every facet of life, for me, when I am unable to express myself.

There’s a teaching in Taoism, in which the example of a full cup of water is used. At first glance, a cup filled to the brim with water may be considered a positive thing. And yet, a full cup holds no potential. The usefulness of a cup is its empty space… When I’m full of thoughts and ideas, I’m also of no use to anyone.

My problem now is twofold. Although I’m out of the relationship that caused me to keep quiet, I am so full of the things I want to say, I don’t know where to start.  The other part of it is that I know the person involved may be reading my blog. So, do I say to hell with it and speak my mind, the other person’s feelings be damned? Or do I continue to tread cautiously?

I found, in examining the second of two pictures I took of this bug, there is something that looks like a face inside it. This picture is not doctored. But the face inside the empty bug shell, I think, may be me, still afraid to come out.

Empty bug

Look closely to see the face


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My Three ‘Only’ Children

The dynamic that makes up my family is so unique that I don’t imagine there is even a statistic out there which would cover it. Since this is the case, I will describe it so that you can imagine.

Having grown up an only child, I always said that I would have more than one, so that my children would have a sibling to play with. So I gave birth to one beautiful little boy and then another, 14 short months later. When my second turned four years old, things became complicated. He was diagnosed with autism. After months of therapy and learning to read, he finally began speaking. Yes, reading taught him to speak. But being autistic meant lining up toy cars all the way around the dining room table, not playing with his older brother. To this day, he prefers to be alone all the time, and rarely interacts with us.

Then came the decision to have another child. Although there was going to be five or six years difference, at least when they were older my first child and my third would be able to get along perhaps. My third son was born Deaf, however. Imagine it. Having someone in your family, who you gave birth to, who speaks a different language.

Yes, we have all learned to sign. But there is no doubt that my youngest son is most at home with people who can not only speak his language fluently, but who can teach him what it truly means to be a Deaf person in a hearing world.

So there you have it. My family consists of three children who essentially have lives which are fundamentally different from each other’s.

Nothing in life is guaranteed, and anything is possible.


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How the Internet is Hurting our Kids

I’m going to start off with a disclaimer, because what I’m about to say, I realize, doesn’t apply to everyone. While I don’t want to generalize, I do find that there is a prevalence, with the introduction of the internet to the general public, toward people getting used to instantaneous gratification. It comes in the form of ‘likes’, having people agree with us, being able to buy something and have it delivered within seconds… the ways are countless.

But I have to wonder how much this bleeds into our real lives. Those of us who grew up without the internet know that sometimes you have to wait for things. We have learned how to save up, sometimes for years, to get what we want.

I’m finding that it’s much harder to teach my children the value of waiting than it might have been had it not been for the internet, and I don’t think I’m alone in this. It seems to me that there are more young people these days looking for handouts because they can’t manage to save enough – they don’t want to wait. And from what I’ve concluded, observing many young people (in this country anyway) there are more of them sitting at home on the internet relying on government assistance than ever before. For instance, according to  Human Resources and Skills Development Canada, in 2012 the unemployment rate for those aged 15-24 was 14.3%, compared to ages 25-54 at 6%. What this tells me is that more kids, in or well out of high school, are living off either their parents’ or the government’s back than those who are wise enough to have figured out that they’re not going to live long if they expect everything to be handed to them. These are supposed to be their brightest and most energetic years, and yet they sit in their rooms and surf.

Are we enabling this behaviour as parents? I think so. It used to be that families who lived off welfare taught their kids to do the same. (See disclaimer.) But now, how do those of us who do work, teach by example when our kids are learning more from the internet than they are from us, their parents? The obvious solution is to cut off the internet – easier said than done. If we do so temporarily and take the time to teach our children the values we grew up with, how long is it going to take them to go back to their “regular programming” once the computer is turned back on? I’m thinking five minutes, if we’re lucky.

It’s a difficult situation we’re in, and one that isn’t going to be solved overnight. Kudos to anyone able to resolve it before our kids turn 25.


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Solitude

I often wonder if I am alone.

What I mean to say is, I am most happy when I am alone. My imagination and I get along very well, as do I with my loud music. I am happiest when I can dance when no one is watching. I am free-est when I can sing at the top of my lungs, knowing no one is judging my ability. I am most content when I can write without distraction.

So, am I alone in this? Is it a artist thing, or is it just that I grew up as an only child and got used to it at an early age?

I wonder if it has anything to do with the ability or the need to create.  I’ve always had my imagination to keep me company. I remember (and it was a memory just jogged this morning) trying to write a book at my mother’s friends’ dining room table – when I was five or six years old. As I grew up I would imagine for myself a different life, in which I had friends and enemies alike. I would write pages of conversations.

Of the people in my real life: an artist friend of mine, with whom I was discussing this topic the other day, told me that she also is happiest and most content when she’s by herself. My mother and my other friend (yes, I only really have two) dislike being alone. Both are creative in their own ways – my mother knits and sews, and my friend is an inventor – but they are not artists as such.

Neither of them understand this need I have to be alone, and so it makes me wonder if I’m strange. I can only ask my artistically inclined acquaintances…

Am I alone?


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The Sandwich Generation

I am truly of the sandwich generation. On one hand I have my kids, two of which who, even though they are growing older, will probably never be out of my care because of their special needs. On the other hand I have my octogenarian mother. She still lives alone, and can take care of herself quite well despite the fact that her memory is beginning to go, although she doesn’t drive much any more. Farther than two minutes away requires that I pick her up and take her where she needs to go. Her biggest problem is that she’s lonely. It is the cause of most of my problems as well.

To give a little background, my mother moved to Canada with my father and their two best friends. My mother is the only one of the four still alive. Adding to that, she decided to follow me both of the two times I relocated, so she keeps leaving all of her other friends behind as well. I am now all she has, being an only child and being that all of our extended family is in the U.K.

My dilemma arose today when I wanted to go back to Kingston for the day to do some research for my book. My mother didn’t want me to go, because she is fearful for my safety. In the end I agreed to come back to town before it got dark. What does this mean? At the age of 49 I have a curfew that is even earlier than the one I had at 16.

While I feel that I should be allowed to “grow up,” she is so worried about being left completely alone that, whenever I have to drive out of town (I go to Kingston regularly anyway for the kids’ specialist appointments) she is immobilized by fear until I get home. The last time I went to a movie without telling her, she left no less than 14 messages on my answering machine.

It’s difficult enough to struggle with having a life of my own outside of being a mother, and that’s what I am, 24/7, unless they are with their father. Apart from two weekends a month I am raising them single-handedly.  But having to answer to my mother as well is close to intolerable.

I had hoped that writing it out might show me a solution, but it seems there may not be one. Being of the sandwich generation is far from appetizing.


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Insomnia

I have discovered what this insomnia thing people speak of is all about. Last night for the first time in many years, I experienced it.  And while I was tossing and turning, trying to find that sweet spot where I could settle enough to drift off, it came to me. Insomnia is for people who can choose their own bedtimes!

My kids have been gone since Wednesday and aren’t coming back from their dad’s for another week, so I’m anticipating a few restless nights to come.

Anyway, while I was laying there with the clock mocking me at 4:39am, I came up with what, at the time I thought a brilliant idea. I kept repeating it over and over in my head – not because I wanted to but because it wouldn’t leave me. It was this:

The internet was so vast, she could only end her sentences with commas,

What do you think? Brilliant? Or simply the product of an overactive brain?


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My addiction

The words buzz around in my head. I see an object, or I glimpse an expression on a face and I feel like I could base an entire novel on that very subject. The words – I can see them – twitching out from my fingertips on to the blank page. I imagine them there before I type them, and then my muscles obey, my digits stretching to reach this key, that letter. Suddenly, there they are. Right there before my eyes where I can read them. Do they make sense? Are they in the right order?

I inspect them. I skim them: sometimes I read them out loud. They are never good enough the first time around.

Inspiration is like having a balloon inside my head. It grows, it expands, until I can no longer contain it – until it either gets out or I go mad. And I do, sometimes. I’m sure my family knows when I get to the point where I MUST write. It’s almost like a disease, like an addiction. I suppose it is, in a way. I ignore my family, my housework, my social life suffers, I do nothing else in my leisure time. I haven’t watched TV in over a year.

And I can’t live without it.

I suppose, as with almost anything, if you do it enough and you’re lucky, you develop at least an aptitude for it. And if you’re really lucky, you find you have a talent for it. In the case of writing, if you have a vocabulary and an adequate imagination, all you need is a knowledge of grammar and you should be good to go. And yet, when I read those who are very talented – those who make it look easy – I realise I have a long road ahead of me still.

So, I write. The compulsion to put into writing the thoughts in my head is undeniable. As long as I have this driving will, this vast, open plain of ideas, and the means to make my hands work the magic that pulls rabbits out of hats in my noggin’, my addiction will be a part of me.


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Summer Camp

You never know what you’ve got until you lose it. It’s a saying we hear all the time; sometimes in moments of profound loss, sometimes it’s trivial. In my case, in many ways it’s the latter.

There’s no summer camp for my youngest son this week. I used to think it was a luxury to have the time to write. Now, however, my luxuries include sitting for more than two minutes at the table to eat a meal without being interrupted, showering, and going to the washroom.

The latter of these I believe, falls into the profound category.

So if you see a woman walking around the grocery store buying finger foods, with stringy hair and smudges of dirt on her face and with eyes bulging out of her sockets and her legs crossed, try not to point and laugh. It’s probably just a woman who’s missing summer camp.


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Day 9 Prompt – My Favourite…

Day 9 Prompt – Write a Story in 250 words or less about your favourite City


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Reading and Writing – is it ‘Rithmatic?

It all started with my romance writing course. The course was a requisite to acquiring the college certificate I’m after and I thought it would be fun to do anyway. Just to get a feel for the genre I went in search of novels to read that would cost me little or no money. Enter the freebies on my e-reader. Out of the ten or so I downloaded, two were well written – the rest, not so much. But I read them anyway. It was the general feeling I was going after, not the quality of writing.

At the same time I was finishing up the rough draft of my novel. That done, I started the editing process. In the meantime, the romance course finished and I went back to reading what I normally read. Well. I tell you.

After reading Stephen King (who, no matter whether you enjoy his stories or not, you must admit is a master of the craft of writing) I realised that my novel was right on par with the free romance crap I had been reading! Granted, I’m taking a grammar course now, so I’m finding mistakes I didn’t know were mistakes. But I still want to rewrite my entire manuscript.

I was amazed at how much influence what I read had on what I wrote. The time I spent describing things in minute detail instead of simply relating how my characters were reacting to things; the extra word count that came from blathering on about things that don’t matter is astounding.

I still have to cut down my word count by about 40,000 words in order for it to fit into even the most generous publisher’s limits, but I’m hoping with Stephen King’s influence I’ll be able to accomplish that. And from now on I must remember to keep away from authors I’m not interested in emulating whilst I write.