Wherever you go, there you are

I wrote this post weeks ago, meant to go back and do a proof-reading/edit, never did. Today, I have some time, so instead of going for a run I am dedicating an hour to my craft.


Wednesday night was my last class for Level 1 Interior Decorating. Our instructor handed back our final projects and sat down with each of us to explain our marks. I was last to get mine back.

The assignment had a few components: develop a furniture layout for a given floor plan, draw four elevations for the living room and dining room and one elevation for the bedroom, do a furniture and accessory collage for those rooms and write a profile of the imaginary client, demonstrating how the plan met the client's needs.

I was disappointed with my mark on my last assignment, a 71, given that I knew I'd put a lot of time an effort into it. My weakness is in my drawing. Everything must be measured and to scale. I take my time to measure no less than twice before committing my pencil to the paper and I line things up on graph paper to avoid lines with an undesired angle. Still, accuracy eludes me.

I didn't look at my mark when I got it back this week. I still haven't. My instructor pointed out to me where I'd missed details, how my dining room chairs were not consistent in size and my end tables in the drawings did not match the photos I'd selected. With every error she pointed out I grew more frustrated and more certain that this was not the class for me.

Floor plan, left. Furniture and accessory collage, right.

Furniture and accessory collage, left. Fabric and materials collage, right.

"You just need to take some more time and care with your drawings," she said.

More time? I spent all my free time, every weekend, for four weeks, working on the project. I don't have any more time or energy to give to this.

"But your client profile is the best profile I have ever seen. Absolutely. You have a great deal of potential," she told me. "Your furniture and accessory selection went along so well with how you described the client and her needs. You achieved a very sophisticated look that you don't see in any of the other students' projects. I really hope that you do take some time with practicing your drawing and continue on in level two. I think you have a very fun and modern design style."

I was touched by the praise and encouragement. Even in writing it can be hard to get someone to see the potential or merits of a work in progress.

"I don't know if I can give that much time to working on my drawing," I confessed. "I did spend a great deal of time on them, it wasn't like I left it to the last weekend."

"How long did you spend on your client profile?" she asked.

"Fifteen minutes," I said.

My instructor blinked. "Wow. You should be in marketing!"

When I told Lisa this story she laughed and said, "so you basically confirmed that you chose the right career path from the start."

I took the class because I got spooked in 2010 when I found myself miserable in my job and feeling like I had no out until something better opened up. I decided to try taking up something new that I could flip over to if I ever needed to make a quick exit to save my sanity. There is no easy path. Even when you put yourself on the path that you have a natural sense of direction for, you will stumble. You will meet great challenges. Trying to minimize the frustration of those challenges by finding other paths will open you up to finding more road blocks. There is no easy path. And really, how much fun is a never ending stretch of easy street anyway?

Do you like ice cream.

I attend a thirty-minute reiki session on Wednesday. I have a coupon but come Wednesday, no stress. I stress about not having stress to release. This feels better.

When I meet the therapist she lets me know that she is very intuitive. if I receive a message from Spirit as I work, can I pass it on to you, she asks.

If she is so intuitive, why are we having this conversation. Is this a test to see if I will answer her truthfully. Should I say the opposite to what I want to say. I nod and say yes. She does not seem to suspect anything.

The first ten minutes of the session I have to practice meditative relaxation guided by a man on a CD recording. Am I being charged for this part of the session if I and the faceless, recorded-voice man are doing all the work. If so, and if I fail to relax, who would I demand a refund from.

After the the relaxation the CD changes to birds and a harmonica. Does the therapist know I want to be a harmonica-playing cowgirl constantly followed by bluebirds.

The therapist covers my ears with her hands. The music changes to ocean sounds. Can she hear my heart pouting. I feel her hands pull away. I hear a pen scratching on paper. The music does not change.

It is the end of the session and so the therapist notifies me that time is up. She invites me to have a seat in the chair. She leaves the room and returns with a tall glass of water. I wait for her to invite me to it. She takes a long sip and hands me a clipboard with paper and pen. There is no second glass.

You need to take fish oils. You need to take a vitamin supplement that is long and difficult to pronounce and that I am not going to spell for you but instead direct you to find out more about on the Dr. Oz website. You need to eat more fibre. You need to walk more. You need to drink more water.

Does she know that I ate one half cup of beans at lunch today and that I am a freak about checking food labels for fibre content. Does she know that I go on epic, two-hour walks regularly and run three times per week now. Does she think that I believe Dr. Oz is a wizard, the kind with a big head, a lot of smoke and sparkly mirrors. Does she know what intuition is. Will she bring me a glass of water.

She stops telling me things. Does she feel bad because I am clearly not amazed. She asks a question. Do you like ice cream. I cannot help but laugh and, shock, tear a little. Do I like ice cream. Is my name Jill. Does anyone who loves me not know my particular affection for sweet, colourful, iced-dairy products.

Am I a fool for wanting to believe her when she says, Spirit gave me that message to show you that you can trust me.

She tells me she has a message from my grandmother. I tell her both my grandmothers are alive, perhaps it is a great grandmother. She says the grandmother spirit is showing her the colour pink, which means love. Oh good. Long-departed Great Grandmother still loves me. This was a stress I had not thought of until this very moment, dead people still loving me despite me not sending a Christmas letter.

Her final message to me is that she saw Jesus. Jesus wants me to know that I am one of them and he loves me. Jesus says I need to love and accept myself and not be so hard on myself.

Has she read the bible. Does she know that this is the general message of Jesus and not exactly a personal hello. Does she think that I will not mind this since Jesus is the world's oldest rock star and probably does not have time for personalized greetings. Does she see SUCKER tattooed on my forehead. Does she make enough money at this to live in a nice home in the suburbs and drive a Mazda convertible. Is she hiring.

She wants to know if I will come again. I am sure she does not need her special powers to see that I am being polite when I say I would have to think about it. Does she cry as I drive home because gosh darn it she has lost another one. Does she have bad credit card debt that she needs to pay off and this is how she is doing it. Does she call out to Jesus, or Spirit, or my un-dead grandmothers for some mercy please so she can stop pretending to be a medium and go live on a beach somewhere with her hippie lover who left her two years ago because her chakras were killing his chi. Am I intuitive here. Do you like ice cream.

First Paddle

I plunge my paddle in the water and draw it behind me with all my left bicep, trapezius and deltoid muscles can give. My confidence about my paddling abilities have sunk to the bottom of the river. This is hard work, but I can't frown. I'm on the water again, in an over-sized canoe and the sun is lazily sinking below the trees. I'll hurt tomorrow, that is a certainty, but it's the good pain, the kind that's part of the perfect picture on a postcard from a wicked trip with a mix of old friends and new. The soreness and the high feelings will fade and be impossible to have back again in the same way, because you'll never have another first paddle in a dragon boat.

It's just an expression

While getting ready for the gym today I noticed a multi-hued bruise just above my knee cap. I touched it. It hurt. Hm. When did I get that? Must've been recently. How? Mysteriously, as you often do, silly girl. I had a hazy memory of hitting myself with the heavy ramps I used to wheel my lawn mower into the back of Truck yesterday. My dad needed to borrow the mower, so if that was the cause of the bruise then at least it was in an act of love and not just poor coordination, as is the usual case.

The most unfortunate part of the bruise was that I was scheduled to do a portrait session with my photographer friend, Doug (affectionately known as Delores here). I worried about the bruise ruining the pictures. I made a mental note to check the rest of my limbs for unsightly blemishes. Later I would fret that the humidity would mean my hair would be limp and gross looking and that my workout would mean my face would be extra red. Gah. Pictures stress me out.

Last Sunday afternoon when NAF was here we were wandering around at the Forks. He snapped some pictures of the river for his blog.

"Wait, there's one more picture I need," he said and pointed the lens at me.

I made a face and groaned. "Not today."

"Why not today?" he asked.

"I was prettier yesterday," I said although I have no idea what that meant. If anything I was "prettier" on Friday when I was sporting my new frilly dress. On that particular Sunday I was wearing a typical weekend t-shirt with some black, easy-breezy, wide-legged pants and, the biggest fashion faux pas that I allowed myself to indulge in, my tired and worn black runners (the ones from New York that I cannot bring myself to toss. Not ever).

"You're one of those people," NAF said as we headed up the river bank.

"One of what people?"

"The ones who never like how they look in any pictures of themselves when really they take beautiful pictures." He showed me the image. Well if I hadn't have made such a "please don't take my picture now" face maybe the photo would have turned out lovely. Great. Now that is going to be his lasting image of me from this visit. You see? Pictures are so stressful!

When I was a kid, no, for my entire life I've wished that I could express myself physically through dance, gymnastics or figure skating or taking really great photos. I understand the concepts of beautiful  and expressive lines and postures, but I am so freakin' awkward and uncoordinated, like a baby giraffe who has no awareness of the length of her limbs. That's why I am constantly bruised. I am forever flailing my arms out and getting my legs in the way of unyielding objects. If I can practice and go slow, sometimes I think I can look graceful, and then I feel beautiful. But that takes some work. It's not natural to me like the flow of words onto a page is. Meh, everyone has their thing.

I've always been good with words. I know how to place them to communicate what I want to say. I know how to play with sentence length, diction and imagery to create something for my readers or listeners to understand and react to. If I can make someone feel something, I have succeeded in my expression.

When it came time for goodbye on Monday morning, NAF and I didn't have much to say. All weekend we had traded stories and laughs but now we were both quiet.We'd look at each other and I'd search his eyes for something that would tell me what he was thinking. Perhaps he wanted to say something but the words were locked up in his head. Me, I had words, all kinds of words. But I didn't know which ones to use just then. Instead I hugged him and hoped that he could read in my eyes that I understood and I wasn't mad, hurt or feeling regret. It was a hard goodbye for me, harder than I thought it would be, but I wanted to show him my most beautiful self--a girl full of grace, poise and strength. That was the picture I wanted him to take with him on the rest of his journey.

At my photo session with Doug today I put on my favourite songs and my favourite outfits. None of them showed the bruise. I tried my very best to show my heart, the whole happy-but-scarred, beat-skipping thing.
 
"Let's make sure we get a real smoldering shot," I told Doug. I wanted to have evidence that I could tell a whole heartbreaker story in one, unblinking look. With the very last head shot he did he said, "your eyes are really blue."
 
I leaned over to look at the preview screen on the camera and smiled. That's the look that makes for hard goodbyes.
 
Now I know.

Winter in Winnipeg: Time to Write

I sat down to write on Friday night--old school style with pen and paper, a tall mug of tea beside me. I started with a sketch of a character and then put her in a setting and state of conflict. I got a page written before I reviewed it and frowned.

I needed something I could share at the writer’s workshop I had signed up for on Saturday afternoon. I considered backing out. It didn’t cost me anything and I had been so busy during the week and the week before that I needed some hours at home to catch up on laundry, recycling, alphabetizing soup cans, etc. It was so cold out too, ugh, did I really want to go out in that cold? Without another word written, at 10:30 I called it a night and went to bed.

I woke up on Saturday morning thinking about Meg, this fourteen year old I had started writing about last year sometime. I love Meg. I’m not sure that I am keeping her name as Meg though, I seem to name all my girl characters Meg, Maggie, M-something or other. But anyway, I love this character, Meg because she is so smart, so wise and certain for fourteen. I looked at what I had written for Meg’s story (also done in pen in a notebook) and evaluated it for its readiness for sharing. I felt surprisingly good about it—surprisingly because it’s not often that a first draft like that feels ready for sharing with strangers. I typed it up, doing some edits along the way, and ended up with seven good pages.

I took the bus downtown to the workshop location. There were nine of us, which seemed like a smaller group than I remembered from last time, but is probably about the same. There was one white-haired guy amongst the group of women ranging from twenty-something to sixty (seventy?)-something.

Last time I had brought a blog post that I re-purposed for the workshop, mostly keeping the real story and “character” intact. I hadn’t let on then that it was a creative non-fiction piece. This time, all but two of us had brought pieces of memoirs. It was all good work. Many of the writers were struggling with how far they could stray from the truth. They wanted to tell an interesting story, but they also wanted to stick to the facts. Welcome to the challenge that is this blog.

I was pretty quiet during the discussions but I tried to make up with it by nodding in agreement or sometimes saying yes or an emphatic mm hmm. Often someone would say the same thing I was thinking. I find it hard to contribute feedback in a group setting like that. If I was working one-on-one with another writer I believe I’d ask more questions to first get a sense of what they wanted comment on. I would have felt more comfortable sharing some insight into what I do to make a true story more interesting to an audience.

I volunteered to read first after we came back from a break. I explained that I feel description is my weakest part of my writing and that I worry when I do make the effort to include it, the description sounds forced or cliché. I chose a few different sections of my seven pages to read out loud as I had more than enough material to read from in my fifteen minute time limit. After reading I looked up and waited for someone to say something.

Oh my gawd, no one is going to say anything. They don’t get it, they can’t relate, they think it’s totally not plausible. Crap.

I’m sure that’s what every writer thinks when they look up from their reading and wait for the feedback to come. It feels like forever before someone breaks the silence. In that long moment after my initial panic while the hum of the elevator out the door and around the corner was clearly audible, I reminded myself of being in the creative writing class I took at the university in 2009. Sometimes I’d find myself without anything to say simply because I didn’t think I had anything helpful I could offer; the piece was just plain good.

The feedback, when it came, was all very positive. The moderator asked me questions about where the story was going and then compared it to Catcher in the Rye. It was agreed that my dialogue was strong and believable and the story felt authentic. Eight people confirmed that I had a story to tell and I was off to a good start. I really should get over myself and just write already.

I regretted the decision to take the bus on the way home. Of course, the bus was late. I stood in the bus shack on Main Street shifting from one foot to the other trying to keep my toes from freezing while simultaneously being paranoid that someone was going to demand my purse and iPod, or worse, my down-filled parka . I’m sure I must have looked like I was doing the Potty Dance. I didn’t get to start my laundry until I got home last night, and I don’t know when I will ever get around to alphabetizing those soup cans, but I’m glad I got myself to the workshop.

Other highlights of the weekend…

 

• Bought a new Cooking Light cookbook—every recipe has a coloured photo and detailed nutritional information.  

• Bought a Timex heart rate monitor at Costco for $69.99. I went straight to the gym after purchasing it to test it out. Nothing makes working out more fun than a new gadget or a new outfit to try.

• Went with Lisa to see True Grit. Warning, if you are considering seeing this movie, be prepared for snakes and horses getting shot. I’m okay with people dying, but I hate to see an animal go down, except for snakes, which I’d rather not see at all.

New Year Orientation

Hello 2011, welcome to my life. Together, we will explore the final year of my 20s and the first few weeks of my third decade on Earth.

Your predecessor, 2010, was agreeable on the whole but supplied its fair dose of heartache (see eHarmony adventures in the first quarter and death in the family in Q2). I appreciated however, the perspective 2010 gave me. We didn't always agree, but I usually walked away feeling I had learned something and gained new, valuable insight. I give a lot of credit to 2010 for personal growth in the area of wisdom. And, it was nothing like the doozie known as 2009. I suppose we all encounter years like that from time to time.

2011, I feel I should give you some idea as to what I want to get out of you, the vision I have for you. I can't just expect you to read my mind and deliver. That said, it is still early and I haven't completely formalized my plans for you. I usually like to review and tweak on a quarterly basis. We will have regular planning meetings, opportunities to touch base, etc.

To begin, I'd like to take on a new novel writing project, likely this month, as I did with 2010. This time around though I'd like to take five weeks to complete it, which would mean committing to 10,000/week. In my first attempt I went in without much of a plan. The result was a positive experience, but not a product I was terribly happy with. I'd like to improve the product but still keep to a tight schedule as I feel it was key to sticking with the project and seeing it through to completion. I've already signed up for  a January 22 writers workshop at which I will have to have something to share.

I have finished paying for Truck which means that I will have an extra $475 to my name each month. I would like to invest this money in retirement savings, home improvements and personal improvements. For home improvements I'd like to paint my kitchen and install new flooring. I had thought that I might like to do this in January also, but perhaps I am being too ambitious with loading all these goals in your first month. I may push this goal back to February or March, although, you should know, I have already begun research on this.

For personal improvements there are some courses I am considering through Continuing Education. I need to look again at when they are being offered. I will get back to you on this one.

I'm also interested in investing in a heart rate monitor for use during my workouts at the gym. I've made going to the gym a regular habit and would now like to focus on getting the most out of my workouts by ensuring that I am exercising at the level I need to be in order to attain my fitness goals. Right now I am looking at the miCoach Pace Bundle by Adidas. It retails in Canada for $169.99. The sooner I pick out a monitor, the sooner I can get serious about my fitness goals, so this is another possible goal for January. Until then, I'll do my best with just placing my fingers on my neck.

There is one more personal improvement investment I have in mind. I've had some thought about giving eH another shot. Lisa's on there still and got a good subscription price. If I could get the same price I'd do it. Overall it was a fun experience for 2010 and made for good blogging.

Finally, 2011 you are shaping up to be a good year because on the weekend I got an email from my good old friend OAF announcing his plan to travel across Canada by bike. He will begin in April in B.C. and tentatively has plans to arrive in Manitoba by May. 2011, this is super exciting. I haven't seen OAF since he was NYF in 2008. I have already responded to OAF to let him know I'd be happy to be his ambassador to Manitoba and provide him with a bed and fridge full of beer upon his arrival to Winnipeg. More details on this to come as he finalizes his plans.

So 2011, that's what I have in mind so far. I trust this is enough for you to get going. No doubt you are already planning some surprises--both pleasant and unpleasant to make the next 12 months interesting. I usually try not to rely on you too much to supply inspiration and paths, however, I am considering testing out a more "whichever way the wind blows" approach with you to change things up a bit. I feel some of the previous years have taught me to keep my eyes and options wide open to maximize opportunity for full enjoyment.

I truly do have a good feeling about you, 2011. I am sure we will accomplish a lot together before your time is up.

My future is unwritten, for now.

I stayed home from the festival events on Wednesday in favour of doing things around the house. Thursday night I was back at the main stage working the merchandise table, Friday I hung out with Lisa, and Saturday was my marathon day that began at 10am with a writer's workshop with Gilles Blunt.

The workshop was great. I've taken a few writing courses and listened to a number of authors speak about the writing process but each time I do manage to take away something new and helpful. Gilles spoke about the structure of a good plot. I love hearing about structure and method in writing. Even though writing is a creative art there are common elements and patterns to good stories. I think it's important to understand those basics and from there a writer can apply the creativity to create a new story.

Blunt also commented about how there's a lot of bad writing out there that some how makes it to the best sellers list anyway. This was refreshing to hear. I get frustrated when I pick up a book that has commendations from the New York Times and yet find myself not enjoying it at all.  I wonder if he thinks the same sometimes applies to books that have won literary awards. One book he kept mentioning as an example of good story-telling and writing is No Country for Old Men. I'm going to read that one and maybe start working my way through the classics. I used to love reading when I was a kid, but it seemed like it was a lot easier to find quality stuff in the kids and young adult genre. Is it any wonder then that I like working in that genre myself?

I met a lot of people this week and usually after we traded names the next question was, "so, are you a writer?" I wish I could have said yeah, I'm working on something right now, or, I've had some stuff published. Instead I say that I blog, I work in corporate communications, and I'm trying to get back into writing more. I don't like that that is my response. I wish I was doing more. I don't want to be one of those people who never does anything with her talent. I was in a room with 50 other aspiring authors in that workshop. How many of us will actually publish a novel? How many of us already have? I don't want to be in the group who doesn't make it. I'm just going to have to find a way to do it.

No cute poets this year, no winning of door prizes, only one book purchase, but I did get a good nudge to get on with  putting time back into writing.

eyes hood bee

Day one of the Writers Festival main stage events. I attended. I showed up an hour early because I thought the show started at 7:15 but actually it starts at eight. I killed time walking around The Forks and kicked myself for not being at the gym. I should be, I should be...

It was a drizzly, damp, foggy evening, which seemed like the perfect occasion for a latte, not to mention a good way to sip away some time. I talked myself out of it though, saving myself a good 200-300 calories and four dollars. At least I won that battle.

When it was closer to eight I went back to the venue and browsed the book table. I bumped into someone I used to work with at Good-Wooden Leg and got into a conversation with her about the writing thing. She's been doing some workshops. She asked me what I've been doing in pursuit of my calling. She was the second person to ask today.

I barely listened to the readings tonight. Mostly I was distracted by my guilt and inner nag. I should be, I should be, I should be.

I should be writing every day. I should be preparing pieces for submission. I should be editing my 50,000 word manuscript. I should be going to the gym five days a week, at least. I should be drinking more water. I should be eating less carbs. I should be dating. I should be doing laundry. I should be, I should be. Eyes hood be.

On the way home I heard a new song on the radio. These are the lyrics:

When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change
Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are
And when you smile,
The whole world stops and stares for awhile
Cause girl you're amazing
Just the way you are

Just the Way You Are--Bruno Mars

Personally, I'm a much bigger fan of Billy Joel's take on the sentiment, however, the song was a good cure for the I Should Be ear worm in my head. I am who I am and that's good enough for me. I don't need to be anything else today. I am not wasting or losing time. I will get done all the things I want to do. I am focused right now on certain aspects of my life and when I have those things in order, I will move on to my next challenge. I don't need to change a thing or do more to be amazing. I am there already and that isn't a characteristic that is going away.

Dear Self, here is a song for you. Love always, Me.

Don't go changing, to try and please me
You never let me down before
Don't imagine you're too familiar
And I don't see you anymore
I wouldn't leave you in times of trouble
We never could have come this far
I took the good times, I'll take the bad times
I'll take you just the way you are

Don't go trying some new fashion
Don't change the color of your hair
You always have my unspoken passion
Although I might not seem to care

I don't want clever conversation
I never want to work that hard
I just want someone that I can talk to
I want you just the way you are.

I need to know that you will always be
The same old someone that I knew
What will it take till you believe in me
The way that I believe in you.

I said I love you and that's forever
And this I promise from the heart
I could not love you any better
I love you just the way you are.

Just the Way You Are--Billy Joel

Hits and Misses

When I saw the description for Art & Copy in the Cinematheque flyer I picked up a few weeks ago just before my date with A 2.0 the first person I thought of was my friend Nigel.

Nigel and I worked together at Good-Wooden Leg on different teams. Before Good-Wooden his career path took him through different radio creative departments. He is a smart dressed guy who loves the TV show Mad Men.

Last night I picked Nigel up and we had a night out that included taking in the film and enjoying some food and beers at the nearby King's Head Pub. Even though at one time I thought that I'd like to see the show with G, Nigel really was the perfect guy to join me.

I loved the show. We both did. I can't even really remember most of the details because I was so in love with it I was trying to memorize every word. Not only was it on a topic near and dear to me, but I could identify with it too. It was about ad campaigns and where the ideas came from, but it was also about creativity and creative people. It was about where the creativity comes from, the fears and the unique intelligence creative people have. Watching it I actually realized why I am always compelled to connect with people, even people who I should really just forget. It's part of me and who I am--I am driven to move, touch and influence people with my words. I believe in the power of good writing and I like seeing it work.

The film also showed a few agencies where the creative writers worked. They know how to nurture creativity, well hey, that's their business, right? I remember when I thought my career would have me working long hours at an agency. I used to dream that one day I'd see my picture or just my name in Marketing magazine. They showed this one place where the people had made a mural out of clear plastic push pins that spelled out Fail Harder. It's an interesting mantra when you think about it.

After the show Nigel and I went back to the pub for another drink. I've been missing my Good-Wooden buddies lately. I miss being around other writers. Even if our creativity was often quashed by an uber-conservative client, we supported one another. We were like family, complete with tiffs,  sibling rivalries and overbearing authority figures. I grew up with a lot of those people. They know me and they were there for me when I needed them last year.

"You'll keep in touch with the people who want to keep in touch," Nigel told me last night. I used to eat lunch with Nigel every day. I know he's right.

We talked about the film a lot and he gave me his thoughts on my eHarmony experience so far.

"I think you dodged a bullet with that one," he told me. It was what I needed to hear. All week I'd been hearing people telling me I should have done this or why don't I do that? And until he said it, I was actually contemplating trying something, using my words, just to see. It's who I am and what I do. Silence is not.

Nigel inspires me. Not only is he a good guy, a good friend, he also has this amazing love story (it could be a movie). So  I had a way better time with Nigel than I probably would have had with someone else, and I'm glad that the way things ended up was what was meant to be.

The Write Dress

I went to a writing workshop on Saturday. It was put on by the Manitoba Writers' Guild and was free to members. I and seven others met with the afternoon's moderator, a local publisher, and shared five pages of work for feedback. I wasn't ready to present any of my novel yet so I tweaked and edited my Dear Diary, Today I Met a Dress post. There were three people who read before it was my turn and I went through my usual bout of insecurities about the work I had chosen. When I read I could hear nervousness in my voice. It was shakey and I couldn't seem to fix it. When I finished I looked up and waited for someone to say something. I never breath during that moment of silence before the first comment.

The feedback was pretty good, actually. The hard part about doing a group share like this is that everyone brings with them his/her own perspectives, ideas and preferences about what the story should be. This can be helpful sometimes, but frustrating too when it seems that your audience didn't "get" your story. Fortunately, I had two encouraging reviews from women who did understand the character. The mediator author seemed to see more in the story than I knew was there. He made a round about comparison of it to Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. At that moment I realized that I need to get back on the writing horse. I've been spending Friday nights reviewing and lightly editing but that's not enough. Not if I'm going to be Sylvia Plath it isn't. Then again, Plath wrote for a women's magazine, had her personal journals published, battled mental issues and committed suicide. Perhaps she's not quite the right girl to model myself after.

I met another dress this week: a happy pink silk Halston Heritage cockail dress. I tried it on--for fun only, because it's price tag said Three-hundred-and-No-You-Can't-Have-Me-Sixty-Five dollars. But once I try something on, it's pretty hard to get it out of my head. Oh it was beautiful. And somehow, when I looked in the mirror I saw me, at a fabulous party or gallery thing (Amara did tell me about an event at the Art Gallery I should go to) or something fabulous that would call for a fabulous me in a fabulous dress. That's what young professional and fashionable women like me are supposed to be doing, right? I promise myself, when I have my book deal, I can buy the the hottest, most knock out dress that three-hundred-and-yes-you-deserve-this-sixty-five dollars can buy.

Hot potatoes and Valentine's Day 2010

Yesterday I was without hot water for a few hours, set off the smoke alarm repeatedly while roasting lemon potatoes, couldn't put together an outfit and lost my cell phone, twice, before having to venture to the far east side of the city to celebrate Valentine's day with three other single women. I was not exactly a bucket full of cheer.
Lisa invited me to join her for dinner with one of her running buddies on Sunday night. I hesitated about going, first because I wasn't sure if I was going to be working on my novel still that night, and secondly because I wanted to ignore V-day this year in favour of watching the Olympics, washing my hair, scrubbing the bathtub and alphabetizing my soup cans. I've done the single girls' support session thing and I've done the sweetheart thing. The only things I really love about Love Day in February are the pink and red hearts. I used to decorate my cubicle at work with them but I've heard this is forbidden in the place I'm at now, so grey padded walls, 365 it is. But some other force won out against my hesitation and I found myself assigned to bring roasted lemon potatoes for the Greek dinner.

My dad came over in the afternoon to flush out my hot water tank. It's been rather unreliable lately so we thought we'd try to get the crud out of it in hopes of improving its performance. Sunday really didn't seem like a good day for him to do this--Dad was watching the Daytona 500 and I needed to be showered and out the door at a specific time to make it to dinner. But he came anyway, showing up as I was reorganizing my linen closet. While he did his thing I worked on laundry and the pucker up potatoes.

I had asked my dad if I was going to have hot water by five, when I would need to be in the shower. Yes, he said. I had some concern when after the first flushing he ran the water and decided it needed more work. He went back to the basement while I folded clothes and watched speed skating.

Just before five I took the potatoes out. I had lined my glass baking dish with foil to make the clean up easier. I was foiled alright, the roasting juices bubbled over and got in-between the foil and the glass and burned black. The potatoes were fine, great actually, but the burning lemon juice and olive oil was what kept setting the smoke alarm off and resulted in a black mess in the pan. I transferred the potatoes to another dish for transport and quickly put the glass pan in the sink. I squeezed in some dish soap and cranked on the hot water to let the pan soak. The water felt barely warm.

"This is ridiculous!" I yelled. "I need to have a shower now and there is no hot water!" I knew it wasn't my dad's fault, I knew there was nothing he could really do. I was just mad. He left and I said I would be following close behind to shower and change at his place. I grabbed, and stuffed into a duffle bag, every pink or black top I had that, in combination with my new black skirt, might form an outfit that was pretty yet not overly formal. I figured that likely the other girls would be in their jeans but if I was going to be going out and celebrating this day, damn it, I was going to feel like a million bucks. I was running late and went to grab my cell phone to let Lisa know. I couldn't find it. I looked all over the house, tore apart my bed, searched through my purse, my gym bag and my work bag but couldn't find it. So I pulled out Mac and went online to send myself a text message.

I heard the phone vibrate and chime. It sounded to be coming from the kitchen so I went back there and sent another message to myself. It wasn't coming from my purse (though I checked it, again) and it didn't seem to be coming from the counter or the table. I went back to my bedroom, sent another message and listened. It still couldn't place it but then the bell went off in my head and I flung open the linen closet. There it was, on the shelf, with the towels. One of these days it will end up in the freezer. Remind me to make a donation to the Alzheimer's society, for me it would be an investment.

I went into the bathroom to wash my hands and noticed that the water felt a little warmer now. I decided to try the tap in the shower. Hot, steamy water droplets soon rained down and started to wash away the afternoon's frustration.

I happily accepted a glass of white wine when I arrived at the hostess's apartment. I apologized for being so late that she and Lisa were probably ready to eat the curtains, but they assured me all was good and we nibbled on appetizers while dinner heated up.

"Did you finish your novel?" Lisa asked me.

"Yeah, I finished on Friday night," I said.

"Congratulations!" She said and then told her friend, Joanne about my project, who also offered her congratulations. They were genuinely excited for me and this caught me off guard. I had finished the project two days ago and didn't have anyone around to celebrate it with me so I put the moment away and turned my thinking toward the next steps, namely how I was going to print off this 168-page manuscript to start editing it. Joanne asked me about the subject of the novel but I wasn't ready to talk about it yet, so maybe I'm not ready to celebrate it yet either. Is 50,000 words really such a big deal? I thought so once. Lisa and Joanne think so. My Valentine would think so.

I confessed at dinner that I'd had some reservations about accepting the dinner invitation and explained how I didn't want to celebrate V-day this year. Joanne, divorced with a 10-year-old son said she celebrates her old wedding anniversary every year with a steak dinner and wanted to do something similar for Valentine's. We drank pomegranate martinis with red heart ice cubes floating in the glasses--melting hearts, Lisa said. It made me think of my own cryogenically frozen muscle of affection and laugh.

The conversation turned to love and lack-there-of. Another one of Joanne's single friends joined us for dessert and more drinks. As I spoke and listened, I thought about how it felt like a moment you'd see on TV or in a movie. There was the woman who felt she had come to terms with her situation, the woman who had be hurt but still had hope, the one who had wisdom and faith but still some fear, and the one who felt all of those things and was perhaps one miracle or broken heart away from getting off the fence.

"Maybe it all happened so we could end up together, here tonight," Lisa said. There was something right feeling about it all. I don't know what my story will end up being, but this scene seemed to have its place.

50,177

The pirate was not at Starbucks last night. I got my latte in a mug and sat down in the big purple arm chair that I've been lucky enough to get a couple of times in the past few weeks. I was late getting to work so I only had an hour to get in my word count if I wanted to finish. I did it though. I got to 50,177 words last night by ten. I met the first draft challenge. What a journey.

Hello long weekend, I may enjoy you now.

B, L, E and not a Triple Word Score in sight

This afternoon I touched the collar of my cowl-neck sweater and pressed it to my chest. I felt something scratchy against my collarbone and looked down to see the tag of the sweater. I'd had a busy day filled with meetings, including one with two people I had never met before. But with half an hour left to go I realized that I was wearing my sweater, with two front pockets, backwards.

My word count is at 48,572. It feels like when you're playing scrabble and all the letters have been drawn and you are left with L, B and E, which you have to try to add to whatever is already on the board but really you just want to call it a game already because you've been playing for two hours now and have realized you completely missed the sunny day and your favourite TV show. Yeah, being 1,428 words from the goal feels just like that. I'm trying to add in pieces here and there but it only ends up being one hundred words at a time or so. I read in the No Stress No Problem book that talking about the weather is a good way to up the word count so now I'm trying to add in sunny or rainy days where appropriate. This is what quality stuff is made of, for sure.

I am going to be so glad when this thing is done. Please let me dream of a new, 1,400 word scene to add.

That makes sense actually

On Friday night I made my pilgramage to the Starbucks on Academy Road. I had meant to rotate the places I visited, but when I thought about the other locations they didn't seem as appealing as this one. I liked the idea of having an easy place to park, a place that was busy but not too busy that I wouldn't get a spot to sit, preferably in a comfy chair or a tucked away table in the corner. This place had all that so I stuck with it.

Last week I noticed a pirate sitting on the other side of the store from me. He had a beard and a laptop and wore a rather stylish looking black eye patch. I wasn't very focused last week so I messaged OAF to tell him about what I was looking at.

me: I am in Starbucks and on the opposite side of the shop is a pirate.


OAF: Male or female?

me: male.

OAF: Talk to him! Just for five minutes. He's single and (even though you're not attracted to him) he'll say some hilarious stuff.

I sat there for the longest time trying to figure out what I could say in order to play out this scene that OAF had made up. One of the baristas came around and offered me a sample of tea and a chocolate oat bar. I watched her approach the pirate and saw him turn down the offer. Who would turn down the offer of a sample of tea and the infamous Starbucks chocolate oat bar? On top of that, now if I found myself wandering over there it wasn't like I could say something casual like, "hey, sample night!" I turned back to my novel project. I was stuck. I thought about how I could write the pirate into the story but couldn't come up with anything. I ended up adding in some teenage girls who walked in later. I sludged my way through maybe 1,000 words that night. I noticed when the pirate got up and headed out that he had a gold ring on his left hand. OAF had been wrong, although I suspect he was just trying to give me something to do other than chat with him.

The guy was there again this week. I wondered if he noticed me too. I was kind of loud when I was ordering my tea. I don't know why but my voice just seemed to project itself when I said, "Tall Vanilla Rooibos tea, please" and then later when I said, "Is this just the tea, or the tea latte?" because the kid got my order wrong. I was dressed in mostly black because I decided I wanted to look "gothic" that night, just on a whim, or well, more likely inspired by my love of Vampire Diaries. I don't know if it is possible really, for a blonde girl to look gothic. Even though I put on my skinny black jeans and my bat wing black sweater I still had that shock of blonde hair and bright blue eyes that looked anything but angry or emo or whatever. I painted my nails with Vamp It Up, a dark blood red color I got from Avon. I didn't go through the goth phase when I was a teen. I had a beige and blue plaid shirt with a matching hair scrunchie from Smart Set in the mall. That was the closest I got to the grunge look. One of the teachers told me I would never get a date if I kept dressing like a boy. My idol around that time was the Sarah Michelle Gellar Buffy The Vampire Slayer. She was blonde and she got the attention of David Boreanaz's Angel, unfortunately their having sex opened up a portal to hell. Anyway, the attractive pirate was married.

I started out this novel project with a bang. I knocked off the first 10,000 words easily. The next fifteen weren't much of a struggle either and I celebrated being halfway to my target days ahead of schedule. The next ten were a little harder to get down, but by 35,000 I was actually convinced that I would finish the feat. I had an idea as to what I wanted to happen in the end at this point, but I wasn't sure how I was going to get there exactly, and how I needed to pace myself so that I would start my ending in the right place to cruise into 50,000 words for the finish. This is where I started really over thinking things. Up until then, I was just filling up pages with words and letting the journey take its own course, but now I actually had a destination in mind. My daily quotas were a struggle. Interesting things would happen though when I would shut down for the day. My brain would figure out solutions to my blocks. It would inevitably come up with something every time. My favourite math teacher in high school used to tell us that when we got stuck on a math problem sometimes the best thing to do was to put it aside and let our subconscious work on it. I completely believe in this idea.
 
Today I procrastinated a bit on getting down to work. There was a song in my Yoga/Pilates/Tai Chi class that I loved but didn't know the name of or the name of the artist who sang it. It had a John Mayer sound to it. I kept meaning to Google the one line of lyrics that I had but I always forgot. This weekend when I was thinking of it again I realized that I couldn't remember the lyrics anymore. So then I did a mad search of "Goodlife Fittness Music" and "Goodlife BodyFlow Music", which didn't give me what I wanted at all. I hoped that I would find a Blogger or a Tweet or a Facebook page or something that had listed the track for the last choreography release but no. I was playing around with my searches again this morning some more and finally got some results. I found a blog with the names and artists of the songs, but I didn't have a clue which song was the one I was looking for. I randomly started plugging things into YouTube to sample the songs but still hadn't found what I was looking for. All of a sudden though I could remember the lyric and I could hear the song in my head again. I Googled the line "I'll be right beside you dear" and found it! Snow Patrol's song Run was the one I was looking for!
 

Light up, light up

As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you dear

Snow Patrol, Run (Leona Lewis also sings this song, I don't know who did it first)

I threw my head back on the chair and exhaled once I confirmed that this was in fact the song I was looking for. I remember doing hamstring stretches to this song, balanced on one foot and trying to touch my nose to my knee (I can come close, you know) and how that one line, "Even if you cannot hear my voice, I'll be right beside you dear" just got inside of me and helped me push forward. Songs like that go on my personal soundtrack.
 
So with the song mystery solved I could finally get to work. On Friday night I left off with one of my characters saying to another, "That makes sense, actually." I sat and stared at the screen for the longest time trying to figure out where to go from there. I could feel the characters looking at me going, "Okay, now what?" And I was kind of looking at them going, "sorry guys, I'm not sure. I wasn't really expecting this. I didn't know A was going to be so smart or that D was going to turn out not to be a total jerk." So it seems that whenever I get stuck like that I change scenes and move on to something else. I eventually had to face the stuck situation and do something with it though. When I did, another strange and unexpected thing happened. I got tears in my eyes.  My own freakin story was making me cry? That's not supposed to happen! I don't cry for movies or books! What's the deal? Well I had to push my character to do something scary and I think I was worried too about the same things she was. I mean, I wanted everything to work out for this person, I wanted them to get what they wanted (but at the same time too, as a writer, I did NOT want to write a fairytale all wrapped up in a pretty pink ribbon). I really got stuck again and then all of a sudden this other character started talking, and I still don't know who this character is, but they started talking to the one who was scared, and they offered some wisdom and reassurance and things started moving again. Do I sound crazy yet? Good. Writers usually are a bit "off" aren't they? Sometimes they wear a lot of black too.
 
I could see a resolution to everything that satisfied me and satisfied the character so I worked my way to that, all the while keeping one eye on the word count. I got to the second last scene and again, the waterworks kicked in. Oye. I think I understand why it was touching me so deeply, and I don't really want to get into it here because I've already said too much, but it was an interesting experience. It's my hope that it means that what I wrote was from such an emotional, honest and real place that it will have resonance with an audience too.
 
I am about 3,000 words shy of the 50,000 goal. I believe I have written the ending today though. The story is done. I don't want to stop though because the official challenge was 50,000 words in one month and I feel that if I don't meet that challenge it would be like skipping out of the last 200 meters of a marathon just because I personally felt that I was done enough. So I'm going to try to go back and fill in some thin spots, which will be hard to do without being tempted to edit.
 
Editing is the next step. After I have put in the full word count in the alloted number of days I plan to leave the story alone for about a week and try to remember what it was I did before I locked myself in a room with a keyboard and my headphones. After the week-long vaction I will go back and clean the thing up a bit. There are places where I forgot a character's name and instead of searching back for it I just gave them a new one, or where I decided suddenly that they didn't come from Vancouver but actually it was Calgary. There are places where I know I got bogged down in making the plot progress on a daily basis so the story is full of "and the next day..." and "by Friday...". Stuff like that. Once I am satisfied that those details have been taken care of and that all the pieces of the plot at least make sense, I will contact the coordinator at the Manitoba Writers' Guild and employ the use of her matchmaking skills. No, not for a date, (although doesn't "I wrote a novel in 30 days" sound extremely attractive?) but rather for a writing group. Based on what you are looking to get out of the group, the Writers' Guild will put you in touch with other writers. It is my hope that I can go to a group or a single person and say, okay, I know this thing is still rough, but I think there is something good in here and I just need some help working out the kinks and shining it up.
 
So that's where things are at right now. This is me, being a writer. It might just work.

Will you still love me when I'm 84? How about tomorrow?

I was grumpy yesterday. I don't know why, the mood just struck me. Maybe it's the return of the cold weather. I couldn't remember the last time I had felt comfortably warm but figured it was probably on Saturday evening when I was working by the fire with a glass of red wine at my side. I can just imagine myself when I'm old and reminiscing about the good times I had when I wasn't fighting to keep warm

I phoned my dad this morning to tell him I was less grumpy today than I was last night when I talked to him on the phone. Last night I was grumpy because I had missed him calling me to say they were going to Costco and ask if I needed anything--which I did, bread and McIntosh apples. I missed the call this time because my phone was charging and not because it was on vibrate or silent mode at the bottom of one of my bags. I had lost my phone again for about a day last week. I wish there was some way I could put that thing on a lanyard and wear it around my neck. I am also a big fan of mittens on a string if that isn't already obvious.

"I'm grumpy like an old man who didn't get his pudding," I told my dad.

"You're what?"

I explained to him then the scenario of a little old man in a nursing home who waits all day, maybe all week for a dish of pudding with his meal but for some reason does not get it. That little old man, in my mind, would be grumpy. People might laugh and think it's an awfully silly reason to get all bothered over, but for this man pudding is the difference between a good day and a bad day, and that is what I felt like. Grumpy for no real good reason and in need of an afghan because I am cold all the time. Perhaps as you read this though you are thinking someone should check me for a fever because I am sounding delirious.

I had a meeting at the bank today with My Bank Guy. I told him today that I am writing a novel. I mentioned this because we were looking at my investments and I had not yet told him of my early retirement plan that requires me to write a best seller. In case the markets crash again this is my Plan B.

"You have to let me read it when it's done," he said. He was really excited about this project for me.

"Yup." I nodded. Later though I thought about this some more. Maybe it was not wise of me to mention the novel writing project. Would he read this story I am crafting? Would he even be in the section of the bookstore one would find this book in, if it made it to the shelves? Then I started replaying the whole story in my head and letting the internal editor take a critical look at it (so far I've done a pretty good job at keeping that nasty woman locked away in the linen closet where her comments are muffled by fluffy towels). Then I said, STOP! You are telling the story of Character A. It's not even your story anymore, it is Character A's. You're just putting it into words. All that matters is that you tell Character A's story in a way that is respectful and true. And Jillian, you can make paint drying sound interesting, so what makes you think that you can't entertain anyone with this story you're working on now?

After the bank and dinner with my parents I went to the gym for a short run. I figured out today that I could probably do one of those 5k fun runs. They're usually fundraisers for some honourable charity which means I would be paying money to run. Crazy talk. Must be delusional. As I was running today though my knees started aching like someone whacked them with a hammer. I know, I know, I really have to get out and get some proper shoes. Even after the run my knees continued to ache, which made me feel even more like a grumpy old man.

And now I think I would really like a dish of pudding.

Give me your answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four
--The Beatles, When I'm 64

The Typical Winnipeg Winter Writing Experience

When I got home today I had a horrible headache. Truck got all hung up on a snow drift when I was backing him into the driveway. On top of that, my head was pounding (ba dum ching!). I called my dad and took an Advil.

I was hoping the roads weren't going to be so bad this afternoon because I wanted to go to the gym and pick up some groceries. The gym is located in the Superstore (in the same building that is, I don't actually do laps around the produce and canned goods) and boy do I love the convenience of that. But since I couldn't even get out of my driveway without help I really wasn't excited to navigate the roads just for a Body Pump class and some Oreos.

I bought a new down jacket on a super sale at Eddie Bauer last week but I couldn't decide if I liked it. It was good quality and would be super warm, I knew that, but it was shorter than my current winter jacket. This one only came down to my hip. Most ladies jackets will hit just below the hip at least and cover some of the derierre area. I worried that A) this would look funny on me because it would essentially cut me in half, and B) that it would mean sitting on a frozen tush after waiting for the bus to arrive. The hood was another matter altogether. It is also filled with very lofty down so when I put it up it for sure will keep my ears warm, but I can't help but think I look like a Teletubby. I just need some kind of antennae to complete the look.  I also found myself reminded of that Robert Munsch story, Thomas' Snow Suit:

"That is the ugliest thing I have ever seen in my life. If you think that I am going to wear that ugly snow suit, you are craaaaazy." Thomas, speaking to his mother in Thomas' Snow Suit. Listen to Robert Munsch tell the story here, he is still one of my all-time favourite story tellers.

I needed to be convinced that this jacket, which was a supreme deal, was in fact so fabulously warm and able to protect me from the elements of a Winnipeg winter, that it didn't really matter if the style was not exactly my preference. So I put it on with all the tags intact, and stood outside while my dad cleared my driveway. It worked exactly as I predicted it would and so I think I have convinced myself to keep it.




Yes, my eyes are closed. I am so warm and cozy in my new jacket that I can fall asleep standing outside in a whipping 80 km/hr wind. Clearly, worth every penny of the $100, even if it should have had an extra couple of inches added to the bottom.

So as I was saying, I had a headache and I didn't feel like putting my life nor my auto insurance deductable at risk, so I stayed in for the night. Mother Nature essentially grounded me.

I had an itch to do some baking, which was why I needed the Oreos. I wasn't too disappointed I wouldn't be able to make the mini cheesecakes I had in mind, but I had an incredible craving for chocolate, so all I could think about was double chocolate chip cookies. The only thing that really stopped me from baking though was the thought of having all those extra dishes to wash after--bowls, spoons, cookie sheets. I had just finished washing up the dishes from my breakfast and dinner. I really didn't want to plunge my hands into a basin of hot water again.

I knew too that a baking project would take a fair bit of time to do and it would probably leave me with very little time for writing. With it being so miserable outside it was a perfect reason to stay in and just add to my word count. But then I checked the TV and saw that House was going to be on after the news. When I went to settle in to watch the show though my TV started acting up again. I had no picture. I really couldn't do anything except go to my writing space and work. I did my daily word count and cured my chocolate craving with a piece of cake. After that my headache was gone. Amazing huh?

I'm finding myself torn about telling people that I am doing this writing project. While I am excited about it and proud of the results so far, people always want to know what I'm writing about. The No Plot No Problem book suggest that writers taking the one month novel challenge shouldn't talk about what they are writing while doing the challenge because then they might feel limited to stick to the details and plot plans they've revealed. So for now I am keeping the topic a secret. So far I think it has worked out well because the story I ended up telling isn't quite like the one I thought it was going to be, and I am quite enjoying the surprise.

Since reaching the half-way mark I've gotten paranoid about the idea of losing my work so today I decided to back it up onto a USB stick. I'm also worried about what would happen if I were to lose that tiny little stick and so I'm thinking maybe I should back the work up online too. I started having visions of that episode of Sex and the City where Carrie's Mac crashes and she loses all her work, all the columns she's written and everybody asks her, well didn't you back up? She's dating Aidan in that episode and they get into a fight and he buys her a new laptop.

Ugh. I feel like I was dragged behind a bus in the snowdrifts. I hope I'm not coming down with something. That would be great, writing my novel while under the influence of Nyquil or a fever-induced delirium. I told Lisa that I would only introduce aliens and dream sequences if I found myself getting close to the deadline but not anywhere near the word count.

Day 10

After what I called a bad week for writing, I wagged a stern finger at myself and got back on track. I visited the gym on Friday night for some Zumba and Yogalates, came home, showered and put on an outfit for going to Starbucks to get some work done. Nigel groaned and rolled his eyes when I told him that I planned to spend Friday nights this month playing the cliche part of the writer in a coffee shop. Isn't it something I had to try at least once though? If I didn't, wouldn't that be like going to New York and not going up the Empire State Building? Even if it is overpriced and cliche, you have to experience it just once.

On Saturday I did more writing, mostly from the warm and cozy comforts of my aunt's house. And today I went back to the gym, washed dishes, realized I had been neglecting my laundry so tackled that, and worked some more on the novel. Just before six I crossed a major marker: 25,163 words. I am at the half-way point on Day 10.

I'm good and tired.

I.O.U. J.B.

It's been a terrible week for writing.

There are three things I am trying to stay on top of these days: writing, going to the gym and dishes. My word count this week has been a grand total of 3,464 words since I closed the weekend with 10,190. I got to the gym once, on Tuesday for a run and some weights. My kitchen counter, however, is spotless.

Lisa was suddenly left with an extra ticket to the theatre last night and called to see if I wanted to go. I could have said no, but then I would have missed a really great play--The Drowsy Chaperone. I came home and worked for about ten minutes before my eyes started getting tired and my brain started considering changing a big chunk of the plot.

Tonight being Thursday I had scheduled to be a free night since usually Lisa and I get together for dinner and TV. Still, I knew I would have time for either dishes, a quick run or some writing time. Possibly two things, since I had passes to a movie screening that we were going to go to instead. But Lisa called this afternoon and said she had to take a rain check because she wasn't feeling well. I talked to my sister and she said she'd like to go. I also decided to invite her for dinner. So when I got home today I did not write or run. I did make us some tasty turkey burgers with rice and mango salsa, and I even got to wash up the dishes just before Tracy arrived.

Tracy really enjoyed the meal. I packed up some leftovers for her to take home too. I always think that I don't have a single maternal bone in my body, but it seems there is something in there that gives me great pleasure in nurturing people with food. Hm, that reminds me, I should feed my goldfish.

The screening tonight was for Extraordinary Measures, which was based on the true story about a regular family guy who teams up with a medical researcher to find a cure for the disease that is killing his kids. As I watched it I wondered what it was like from Tracy's perspective, given that she's in the medical field and works with terminal kids every day. On the way home we talked about how it seemed hard to believe the time line of the story, given that it dealt with medical research, grants and clinical trials.

"Are you still thinking about med school?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm still going back and forth on it."

I asked her if it was still the same things that are holding her back, and it seems that she's still afraid of not making it in. Fear of failure, especially after investing time and money, is a very common reason for not doing something. Am I afraid of not getting this novel done? Oh yes. I am terrified. Mostly I am afraid of having to come here on February 15 and tell you that I didn't make it, that I was all talk and no results. I'm also afraid of losing my health which I pretty much took for granted most of my life until recently. I've been trying to keep up with the dishes simply because I have very limited counter space to stack the dirty ones on, and I hate spending more than 15 minutes with my hands in a basin of water when I could be doing other things like writing, exercising, watching Vampire Diaries (which I missed tonight!) The 30 day novel project has been a great exercise in making a commitment to myself and just doing it. Some writing days are great, some are a struggle but I forgive myself for the frustrating days because at least I sat down and put in the time. I kept my promise. I keep promises to other people all the time, I give things up for other people all the time, but I have mostly sucked at honouring myself.

This week life made it challenging to keep the promises I made to myself, but the trade offs were pretty good. Over the weekend I am going to have to work extra hard to make up for the little vacation I took though. I owe it to myself.

Chiro is a no-go

I went to the gym yesterday and did some work with weights before taking a go on the treadmill.  Yup, back to the running. I've decided I'm not going back to the chiropractor.

I went for my last appointment on Monday and reviewed my X-rays with the doctor. He told me I had scoliosis and that my hips were uneven, which was the cause for my shoulder and hip pain on my left side. He drew the misalignments on an image of a normal skeleton. He told me that I am also suffering from Stage 1 straightening of the cervical vertabrae and my tailbone is tilted back. I know, what a mess huh? Oh but wait! He can fix all that for me and relieve me of my pain. I'm just lucky I came in now and not ten or twenty years down the road.

Then he presented me with my treatment schedule and the fees as well as a payment plan. For six weeks I would need to see him three times per week. Then for another six weeks it would be only twice a week, followed by once per week for six more. All this for the low low price of $1,206.90 or $301.73 per month. My insurance covers $350.

Now, the pain relief may come after only a few visits, but of course it is important to keep coming or the whole thing will just go back to the same mess. It is possible that fewer treatments will be needed (and surely the good doctor would send me away early if that happened!).

Starting to feel the pressure from the sell job I felt my eyebrows go into a misalignment. When this happens I prefer to take the information home and consider my options.

"It's your back," the doctor said with a shrug. That's right, it's my back and not your cash cow, dude.

I went to the chiropractor office with an open mind about the treatment. It does seem to work for a lot of people but the doctor I saw didn't instill in me a sense of trust. His analysis left me with a lot of questions, and upon further research into the science of chiropractic I just don't feel that it fits into my beliefs about health and wellness. The treatment schedule also did not fit in with my schedule at all and it was definitely not in my budget at this time. Because I recently started a more regular and intense fitness plan, I want to look into getting proper shoes for the activities I do, and possibly orthoses, if necessary, since I do know that I have floppy ankles and fallen arches. Why not start with a small and easy change, in the place where I know I have a definite weakness, and see how that works? I did pilates for years and I'm now regularly doing strengthening exercises. I've also noticed that exercise, either running or doing weights helps relieve the knot in my shoulder and make the pain go away. So that's my plan. Check on me in ten years to see if I'm an arthritic crippled mess and then you can tsk tsk.

Spending all me jarre
Smoking all the time
In Cairo
Doing all I can for the big man
Cairo

Bananarama--Cairo
(Get it? Cairo and Chiro? Uh huh, nothing wrong with my pun alignment now is there.)

13,105: That's my word count so far! I am almost three days ahead on my word count.

10,190

Ten thousand, one hundred and ninety. That's how many words I assembled into sentences, paragraphs and the delicate bud of a story this weekend that marked the start of my 30 day/50,000 word novel writing project. It feels absolutely amazing.

Before Day 1 arrived I was really nervous about what I had set myself up for. I had an idea in my head of what I wanted to write but since I had never done something so big before I wondered if I could really find enough ideas to keep the story going for 50,000 words. Fifty thousand. Imagine that the Winnipeg Stadium sold out for a Bomber game and every person who was in attendance brought with them a word, some even brought the same word, like there were a lot of and's and the's and such. The stadium's capacity is 29,533 so all together they would still be 20,467 words short. Imagine that Winnipeg was hosting the Grey Cup and we put in the temporary seating in the south end and fans from Saskatchewan, BC, Alberta, Ontario and Montreal showed up with their words. I would still be short by just over 5,000 words (yes, the french ones from Montreal would count, although it might confuse things a bit). Writing a short novel is bigger than a Winnipeg Football game. Suddenly singing the national anthem before the kickoff seems less scary.

Everything they say about the writing process is true. It's really amazing what comes out when you just sit down and commit yourself to hammering something out but leave your internal editor in another room. The characters take on a life of their own and start doing funny things. New people show up. Crazy things happen. The story just pours out like sand. I really had no idea I could do this.

On Thursday night Lisa picked up one of the young adult books I'm reading. She took a peek at it and laughed. "You can write better than this," she said. Right now the writing isn't about quality. It's all about quantity. Once the first draft is down I can go back and edit and tweak but it's nice when people let you know that they think you can do something amazing.


In the writing class I took in the fall one of my instructor's favourite quotes was from Stephen King who said, "You must not come lightly to the blank page." I liked the quote too and appreciated King's book On Writing, but I think it can still make writing sound intimidating. So these are my words of advice (if I may offer them now, even though I am still 40,000 words away from the finish line): Approach the page. Do it with anxiety, do it with cockiness, do it with the power of Zen, I don't think it matters; just get yourself and your pen to the page and let yourself go. While you're there, enjoy the trip.