M.J. Mac's Blog, page 4
April 19, 2023
WALKABOUTS
I get some funny comments when I tell people I’m an author. The other day someone shared that they heard writers only work a few hours and spend the rest of the day goofing off. I’ve even been told that stories magically pop into our heads, and we scribble them down like a stenographer. Oh, if it were only that easy. I can’t wait to share this little chuckle at our monthly writer’s workshop. Writing this, I get the vision of lying in a hammock while little story bubbles hover above me, and I reach my arm out to pluck the ones I want that day.
In my little world, ideas seem to come at the most inopportune times. It’s never when I’m sitting at the computer staring at the demonic blinking cursor as it flashes and taunts me. “Tick, tock. You haven’t written anything in an hour.” It’s usually at this point that my mind goes down some Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole that has nothing to do with what I want to write that day.
No, ideas seem to strike when I’m in the shower (not a lick of paper in there), driving (let me just say that paying attention to the potholes, strutting chickens, and dogs who suddenly decide that in front of your car is the perfect place for today’s nap requires one’s full concentration), or walking (yes, I have been known to write my idea in the sand and take a photo).
As I started book four, I felt a great deal of writer’s block and pressure. I wasn’t sure where to go with the series. I’ve put out three books since September 2022, and the thought of getting a fourth out by the end of 2023 feels daunting. I complained (okay, whined) to Dan that I was bone dry with no creative juice left inside. Being Dan, he looked over his glasses at me with that bored, deadpan look he has honed so well over the years and said, “Go for a walk.”
I hate it when he’s right.
Walking is how these books come together and sometimes get ripped apart. Putting one foot in front of the other tunes out the internal, distracting chatter inside because some days it’s like a kindergarten classroom with a substitute teacher. For me, walks are like putting battery cables on a dead engine on a frigid winter morning, and by the time I’ve hit my stride, the little engine that could (my brain) is huffing and puffing up the hill. I know it’s a chemical thing with endorphins, but let me think that walking is my magic mojo.
This series started with a walk on a dreary, chilly day in January 2021, and I was walking Elvis along the Ohio River when I realized how I wanted to veer off course with a main character in book two. On that walk, while Elvis ran across a bed of falling leaves, I understood how this insane walking thought would affect not only the end of that book but would derail what I had planned for the entire series. Or did it? It meant a lot of rewriting and some serious angst, but when it was time to start book three, I had a springboard to dive right in. And it was a long walk on the beach to the river that I found the ending to book three. [SPOILER ALERT!] “Flowers? What flowers?”
I hear the comment again in my head. Writers only work a few hours each day. Ugh, I only wish that were true. As writers, our brains are constantly churning. The on switch never shuts off unless we physically pull the lever down, and even then, it doesn’t always work. You never know what the prompt will be that turns into that lightning moment of writing. A sudden memory of an awkward date creates a monologue, being yelled at by a customer becomes a scene, a collection of old restaurant menus develops into the skeleton of a book, noticing someone wearing a purple t-shirt with two salmon on it…well, I’ll let you read book three to find that one, even an off-the-cuff conversation can lead you to reimagine a character in a way you had never contemplated.
I’ve rambled enough today. I’ve worked for an hour and can now enjoy some much-deserved goofing off time and maybe a SunRumbrella in the hammock while I wait for a story to float above me like a butterfly…oh wait, I can’t do that—time for a walkabout to jumpstart today’s writing.
In my little world, ideas seem to come at the most inopportune times. It’s never when I’m sitting at the computer staring at the demonic blinking cursor as it flashes and taunts me. “Tick, tock. You haven’t written anything in an hour.” It’s usually at this point that my mind goes down some Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole that has nothing to do with what I want to write that day.
No, ideas seem to strike when I’m in the shower (not a lick of paper in there), driving (let me just say that paying attention to the potholes, strutting chickens, and dogs who suddenly decide that in front of your car is the perfect place for today’s nap requires one’s full concentration), or walking (yes, I have been known to write my idea in the sand and take a photo).
As I started book four, I felt a great deal of writer’s block and pressure. I wasn’t sure where to go with the series. I’ve put out three books since September 2022, and the thought of getting a fourth out by the end of 2023 feels daunting. I complained (okay, whined) to Dan that I was bone dry with no creative juice left inside. Being Dan, he looked over his glasses at me with that bored, deadpan look he has honed so well over the years and said, “Go for a walk.”
I hate it when he’s right.
Walking is how these books come together and sometimes get ripped apart. Putting one foot in front of the other tunes out the internal, distracting chatter inside because some days it’s like a kindergarten classroom with a substitute teacher. For me, walks are like putting battery cables on a dead engine on a frigid winter morning, and by the time I’ve hit my stride, the little engine that could (my brain) is huffing and puffing up the hill. I know it’s a chemical thing with endorphins, but let me think that walking is my magic mojo.
This series started with a walk on a dreary, chilly day in January 2021, and I was walking Elvis along the Ohio River when I realized how I wanted to veer off course with a main character in book two. On that walk, while Elvis ran across a bed of falling leaves, I understood how this insane walking thought would affect not only the end of that book but would derail what I had planned for the entire series. Or did it? It meant a lot of rewriting and some serious angst, but when it was time to start book three, I had a springboard to dive right in. And it was a long walk on the beach to the river that I found the ending to book three. [SPOILER ALERT!] “Flowers? What flowers?”
I hear the comment again in my head. Writers only work a few hours each day. Ugh, I only wish that were true. As writers, our brains are constantly churning. The on switch never shuts off unless we physically pull the lever down, and even then, it doesn’t always work. You never know what the prompt will be that turns into that lightning moment of writing. A sudden memory of an awkward date creates a monologue, being yelled at by a customer becomes a scene, a collection of old restaurant menus develops into the skeleton of a book, noticing someone wearing a purple t-shirt with two salmon on it…well, I’ll let you read book three to find that one, even an off-the-cuff conversation can lead you to reimagine a character in a way you had never contemplated.
I’ve rambled enough today. I’ve worked for an hour and can now enjoy some much-deserved goofing off time and maybe a SunRumbrella in the hammock while I wait for a story to float above me like a butterfly…oh wait, I can’t do that—time for a walkabout to jumpstart today’s writing.
LESSONS
Author’s Note: This was supposed to be a pithy 1,000-word blog for National Write Your Story Day, which was this past Monday, and I was going to share my story of becoming an author. After all, that’s what was on my day planner to do that day. Unfortunately, even in this new world of writing books, I’m still shackled to my to-do list, crossing off items or moving them to another day, frustrated that I didn’t complete them. As I prepare to release book three, A Heist on the Ice, the list is getting longer and longer, and I have put on blinders in an effort to stay focused. I received a swift kick in the pants the other day, however. The universe had another idea. In the great words of Ferris Bueller (who will forever be my hero), “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
Life has returned to normal in our sleepy little beach town. The holidays are over. The revelry of Carnival has been packed away for another year, and another year of school has begun. Yes, my friends, life is upside down here. The beach, which has been full of children squealing with joy as they run into the water, is now quiet, their shrieks replaced by the flat slap of the waves as they hit the shoreline. No music emanates from the thatched palm frond cabanas, they are empty, and the only sound is the cawing of the crows picking for scraps of food. No tree limbs stick out from the sand to mark the goalie box—there is only the random piece of driftwood that has washed up. The coast is now clear. Wherever I have lived, I have always loved this time of year. The end of summer is more like New Year's Eve to me. A time for reflection and resolutions.
Elvis and I have noticed this change over the last few days, but it was more evident this morning—the beach is deserted, and only a few others have left their footprints in the sand. Looking further up toward the small jetty, I notice a mother and her two sons. The blinding white of the boys’ shirts is stark against their dark blue pants and black hair, and the bright orange backpacks they have strapped to their backs are almost as tall as they are. I study these boys as they trudge through the sand. One of them keeps dawdling, looking longingly at the ocean. I feel an immediate affinity for this kid. The end of summer is bittersweet and hurts when it is over. His brother, I notice, doesn’t look around. Eyes forward, he plods behind his mother, trying valiantly to fit into her footprints. I wonder if he is the oldest—already carrying the heavy burden of responsibility.
Elvis and I begin making our way back. I’m not in a hurry to go home, and Elvis is busy sniffing the sand. There are good sniffs today. I sit down to watch the early morning sun dapple the ripples in the water, and the lengthy list of things to do and cross off today goes through my mind like a stock market ticker, but like the young man, I look instead at the beauty around me. As I scanned the ocean, my heart leaped, and for an instant, time was suspended. Elvis and I are not the only ones on the beach. A family of horses, two adults and two yearlings, walked tentatively down from the scrub. The four horses, two chestnut and two white, stood just a few feet from the shoreline. I watch the white-colored adult bravely move forward, and the water encircles his front hooves. The others follow suit, mystified by the water gently moving forward and back. Finally, the younger chestnut horse lowers his head, tasting the briny water, and tosses his neck back. I could almost hear the conversation between the two adults in my head. “Teenagers.” Just like humans, the two yearlings quickly grow bored with the scenery, and the chestnut-colored adult moves her head toward the scrub and strolls away to join the two yearlings, but the white one continues to gaze at the ocean while ripples of water puddle at his feet. I hear the chestnut horse nicker, and the older white horse bobs his head as if to sigh and say, “Yes, dear.” He looks back at the waves and then turns to amble to where the others patiently await him.
Elvis, ever the practical dog, is immune to this magical moment and comes to stand in front of me and impatiently chuffs. It’s time to go home. I sigh resignedly. There are deadlines to meet and appointments to keep. I have a book to finish editing, a new one to start, social media posts to create, and a blog to write. I stand up slowly, my knees and ankles popping like firecrackers. I walk to the waterline, feeling the water caress my skin and reflecting on what I have just witnessed—two, no three creatures, our souls drawn to the sea, looking longingly at the horizon. I take a deep breath and turn around to join Elvis. There is a lesson for me in this.
Life has returned to normal in our sleepy little beach town. The holidays are over. The revelry of Carnival has been packed away for another year, and another year of school has begun. Yes, my friends, life is upside down here. The beach, which has been full of children squealing with joy as they run into the water, is now quiet, their shrieks replaced by the flat slap of the waves as they hit the shoreline. No music emanates from the thatched palm frond cabanas, they are empty, and the only sound is the cawing of the crows picking for scraps of food. No tree limbs stick out from the sand to mark the goalie box—there is only the random piece of driftwood that has washed up. The coast is now clear. Wherever I have lived, I have always loved this time of year. The end of summer is more like New Year's Eve to me. A time for reflection and resolutions.
Elvis and I have noticed this change over the last few days, but it was more evident this morning—the beach is deserted, and only a few others have left their footprints in the sand. Looking further up toward the small jetty, I notice a mother and her two sons. The blinding white of the boys’ shirts is stark against their dark blue pants and black hair, and the bright orange backpacks they have strapped to their backs are almost as tall as they are. I study these boys as they trudge through the sand. One of them keeps dawdling, looking longingly at the ocean. I feel an immediate affinity for this kid. The end of summer is bittersweet and hurts when it is over. His brother, I notice, doesn’t look around. Eyes forward, he plods behind his mother, trying valiantly to fit into her footprints. I wonder if he is the oldest—already carrying the heavy burden of responsibility.
Elvis and I begin making our way back. I’m not in a hurry to go home, and Elvis is busy sniffing the sand. There are good sniffs today. I sit down to watch the early morning sun dapple the ripples in the water, and the lengthy list of things to do and cross off today goes through my mind like a stock market ticker, but like the young man, I look instead at the beauty around me. As I scanned the ocean, my heart leaped, and for an instant, time was suspended. Elvis and I are not the only ones on the beach. A family of horses, two adults and two yearlings, walked tentatively down from the scrub. The four horses, two chestnut and two white, stood just a few feet from the shoreline. I watch the white-colored adult bravely move forward, and the water encircles his front hooves. The others follow suit, mystified by the water gently moving forward and back. Finally, the younger chestnut horse lowers his head, tasting the briny water, and tosses his neck back. I could almost hear the conversation between the two adults in my head. “Teenagers.” Just like humans, the two yearlings quickly grow bored with the scenery, and the chestnut-colored adult moves her head toward the scrub and strolls away to join the two yearlings, but the white one continues to gaze at the ocean while ripples of water puddle at his feet. I hear the chestnut horse nicker, and the older white horse bobs his head as if to sigh and say, “Yes, dear.” He looks back at the waves and then turns to amble to where the others patiently await him.
Elvis, ever the practical dog, is immune to this magical moment and comes to stand in front of me and impatiently chuffs. It’s time to go home. I sigh resignedly. There are deadlines to meet and appointments to keep. I have a book to finish editing, a new one to start, social media posts to create, and a blog to write. I stand up slowly, my knees and ankles popping like firecrackers. I walk to the waterline, feeling the water caress my skin and reflecting on what I have just witnessed—two, no three creatures, our souls drawn to the sea, looking longingly at the horizon. I take a deep breath and turn around to join Elvis. There is a lesson for me in this.
GOING HOME
I grew up a military brat, and moving was a normal way of life for us. But, there was one place that was constant, a place I knew blindfolded—my grandparents.
For decades, my grandparents’ nursery and garden center was a popular spot to catch up on the local chatter, buy your tomato plants, find the perfect fire engine red geraniums, purchase your rye seed for the fall, and search through the hundreds of poinsettias in the number three greenhouse until you found the right ones to give to Aunt Edith and Cousin Debbie for Christmas.
When we went home to see my grandparents, I was already racing through the doors in search of my twin pillars before the car stopped. The perfume of machine oil, gasoline, dirt, and fertilizer was like freshly baked bread on a chilly day to my nose, and I would holler for them and hear a loud and hearty “YO!” drawing me like a magnet to their sides. I spent my days scampering about the hard-packed dirt floors of the three greenhouses amongst the jewel-colored plants that sat on long, wide tables sticking white plastic price sticks into the soil or carrying plants to the cash register for customers who knew me by name. If it was slow, I searched for treasures in the dusty lofts upstairs, climbed mountains of bagged peat moss and gravel, and helped my grandmother plant seedlings at the potting bench.
Last week I went back to celebrate my grandmother’s ninety-fifth birthday. Her beautiful bloom is beginning to fade; however, in my mind, she is eternally fifty with frosted blonde hair pinned off the nape of her neck, gold hoop earrings, and jeans. My grandfather still makes me shake my head. He couldn’t wait to tell me it was time for his exercises and got on his stationary bike to ride for thirty minutes, and he still sports pants with creases sharp enough to cut steak like a hot knife through butter.
I arrived at the house late, and when I opened the door, there was a bittersweet nostalgia as I looked around. Every corner, every stick of furniture holds a memory from the floorboard in the hallway that squeaks; to the cuckoo clock that would bust me coming home late from a date; to knowing, without a doubt, that in the second drawer behind my grandfather’s kitchen chair is a sleeve of Doublemint gum.
The next morning, I looked out through the picture window in the living room toward the corner. It had been too dark and cold the night before to see much. I was mentally prepared for what I would find when I pulled back the drapes; however, I still felt like someone had sucker-punched me. My playground, my home, the nursery, is no more. How does the song go? “Pave paradise to put up a parking lot?” In this case, it is not a parking lot but a lovely subdivision with seasonal wreaths on the front doors and neatly cut yards. The acres of land where I ran wild are gone, along with the tire swing in the back field. The rows of mysterious evergreens are no more, and the oak trees covered in moody dark green ivy that held up the canvas hammock where I would spend hours reading have become the foundation of these new homes.
I stood outside looking at these quaint houses and looked past them, blocking out the noise of the street, and my senses came alive at the memories of my childhood—the screams of disgust at smelling a decomposing egg two weeks after the epic Easter egg hunt. Eating tomato sandwiches in the shade of the oaks on the cool concrete table, finding my grandfather in the back and being rewarded with a giggling, bumpy ride back to the store on the hand truck, and tasting the icy water from the hose bibb as I stuck my head under it to get a drink on a sweltering day.
For now, I’ll put these memories back in the little box, but that is not to say they will stay there. That is the wonderful thing about being a writer. These memories will resurface down the road in another book, and who knows? If I’m lucky, they might make a reader stop, smile, and say, “I remember when..”
For decades, my grandparents’ nursery and garden center was a popular spot to catch up on the local chatter, buy your tomato plants, find the perfect fire engine red geraniums, purchase your rye seed for the fall, and search through the hundreds of poinsettias in the number three greenhouse until you found the right ones to give to Aunt Edith and Cousin Debbie for Christmas.
When we went home to see my grandparents, I was already racing through the doors in search of my twin pillars before the car stopped. The perfume of machine oil, gasoline, dirt, and fertilizer was like freshly baked bread on a chilly day to my nose, and I would holler for them and hear a loud and hearty “YO!” drawing me like a magnet to their sides. I spent my days scampering about the hard-packed dirt floors of the three greenhouses amongst the jewel-colored plants that sat on long, wide tables sticking white plastic price sticks into the soil or carrying plants to the cash register for customers who knew me by name. If it was slow, I searched for treasures in the dusty lofts upstairs, climbed mountains of bagged peat moss and gravel, and helped my grandmother plant seedlings at the potting bench.
Last week I went back to celebrate my grandmother’s ninety-fifth birthday. Her beautiful bloom is beginning to fade; however, in my mind, she is eternally fifty with frosted blonde hair pinned off the nape of her neck, gold hoop earrings, and jeans. My grandfather still makes me shake my head. He couldn’t wait to tell me it was time for his exercises and got on his stationary bike to ride for thirty minutes, and he still sports pants with creases sharp enough to cut steak like a hot knife through butter.
I arrived at the house late, and when I opened the door, there was a bittersweet nostalgia as I looked around. Every corner, every stick of furniture holds a memory from the floorboard in the hallway that squeaks; to the cuckoo clock that would bust me coming home late from a date; to knowing, without a doubt, that in the second drawer behind my grandfather’s kitchen chair is a sleeve of Doublemint gum.
The next morning, I looked out through the picture window in the living room toward the corner. It had been too dark and cold the night before to see much. I was mentally prepared for what I would find when I pulled back the drapes; however, I still felt like someone had sucker-punched me. My playground, my home, the nursery, is no more. How does the song go? “Pave paradise to put up a parking lot?” In this case, it is not a parking lot but a lovely subdivision with seasonal wreaths on the front doors and neatly cut yards. The acres of land where I ran wild are gone, along with the tire swing in the back field. The rows of mysterious evergreens are no more, and the oak trees covered in moody dark green ivy that held up the canvas hammock where I would spend hours reading have become the foundation of these new homes.
I stood outside looking at these quaint houses and looked past them, blocking out the noise of the street, and my senses came alive at the memories of my childhood—the screams of disgust at smelling a decomposing egg two weeks after the epic Easter egg hunt. Eating tomato sandwiches in the shade of the oaks on the cool concrete table, finding my grandfather in the back and being rewarded with a giggling, bumpy ride back to the store on the hand truck, and tasting the icy water from the hose bibb as I stuck my head under it to get a drink on a sweltering day.
For now, I’ll put these memories back in the little box, but that is not to say they will stay there. That is the wonderful thing about being a writer. These memories will resurface down the road in another book, and who knows? If I’m lucky, they might make a reader stop, smile, and say, “I remember when..”
Pantzers and Liners
“Are you a pantzer or a liner?” I was asked the other day in my writing group. Being a new writer, I wondered if I was supposed to give a secret handshake, or if was I being pranked. I had seen people fall for the “Do you want to go snipe hunting?” question in its various forms over the years. The person must have seen the panicked, querulous look in my eyes because they kindly rephrased the question. “Do you write by the seat of your pants, or do you outline?” I gave myself a mental head slap and took a deep breath. It’s complicated.
I discovered outlines in the sixth grade. I was the new kid in the middle of the year, and on my first day, the teacher came around with a jar filled with slips of paper. She explained we would spend the next month writing a report on the name of the country we pulled out of the jar. I got India. Our first assignment was to write an outline of our report. I had no clue what the teacher meant but, of course, refused to ask. Sitting at the lunch table, I overheard the cool kids say an outline was a paragraph you wrote describing your report, and the easiest thing to do was make a list from the bold subtitles in the encyclopedia. CHECK! Hearing this, I decided the rest of sixth grade was going to be a breeze. At dinner that night, I told my parents about my day and proudly presented my paragraph on India.
“No, that’s not an outline,” they informed me and took me, feet dragging and fingernails clawing the ground, down the path of Roman numerals, upper case letters, and numbers with parenthesis. After a night of dramatics and theatrics (entirely on my part), we compromised. I would do the stupid outline their way, and if the teacher said it was wrong, they would tell her they FORCED me to do it their way. I smugly agreed. They were wrong, and I knew it. After all, I was in sixth grade, and they were…well…parents. The next day everyone turned in their single sheet of paper with their paragraph, and red-faced, I turned in my five stapled pages with Roman numerals, uppercase letters, and numbers. Suffice it to say my parents were right AGAIN, but we don’t need to go into that list.
That day, Outliner and I became the dynamic duo, and his tag-along brother, Pro/Con List, joined our merry band. In college, I supplemented my meager Ramen Noodle budget by selling my outlined notes. People found the outlines easy to understand and guaranteed an “A.” Need to choose what to do? My friend Pro/Con List was by my side as I tackled boyfriends, jobs, and moves. When it was time to plan a wedding—Mr. Outline walked me confidently down the aisle. New project at work? Challenge accepted, and the boys tag-teamed to make me a rockstar. They never let me down…until…the baby. People, I spent months reading books, taking notes, highlighting with my fat yellow marker, outlining, and making lists. Let me tell you something, babies are pure pantzers. They don’t know or care about following an outline, and you don’t want to know what they do to a list.
Things changed in December 2020. Pantzer arrived on the scene uninvited. The nemesis of Mr. Outline and Pro/Con List in their khakis, button-down oxford shirts, and perfectly parted hair, Pantzer looked like a cross between Beetlejuice and the Riddler. Mad as a March hare, he danced around my brain in his garish outfit with a wild tale that mesmerized me. Shaking my head and regaining my sanity, I flicked him away rudely. I had all I needed in life with Outline and List. Irritated, Pantzer hurled a Mardi Gras missile at me on the treadmill one day. But instead of beads and doubloons, I opened the plastic grocery bag to find characters and sarcastic one-liners. Continuing his advance like a general, Pantzer showed up the following day with a line of wheelbarrows and dumpsters containing more Mardi Gras flotsam—plots, motives, methods of mayhem, locations, backstories, outfit descriptions, and future stories joined the characters and one-liners he had stunned me with earlier. There was a story in this mess, but I couldn’t make sense of it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Outliner sorting through the jumbled pile Pantzer had dumped on the front yard of my brain. He put things in piles, categorized them, and laid them out in an order that made sense. A month later, with an occasional Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride visit from Pantzer, we had an outline for A Boat for a Goat…in Excel, but that’s another story.
Pantzer still shows up from time to time, full of off-the-wall ideas, and Outliner just smiles during these visits, picks up his trusty pen, and begins making Roman numerals.
I discovered outlines in the sixth grade. I was the new kid in the middle of the year, and on my first day, the teacher came around with a jar filled with slips of paper. She explained we would spend the next month writing a report on the name of the country we pulled out of the jar. I got India. Our first assignment was to write an outline of our report. I had no clue what the teacher meant but, of course, refused to ask. Sitting at the lunch table, I overheard the cool kids say an outline was a paragraph you wrote describing your report, and the easiest thing to do was make a list from the bold subtitles in the encyclopedia. CHECK! Hearing this, I decided the rest of sixth grade was going to be a breeze. At dinner that night, I told my parents about my day and proudly presented my paragraph on India.
“No, that’s not an outline,” they informed me and took me, feet dragging and fingernails clawing the ground, down the path of Roman numerals, upper case letters, and numbers with parenthesis. After a night of dramatics and theatrics (entirely on my part), we compromised. I would do the stupid outline their way, and if the teacher said it was wrong, they would tell her they FORCED me to do it their way. I smugly agreed. They were wrong, and I knew it. After all, I was in sixth grade, and they were…well…parents. The next day everyone turned in their single sheet of paper with their paragraph, and red-faced, I turned in my five stapled pages with Roman numerals, uppercase letters, and numbers. Suffice it to say my parents were right AGAIN, but we don’t need to go into that list.
That day, Outliner and I became the dynamic duo, and his tag-along brother, Pro/Con List, joined our merry band. In college, I supplemented my meager Ramen Noodle budget by selling my outlined notes. People found the outlines easy to understand and guaranteed an “A.” Need to choose what to do? My friend Pro/Con List was by my side as I tackled boyfriends, jobs, and moves. When it was time to plan a wedding—Mr. Outline walked me confidently down the aisle. New project at work? Challenge accepted, and the boys tag-teamed to make me a rockstar. They never let me down…until…the baby. People, I spent months reading books, taking notes, highlighting with my fat yellow marker, outlining, and making lists. Let me tell you something, babies are pure pantzers. They don’t know or care about following an outline, and you don’t want to know what they do to a list.
Things changed in December 2020. Pantzer arrived on the scene uninvited. The nemesis of Mr. Outline and Pro/Con List in their khakis, button-down oxford shirts, and perfectly parted hair, Pantzer looked like a cross between Beetlejuice and the Riddler. Mad as a March hare, he danced around my brain in his garish outfit with a wild tale that mesmerized me. Shaking my head and regaining my sanity, I flicked him away rudely. I had all I needed in life with Outline and List. Irritated, Pantzer hurled a Mardi Gras missile at me on the treadmill one day. But instead of beads and doubloons, I opened the plastic grocery bag to find characters and sarcastic one-liners. Continuing his advance like a general, Pantzer showed up the following day with a line of wheelbarrows and dumpsters containing more Mardi Gras flotsam—plots, motives, methods of mayhem, locations, backstories, outfit descriptions, and future stories joined the characters and one-liners he had stunned me with earlier. There was a story in this mess, but I couldn’t make sense of it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Outliner sorting through the jumbled pile Pantzer had dumped on the front yard of my brain. He put things in piles, categorized them, and laid them out in an order that made sense. A month later, with an occasional Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride visit from Pantzer, we had an outline for A Boat for a Goat…in Excel, but that’s another story.
Pantzer still shows up from time to time, full of off-the-wall ideas, and Outliner just smiles during these visits, picks up his trusty pen, and begins making Roman numerals.
December 13, 2022
DO NOT MOW PLANTED TREES
Jimmy Buffet has long been one of my favorite singers. Like him or hate him, you have to give the man credit; he a genius when it comes to songs that speak to that inner voice. If you had told me two years ago that I would quit my corporate job, author two novels, and move three thousand miles away, I would have looked at you with my scrunched-up face, made that little sound like I was choking on a hairball, and said, "Yeah, right." Changes in latitudes really do change your attitude.
I'm standing here at my desk, looking directly at a sign that says, "Do Not Mow Planted Trees." It was given to me by a dear friend named Monica, who had no idea what that sign spurred when she gave it to me. You see, in my mind, those tiny seedlings, anywhere from an inch to three feet high, are the crazy dreams we have behind that rusty door that screeches very loudly when opened, leading us into a dusty, cobwebbed section of our mind. It's a place we don't go to often because there isn't enough time (hence the dust, cobwebs, and need for some WD40). But somehow, those seedlings take root. What happens next can go a few different ways:
1). We tromp out to the forest and nurture them until it is time for them to be transplanted. The odds of this happening are slim, and none.
2). We forget about them, and they wither and die because, let's face it, life gets in the way.
3). We invite someone to see our seedlings. Naturally, we are nervous, these are our babies, and unfortunately, either innocently or maliciously, they stomp around with their big hairy feet and turn our tender little seedlings into powder.
4). But, let's face it, more often than not, we are the ones driving that kelly green John Deere ride-on mower, and those sharp silver blades whack the seedlings and rip out the roots as we tell ourselves that dream is too absurd, and it doesn't fit the plan that is mapped out.
This journey started on Jan 3, 2021, with a tiny seedling that whispered, "I have a story to tell." And wow, is it a story. So, remember, DO NOT MOW PLANTED TREES! you have no idea what they will grow into.
I'm standing here at my desk, looking directly at a sign that says, "Do Not Mow Planted Trees." It was given to me by a dear friend named Monica, who had no idea what that sign spurred when she gave it to me. You see, in my mind, those tiny seedlings, anywhere from an inch to three feet high, are the crazy dreams we have behind that rusty door that screeches very loudly when opened, leading us into a dusty, cobwebbed section of our mind. It's a place we don't go to often because there isn't enough time (hence the dust, cobwebs, and need for some WD40). But somehow, those seedlings take root. What happens next can go a few different ways:
1). We tromp out to the forest and nurture them until it is time for them to be transplanted. The odds of this happening are slim, and none.
2). We forget about them, and they wither and die because, let's face it, life gets in the way.
3). We invite someone to see our seedlings. Naturally, we are nervous, these are our babies, and unfortunately, either innocently or maliciously, they stomp around with their big hairy feet and turn our tender little seedlings into powder.
4). But, let's face it, more often than not, we are the ones driving that kelly green John Deere ride-on mower, and those sharp silver blades whack the seedlings and rip out the roots as we tell ourselves that dream is too absurd, and it doesn't fit the plan that is mapped out.
This journey started on Jan 3, 2021, with a tiny seedling that whispered, "I have a story to tell." And wow, is it a story. So, remember, DO NOT MOW PLANTED TREES! you have no idea what they will grow into.
