Dawn Metcalf's Blog, page 24
January 1, 2013
Happy New Year!
Having been to the Loto-Québec International Fireworks Competition, I have a new appreciation of pyrotechnics from other countries so here's a little Happy New Year from abroad!
May 2013 be full of happiness, health, abundance, joy, laughter, fun, and exceed all expectations!
May 2013 be full of happiness, health, abundance, joy, laughter, fun, and exceed all expectations!
December 31, 2012
Be The Protagonist
At the close of this year leading into the next, I wanted to share a thought with all the creative people I know and that is: Be The Protagonist.
Protagonists *do* things. Other people might sit and wonder, worry and scheme, debate or ignore or act as the foil or comic relief, but the main character of your story--the one we root for--is a "do-er" who goes out and changes not only the situation or the scene that s/he's in, but ultimately, is the one that is changed. Protagonists transform from Who They Were Before into Who They Are Today. That is the instigating action that changes the characters, and not always in the most comfortable of ways, pushing beyond the comfortable limits and creating adventure out of the everyday. That's the story arc. That is plot. That's the character journey. And that only happens in action, using lots of verbs, and the same is true in your life as a writer.
WHEEEEE! I'm off to be a PROTAGONIST!
Imagine you were writing a story about a writer (especially if you're struggling to write it): as an author, think "What would that writer do?" How would you show (not tell) that this person is a writer? Well, for one thing, they would write. That is how we, the reader, would know that they are a writer. We'd see them sitting and writing, scribbling on notepads or typing in cafes or hunkered down in front of their computer at home writing words. They would read books on research and craft, talk with other writer friends, or think about random things that reminded them about this character or that scene throughout the narrative. They would be obsessed with writing this one next bit and stay up late at night or get up extra early to get that writing done. They would be constantly captured in the act of writing because, as we all know, that's what writers do.
Because that *IS* what writers do. They write.
Protagonists also overcome adversity. There is always some challenge that stands in their way of getting to their goal (the one they imagine that they want or the one they end up wanting). They will try and fail, try something else and partially succeed, learn something new and use that knowledge to pull off one more maneuver which will *spectacularly* fail, forcing the protagonist out onto the figurative or literal edge of a cliff, where seemingly all is lost, forcing that person to dig deep into the recesses of who they are or what they stand for to perform one, last, desperate make-or-break attempt and finally succeed (in one way or another) based on their own inner strength and with the help of some of the lessons and friends they've collected along the way. Ta da! Good story!
So my wish for you, as a writer, is to star in your own good story. Be the protagonist. Go out and DO THINGS! Make this year be about overcoming obstacles, being in action, use lots of verbs to describe your life and the way you're living it, collect those friends and life lessons that will help you along the way to achieving your goals, whatever they are, and becoming Who You Will Be in 2013. I can't promise it will be comfortable or convenient, or when you look back you'll be the same person you were when you struck out to take on your goal, but if you are in action and being a cause in the matter of your own personal story--not just thinking about it, but doing it--then you will change and the story of your life will be richer because of it.
Be the protagonist in your own life. Write it down. Tell us about it. Because we think you'd make a pretty damned good story.
Here's to you and me and every good book out there: Happy New Year!
All the best,
Dawn
Protagonists *do* things. Other people might sit and wonder, worry and scheme, debate or ignore or act as the foil or comic relief, but the main character of your story--the one we root for--is a "do-er" who goes out and changes not only the situation or the scene that s/he's in, but ultimately, is the one that is changed. Protagonists transform from Who They Were Before into Who They Are Today. That is the instigating action that changes the characters, and not always in the most comfortable of ways, pushing beyond the comfortable limits and creating adventure out of the everyday. That's the story arc. That is plot. That's the character journey. And that only happens in action, using lots of verbs, and the same is true in your life as a writer.
WHEEEEE! I'm off to be a PROTAGONIST!
Imagine you were writing a story about a writer (especially if you're struggling to write it): as an author, think "What would that writer do?" How would you show (not tell) that this person is a writer? Well, for one thing, they would write. That is how we, the reader, would know that they are a writer. We'd see them sitting and writing, scribbling on notepads or typing in cafes or hunkered down in front of their computer at home writing words. They would read books on research and craft, talk with other writer friends, or think about random things that reminded them about this character or that scene throughout the narrative. They would be obsessed with writing this one next bit and stay up late at night or get up extra early to get that writing done. They would be constantly captured in the act of writing because, as we all know, that's what writers do.
Because that *IS* what writers do. They write.
Protagonists also overcome adversity. There is always some challenge that stands in their way of getting to their goal (the one they imagine that they want or the one they end up wanting). They will try and fail, try something else and partially succeed, learn something new and use that knowledge to pull off one more maneuver which will *spectacularly* fail, forcing the protagonist out onto the figurative or literal edge of a cliff, where seemingly all is lost, forcing that person to dig deep into the recesses of who they are or what they stand for to perform one, last, desperate make-or-break attempt and finally succeed (in one way or another) based on their own inner strength and with the help of some of the lessons and friends they've collected along the way. Ta da! Good story!
So my wish for you, as a writer, is to star in your own good story. Be the protagonist. Go out and DO THINGS! Make this year be about overcoming obstacles, being in action, use lots of verbs to describe your life and the way you're living it, collect those friends and life lessons that will help you along the way to achieving your goals, whatever they are, and becoming Who You Will Be in 2013. I can't promise it will be comfortable or convenient, or when you look back you'll be the same person you were when you struck out to take on your goal, but if you are in action and being a cause in the matter of your own personal story--not just thinking about it, but doing it--then you will change and the story of your life will be richer because of it.
Be the protagonist in your own life. Write it down. Tell us about it. Because we think you'd make a pretty damned good story.
Here's to you and me and every good book out there: Happy New Year!
All the best,
Dawn
December 28, 2012
Indelible Cover!
It's dark, it's stunning, it's beautiful, and it's MY BOOK COVER!!! I just keeping *looking* at it, finding more and more little things that I like about it. (I, of course, know the story and know exactly what this image is so when you reach that part of the story—remember the word "Briarhook"—then you can flip the book over and see what I'm seeing, too!) When I first saw the concept art, I wanted to go online and tell everybody and have been very patiently sitting on my hands like a good girl so not to ruin the surprise.
Here it is! INDELIBLE, Book One of the Twixt!
I've been incredibly fortunate to have darkly beautiful covers for both of my books, but this one is something special. The genius artist is Mario Sánchez Nevado and his work is drop dead gorgeous! I went cruising around his site for ages simply reveling in all the surrealist beauty. Now I can't imagine a more perfect visual artist to capture the feeling of the Twixt. Thank you, Mario! Thank you, Harlequin Teen Dream Team! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!
*bounces in seat* There's so much I want to share with you all! And this is just the beginning!
Hold on to your hats, Folks, it's going to be a WILD RIDE!
Here it is! INDELIBLE, Book One of the Twixt!
I've been incredibly fortunate to have darkly beautiful covers for both of my books, but this one is something special. The genius artist is Mario Sánchez Nevado and his work is drop dead gorgeous! I went cruising around his site for ages simply reveling in all the surrealist beauty. Now I can't imagine a more perfect visual artist to capture the feeling of the Twixt. Thank you, Mario! Thank you, Harlequin Teen Dream Team! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!
*bounces in seat* There's so much I want to share with you all! And this is just the beginning!
Hold on to your hats, Folks, it's going to be a WILD RIDE!
December 25, 2012
Merry Christmas
For all those who celebrate, a very Merry Christmas!
For all those who don't, have a cozy day off.
And for all those who face this day in mourning, may there be peace.
December 21, 2012
One Week
It's been one week. I still have no words.
Be good to one another, please.
Peace.
Be good to one another, please.
Peace.
December 20, 2012
Oh, Instagram...
I'm sure by now you've heard the brouhaha over Instagram's initial policy change which implied (if not outright stated) that participants would be agreeing to allow the company the right to sell their private images for commercial use. The resulting hue and outcry was quick and decisive, prompting the CEO to offer a retraction later that day to the tune of "No, no, no, what we meant to say was that we'd never do that." Reporters offer the explanation that services like these need to make money and so are learning to do so beyond banner ads and selling user-generated content is the next logical leap (also given that they'd been bought by Facebook I believe is partly to blame for this mentality). I do not use Instagram, but I know many professional photographers and artists--not to mention fellow writers, family and friends--who do and as a creator of intellectual property myself, I had this insight to share:
In the words of Col. Sherman T. Potter, "Horse Hockey!"
Sometimes I fear that we've become so marinated in a cultural "truth" that folks fail to see the crazy. The Emperor has no clothes, people, and, no, that's not a new fashion statement. The fact that words or ideas come out of your brain and enter the realm of the Rest of the World does not, in fact, mean that they belong to the conduit of exchange; that's the means of travel, not the content, and let's not confuse the two. For example, when you buy a stamp, you expect for it to pay for the successful delivery of your letter (or, most often, bill or card) and do not--and should not--think that it gives the Postal Service the right to peruse your correspondence and sell the contents of your letter asking Aunt Mabel for dating advice to a singles' website or an HPV drug company. Nor would you want Ma Bell or any of her resulting brood to wiretap your conversations in order to create voice-overs for TV travel ads or greeting cards. They do not have this right. And if they asked you if they could do this, you'd laugh in their proverbial faceless faces. And even if they clearly and transparently ask your permission to do so, why would this seem like a "logical" thing to do? This goes beyond my earlier squigginess where artists get no compensation for their images being used by bloggers across the Internet, where neither party is making money off of the image itself, this is about *someone else* getting paid for an artist's work and the artist/author getting no compensation whatsoever. This is understood when you are a subcontractor, but not when you are a customer. And when a business comes back with "Well, we have to make money somehow so if a customer chooses to use our service, then they should be okay with this or they can go elsewhere," I feel like we're somehow missing the point of the discussion. Your business' need to make money should be dependent on what your business produces. An airline should not be trying to generate revenue by asking their passengers to flap their arms or make model planes for the local souvenir shop.
I understand business. I grew up with business. I had my own business for almost a decade. My family's income is currently solely dependent on our self-employed businesses. I am quite familiar with the need to generate income in creative, work-smarter-not-harder ways, but this is liquid madness. The idea that communicating with others and the content of that exchange can be "owned" by the method of communication company negates the reason for communication, placing an effective gag order on creativity and forcing hands to stay close to hearts for fear of losing intellectual property rights. Even in this culture of "global community" and "information exchange," we rationally know that the idea belongs to the originator and not the cable company through which it traveled. The business community banks on artists being creative souls and not business-savvy. They shrug at artists as if to say, "Of course, silly people, you agreed to sign away that right in order to get all this great publicity!" I can't begin to tell you how many times as a public speaker, health educator, or author I've been told that while they couldn't pay me, by doing an event I'd be getting free publicity! If I had a nickel for every pitch like that...well, then that would be the point of this little blog rant. Because however else we might arrange something that could be mutually-beneficial, book sales or package deals or partnerships with other organizations, the simple truth is that I can't pay my bills with free publicity and neither could they.
"Starving artist" is not my business model.
Big business taking advantage of individual rights is not new or surprising...and maybe that's what's surprising: that it's not so surprising. What does this say about our culture and our values? What's more valuable than what you produce as a unique individual? Your thoughts, your feelings, your insights, your art? Will those of your who use Instagram continue to do so? Or will you check out other options like Flickr or Eyeem? Or is there some new way you can tell us what you're up to? In my world, this is the current debate between traditional and self (or "indie") publishing: what do we gain or lose by putting it out there ourselves without being gouged by Big Business in any of its incarnations.
Instagram tried to pull it off. Don't let them. I know I shouldn't be surprised, but I am.
In the words of Col. Sherman T. Potter, "Horse Hockey!"
Sometimes I fear that we've become so marinated in a cultural "truth" that folks fail to see the crazy. The Emperor has no clothes, people, and, no, that's not a new fashion statement. The fact that words or ideas come out of your brain and enter the realm of the Rest of the World does not, in fact, mean that they belong to the conduit of exchange; that's the means of travel, not the content, and let's not confuse the two. For example, when you buy a stamp, you expect for it to pay for the successful delivery of your letter (or, most often, bill or card) and do not--and should not--think that it gives the Postal Service the right to peruse your correspondence and sell the contents of your letter asking Aunt Mabel for dating advice to a singles' website or an HPV drug company. Nor would you want Ma Bell or any of her resulting brood to wiretap your conversations in order to create voice-overs for TV travel ads or greeting cards. They do not have this right. And if they asked you if they could do this, you'd laugh in their proverbial faceless faces. And even if they clearly and transparently ask your permission to do so, why would this seem like a "logical" thing to do? This goes beyond my earlier squigginess where artists get no compensation for their images being used by bloggers across the Internet, where neither party is making money off of the image itself, this is about *someone else* getting paid for an artist's work and the artist/author getting no compensation whatsoever. This is understood when you are a subcontractor, but not when you are a customer. And when a business comes back with "Well, we have to make money somehow so if a customer chooses to use our service, then they should be okay with this or they can go elsewhere," I feel like we're somehow missing the point of the discussion. Your business' need to make money should be dependent on what your business produces. An airline should not be trying to generate revenue by asking their passengers to flap their arms or make model planes for the local souvenir shop.
I understand business. I grew up with business. I had my own business for almost a decade. My family's income is currently solely dependent on our self-employed businesses. I am quite familiar with the need to generate income in creative, work-smarter-not-harder ways, but this is liquid madness. The idea that communicating with others and the content of that exchange can be "owned" by the method of communication company negates the reason for communication, placing an effective gag order on creativity and forcing hands to stay close to hearts for fear of losing intellectual property rights. Even in this culture of "global community" and "information exchange," we rationally know that the idea belongs to the originator and not the cable company through which it traveled. The business community banks on artists being creative souls and not business-savvy. They shrug at artists as if to say, "Of course, silly people, you agreed to sign away that right in order to get all this great publicity!" I can't begin to tell you how many times as a public speaker, health educator, or author I've been told that while they couldn't pay me, by doing an event I'd be getting free publicity! If I had a nickel for every pitch like that...well, then that would be the point of this little blog rant. Because however else we might arrange something that could be mutually-beneficial, book sales or package deals or partnerships with other organizations, the simple truth is that I can't pay my bills with free publicity and neither could they.
"Starving artist" is not my business model.
Big business taking advantage of individual rights is not new or surprising...and maybe that's what's surprising: that it's not so surprising. What does this say about our culture and our values? What's more valuable than what you produce as a unique individual? Your thoughts, your feelings, your insights, your art? Will those of your who use Instagram continue to do so? Or will you check out other options like Flickr or Eyeem? Or is there some new way you can tell us what you're up to? In my world, this is the current debate between traditional and self (or "indie") publishing: what do we gain or lose by putting it out there ourselves without being gouged by Big Business in any of its incarnations.
Instagram tried to pull it off. Don't let them. I know I shouldn't be surprised, but I am.
December 17, 2012
Happy Birthday Steampunk-Style!
I celebrated my birthday last month and successfully aged 1 year. Last year was a "Big Birthday" but due to last year's Halloween storm I was unable to gather troops together, so it went by with a quiet grace and gentle thankfulness for things like heat and electricity. This year, I vowed to make up for lost time (so to speak) and throw myself a party. And if I was going to have a party, it was going to be *my* kind of party! (If you know anything about me, you'd start getting nervous right about now.)
There are two things I am generally known for amongst my family and friends (and often hapless acquaintances minding their own business where I work, work-out, or where my kids attend school who are likely to get swept up in my madness...poor, innocent souls), those two things being: creativity and out-of-the-box thinking. "My kind of party" was due to involve costumes, baked goods, and more than one thematic bit of silliness. And, I am proud to say, we did not disappoint!
I threw myself a Steampunk Dinner Party.
Menu included appetizers, dinner, dessert and after-dinner tea to be enjoyed by all the creatively coiffed.
First came the most important things: costuming and food. My costume choices were put aside for the time being (knowing that I have plenty of fun things to choose from) and I concentrated on the fun of dressing up my kids (the best part of being a parent is getting to force my creative whims upon cute, small people!) as well as creating an extra stash of accessories in case someone should balk at the idea of dressing up or didn't know what "steampunk" meant. Pssh! As if.
The Pigtailed Overlord, unsurprisingly, wanted to be a mad scientist so we concentrated on her flared lab coat jacket buttoned with a cameo pin, long velvet skirt draped in delicate charm-bracelet chains, and made a tiny top hat complete with mini hydrangea and blue bird with pearl eggs to match her blue-rimmed glasses. Maestro went as a science professor; the bow tie and white lab coat made him look like a mini Bill Nye the Science Guy and when we added goggles, he became Dr. Horrible. I removed the goggles for my own sanity.
[image error]
Fun-to-make hat! Personalized lab coat & bow tie!
(I don't post pictures of my kids in case they have any desire to have a normal life someday.)
For myself, I flip-flopped between two looks: punky-militant and traditional silver-and-black. (I went traditional, with a promise to myself I'd wear the purple wig outfit again soon. Maybe picking the kids up from school...)
Then, I started cooking.
I bowed to saner inclinations and ordered dinner from one of my favorite Middle-Eastern caterers so I could have goodies like falafel, roasted eggplant salad, hummus and baklava without the hassle. Me, I concentrated on baking! Like my first Steampunk Tea Party, I wanted to make the cookies again, but maybe this time do a little better with the coloring. Fortunately, I had my Mom with me (the original baking genius) who was just as excited to make "Machination Cookies" as I was! Alas, *still* no good source for gear-shaped cookies, I was ready with my cups, my glue stick cap & binder clips!
Some were gears, some were gauges, some were iced and others coated with metallic sugar, but ALL were delicious and a big hit!
Yes, I know I'm insane. Yes, I know that it's considerably less effort to make circle cookies and draw on them or, saner yet, buy them from the grocery store bakery, but honestly, *this* is what I enjoy doing: making some over-the-top project to share with family & friends. The results were well-worth the effort! (And speaking of over-the-top, I loved making these "Top Hat" Cupcakes, inspired by some incredible steampunk cupcakes I saw online!) I used my staple rum cake recipe with Mom's Ghirardelli chocolate frosting and a Tootsie-roll goggled top hat set at a rakish angle:
I *loved* making these! (Almost as much as eating them. Almost.)
Okay, I didn't get the copper fondue pots ready in time and changed my mind about the elephant shrines piled high with exotic fruits and fitting Persian rugs under the tables, and instead opted for peacock feathers and gold paper doilies. There were plenty of friends and family to share in the lunacy, obligingly costumed and we even dressed up one of the favorite puppets as mascot.
Friend
divinebird as a mechanic and her dashing pilot beau posing with The Esteemed Captain Fluffbottom
We laughed and ate and hung around the kitchen listening to Pandora's Abney Park station, admiring each other's costumes and talking about the things we geek out most about: books, movies and crafts. In a word: perfect! And now I'm old enough to say that THIS is definitely the way to celebrate being a grown-up!
There are two things I am generally known for amongst my family and friends (and often hapless acquaintances minding their own business where I work, work-out, or where my kids attend school who are likely to get swept up in my madness...poor, innocent souls), those two things being: creativity and out-of-the-box thinking. "My kind of party" was due to involve costumes, baked goods, and more than one thematic bit of silliness. And, I am proud to say, we did not disappoint!
I threw myself a Steampunk Dinner Party.
Menu included appetizers, dinner, dessert and after-dinner tea to be enjoyed by all the creatively coiffed.
First came the most important things: costuming and food. My costume choices were put aside for the time being (knowing that I have plenty of fun things to choose from) and I concentrated on the fun of dressing up my kids (the best part of being a parent is getting to force my creative whims upon cute, small people!) as well as creating an extra stash of accessories in case someone should balk at the idea of dressing up or didn't know what "steampunk" meant. Pssh! As if.
The Pigtailed Overlord, unsurprisingly, wanted to be a mad scientist so we concentrated on her flared lab coat jacket buttoned with a cameo pin, long velvet skirt draped in delicate charm-bracelet chains, and made a tiny top hat complete with mini hydrangea and blue bird with pearl eggs to match her blue-rimmed glasses. Maestro went as a science professor; the bow tie and white lab coat made him look like a mini Bill Nye the Science Guy and when we added goggles, he became Dr. Horrible. I removed the goggles for my own sanity.
[image error]
Fun-to-make hat! Personalized lab coat & bow tie!
(I don't post pictures of my kids in case they have any desire to have a normal life someday.)
For myself, I flip-flopped between two looks: punky-militant and traditional silver-and-black. (I went traditional, with a promise to myself I'd wear the purple wig outfit again soon. Maybe picking the kids up from school...)
Then, I started cooking.
I bowed to saner inclinations and ordered dinner from one of my favorite Middle-Eastern caterers so I could have goodies like falafel, roasted eggplant salad, hummus and baklava without the hassle. Me, I concentrated on baking! Like my first Steampunk Tea Party, I wanted to make the cookies again, but maybe this time do a little better with the coloring. Fortunately, I had my Mom with me (the original baking genius) who was just as excited to make "Machination Cookies" as I was! Alas, *still* no good source for gear-shaped cookies, I was ready with my cups, my glue stick cap & binder clips!
Some were gears, some were gauges, some were iced and others coated with metallic sugar, but ALL were delicious and a big hit!
Yes, I know I'm insane. Yes, I know that it's considerably less effort to make circle cookies and draw on them or, saner yet, buy them from the grocery store bakery, but honestly, *this* is what I enjoy doing: making some over-the-top project to share with family & friends. The results were well-worth the effort! (And speaking of over-the-top, I loved making these "Top Hat" Cupcakes, inspired by some incredible steampunk cupcakes I saw online!) I used my staple rum cake recipe with Mom's Ghirardelli chocolate frosting and a Tootsie-roll goggled top hat set at a rakish angle:
I *loved* making these! (Almost as much as eating them. Almost.)
Okay, I didn't get the copper fondue pots ready in time and changed my mind about the elephant shrines piled high with exotic fruits and fitting Persian rugs under the tables, and instead opted for peacock feathers and gold paper doilies. There were plenty of friends and family to share in the lunacy, obligingly costumed and we even dressed up one of the favorite puppets as mascot.
Friend
divinebird as a mechanic and her dashing pilot beau posing with The Esteemed Captain FluffbottomWe laughed and ate and hung around the kitchen listening to Pandora's Abney Park station, admiring each other's costumes and talking about the things we geek out most about: books, movies and crafts. In a word: perfect! And now I'm old enough to say that THIS is definitely the way to celebrate being a grown-up!
December 14, 2012
Someday This Pain Will Be Useful To You
You know you're a writer when...
...you can turn any experience, no matter how wondrous or horrific or banal, and think, "I can use this in my writing someday!" This is a good thing. It keeps things in perspective in a "Someday This Pain Will Be Useful To You" kind of way. Such was the case two days ago with my maiden voyage into the world of acupuncture.
Being married to a karate instructor who studied abroad and sister to a holistic, natropath-savvy PhD, I know more than a little about Eastern medicine. I have been offered vitamin elixir for my greying hair, Japanese Miracle water for vitality, advised to add more "red" to balance my diet, and have tried everything from Tai Chi to Somatics so it's not like I'd never heard of the benefits of acupuncture, I'd just never had a want to try it. Early on it was my complete terror of needles, abruptly cured after two drug-free pregnancies requiring post-drugs due to complications. These little follicles of steel? No problem. But given my history of being the perennial "exception to the rule" for anything medical, I shied away from messing with my already-touchy nervous system. The words "almost never happens" or "it's rarely the case" is an immediate red flag that I'm about to undergo some bizarre life change ala Jekyll and Hyde with my health. No, thank you very much.
This time it was a sneak attack: I wasn't even prepared for the possibility of acupuncture as I was visiting my chiropractor to continue making adjustments to my neck and lower back after the WWE incident. He asked me what I thought about acupuncture. I said I'd never tried it. Before I knew it, I had needles going into my neck and shoulders and two more in my wrists and being told to lie flat and relax. Honestly, the needles didn't hurt. It was a flick and then a sort of pinching sensation. I'd heard of others who had fallen asleep during their acupuncture sessions so I concentrated on relaxing my shoulder and letting myself drift.
But I was failing to drift.
In fact, I was becoming more and more aware of the little pinches and, having a slight cold, my head was slowly filling with snot and it was becoming harder to breathe through my nose. Lifting my head brought a sharp reminder that there were many tiny, sharp things in my neck and not to do that. I let my head fall back down and tried breathing through my mouth against the bubble of paper that made the air stale and warm. It was uncomfortable and irritating and I had no idea how much time was passing, but I figured I'd just wait it out and then it would be over and hopefully some of the pain would miraculously disappear under this pincushion treatment. I waited. And waited. And waited. And then the spasms began.
What had begun as pinching had graduated into full-blown twisting and throbbing with sharp knocking reminders behind my ears that there were *needles* sticking into knots in my body. I gave an involuntary, "Ow ow ow ow!" and then hushed myself for being such a baby. Moving my head moved the needles. The spasms increased. I began to twitch. Hearing the doctor off in another room, I chanced to call out, "Can we please take these out now?" but it was too far away or my voice was too muffled int he paper because there was no answer. Even when he was out in the hall. Even when the secretary passed my door. I called out, even lifting my head against the sharp pains, muttering "ows" and "Please take these out!" But no one heard me. My foot started to kick. My lower back complained.. I started to whimper and swallowed it down--ideas of getting help or ripping them out and not stupidly lying here like an idiot warred with my socialized need to be polite and not make a fuss and do what the nice doctor said. I had no idea what time it was, but it kept ticking. I was alone with pain and pins and my own berrating thoughts. But there was this moment, feeling helpless and stupid for enduring something I clearly didn't like and no one listening to my now less-than-polite calls for help, that I had a Clockwork Orange revelation that I did this to myself and now there was nothing else to do but endure it, nowhere else to go, no one was going to come and there was no escape.
I started to cry.
This did not improve my stuffed-nose, warm-breath paper prison that quickly got soaked and stuck to my cheeks. Tears turned the white paper grey. I tried moving my hands which twinged around the pins in my wrist. No go. My pinky started to burn. The third finger of each hand felt like there was a stinger in the pad. My cell phone started ringing. That did it. I carefully reached across the table, slipped my phone out of my coat pocket, thumbed the button on and placed it next to my face. It was my husband looking for his keys. He could tell I was crying. I told him that I'd been stuck in the room for now 28 minutes and no one seemed to know that I was there. He told me to hang up and he called the office, telling the secretary to go back to my room and take the needles out. Not one minute later, she appeared to check on me then ask the doctor if she could remove the needles. Then did so quickly. I snuffled and thanked her and apologized and felt embarrassed and small. My husband appeared ten minutes later, having driven over with the spare key, and stayed with me until the doctor came to listen to what had happened. I left soon after still feeling the ghost of needles in my neck. It was a humbling, mildly torturous head-game experiment that is not something I'm ever eager to repeat...
...but I'll use it in a story someday. Just see if I don't.
...you can turn any experience, no matter how wondrous or horrific or banal, and think, "I can use this in my writing someday!" This is a good thing. It keeps things in perspective in a "Someday This Pain Will Be Useful To You" kind of way. Such was the case two days ago with my maiden voyage into the world of acupuncture.
Being married to a karate instructor who studied abroad and sister to a holistic, natropath-savvy PhD, I know more than a little about Eastern medicine. I have been offered vitamin elixir for my greying hair, Japanese Miracle water for vitality, advised to add more "red" to balance my diet, and have tried everything from Tai Chi to Somatics so it's not like I'd never heard of the benefits of acupuncture, I'd just never had a want to try it. Early on it was my complete terror of needles, abruptly cured after two drug-free pregnancies requiring post-drugs due to complications. These little follicles of steel? No problem. But given my history of being the perennial "exception to the rule" for anything medical, I shied away from messing with my already-touchy nervous system. The words "almost never happens" or "it's rarely the case" is an immediate red flag that I'm about to undergo some bizarre life change ala Jekyll and Hyde with my health. No, thank you very much.
This time it was a sneak attack: I wasn't even prepared for the possibility of acupuncture as I was visiting my chiropractor to continue making adjustments to my neck and lower back after the WWE incident. He asked me what I thought about acupuncture. I said I'd never tried it. Before I knew it, I had needles going into my neck and shoulders and two more in my wrists and being told to lie flat and relax. Honestly, the needles didn't hurt. It was a flick and then a sort of pinching sensation. I'd heard of others who had fallen asleep during their acupuncture sessions so I concentrated on relaxing my shoulder and letting myself drift.
But I was failing to drift.
In fact, I was becoming more and more aware of the little pinches and, having a slight cold, my head was slowly filling with snot and it was becoming harder to breathe through my nose. Lifting my head brought a sharp reminder that there were many tiny, sharp things in my neck and not to do that. I let my head fall back down and tried breathing through my mouth against the bubble of paper that made the air stale and warm. It was uncomfortable and irritating and I had no idea how much time was passing, but I figured I'd just wait it out and then it would be over and hopefully some of the pain would miraculously disappear under this pincushion treatment. I waited. And waited. And waited. And then the spasms began.
What had begun as pinching had graduated into full-blown twisting and throbbing with sharp knocking reminders behind my ears that there were *needles* sticking into knots in my body. I gave an involuntary, "Ow ow ow ow!" and then hushed myself for being such a baby. Moving my head moved the needles. The spasms increased. I began to twitch. Hearing the doctor off in another room, I chanced to call out, "Can we please take these out now?" but it was too far away or my voice was too muffled int he paper because there was no answer. Even when he was out in the hall. Even when the secretary passed my door. I called out, even lifting my head against the sharp pains, muttering "ows" and "Please take these out!" But no one heard me. My foot started to kick. My lower back complained.. I started to whimper and swallowed it down--ideas of getting help or ripping them out and not stupidly lying here like an idiot warred with my socialized need to be polite and not make a fuss and do what the nice doctor said. I had no idea what time it was, but it kept ticking. I was alone with pain and pins and my own berrating thoughts. But there was this moment, feeling helpless and stupid for enduring something I clearly didn't like and no one listening to my now less-than-polite calls for help, that I had a Clockwork Orange revelation that I did this to myself and now there was nothing else to do but endure it, nowhere else to go, no one was going to come and there was no escape.
I started to cry.
This did not improve my stuffed-nose, warm-breath paper prison that quickly got soaked and stuck to my cheeks. Tears turned the white paper grey. I tried moving my hands which twinged around the pins in my wrist. No go. My pinky started to burn. The third finger of each hand felt like there was a stinger in the pad. My cell phone started ringing. That did it. I carefully reached across the table, slipped my phone out of my coat pocket, thumbed the button on and placed it next to my face. It was my husband looking for his keys. He could tell I was crying. I told him that I'd been stuck in the room for now 28 minutes and no one seemed to know that I was there. He told me to hang up and he called the office, telling the secretary to go back to my room and take the needles out. Not one minute later, she appeared to check on me then ask the doctor if she could remove the needles. Then did so quickly. I snuffled and thanked her and apologized and felt embarrassed and small. My husband appeared ten minutes later, having driven over with the spare key, and stayed with me until the doctor came to listen to what had happened. I left soon after still feeling the ghost of needles in my neck. It was a humbling, mildly torturous head-game experiment that is not something I'm ever eager to repeat...
...but I'll use it in a story someday. Just see if I don't.
December 10, 2012
Listening to the Muse
I am in the creative-planning stages of a new project which came (as the best ones usually do) like a bolt of lightning or a slap to the head, a stream of dialogue that captured the voice of the main character and nailed the relationship between the two key characters in their situation as it stands. I was *SO HAPPY*! It was a long-awaited gift. It was followed by another bit of dialogue, and another, and then a whole scene. I stayed up madly scribbling on any random bit of paper I could find and then transcribing it onto a new document, word for word, laughing at the screen. It's been flowing onto the page with surprising hilarity and I dreaded going to sleep for fear of losing it all, but they were still there in the morning, waiting for me. We're becoming fast friends.
Today I am being extra-quiet. I am listening for their voices, for the world as it grows. For me, this takes silence. No music. No television. No distracting holiday brouhaha. I drive in the car in silence. I sit at home in stillness. I am walking outdoors and letting the wind fill my ears, my digital tape recorder at the ready. I am listening for the bits as they come together like drops of oil, seeking one another out to become bigger and bigger, eventually growing into a whole, a single story that gathers all the voices and snippets and scenes into the story I'm waiting to tell. It's in there if I take the time to hear it.
So for now, I'm listening to the Muse whisper secrets to me in her soft, quiet voice.
Today I am being extra-quiet. I am listening for their voices, for the world as it grows. For me, this takes silence. No music. No television. No distracting holiday brouhaha. I drive in the car in silence. I sit at home in stillness. I am walking outdoors and letting the wind fill my ears, my digital tape recorder at the ready. I am listening for the bits as they come together like drops of oil, seeking one another out to become bigger and bigger, eventually growing into a whole, a single story that gathers all the voices and snippets and scenes into the story I'm waiting to tell. It's in there if I take the time to hear it.
So for now, I'm listening to the Muse whisper secrets to me in her soft, quiet voice.
Happy Channukah!
Golden menorah pic lovingly gakked from finkswim.com
Happy Channukah! Enjoy the Festival of Lights!
For those who celebrate, enjoy the holidays with friends, family, loved ones & deep fried carbs! For those who don't, join in the spirit of the Jewish holiday season by eating latkes (potato pancakes), Sufganyot (doughnuts), or lighting small oil fires...ah, the scent of Channukah!
P.S. Always be careful when lighting candles or working with hot oil. Especially when you have lots of hair. Extra-especially if we flashback to the 80's and use lots of hairspray. Fashionista + Religious Holidays = Head full of Flammable. (Don't ask me how I know.)
Many blessings. And Bactine.
