C.C. Payne's Blog, page 2

From The Queen Mother

Since it’s Mother’s Weekend—because one day is obviously not enough to adequately recognize and honor mothers—and since I am a mother, I have pretty much declared myself The Queen Mother of this weekend (at my house, at least).Look, it's not like I'm asking anyone to bow at my feet, or massage my feet, or do anything with my feet. At all. I'm perfectly capable of treating myself like a queen, which is what I have been doing ALL DAY: I slept in. (Here's the first thing I saw when I peered over the side of my bed this morning.)Then, I had coffee in my favorite cup and lingered over my e-mail. At 2:00PM, I was still in my pajamas--heaven, I tell you!


Then, I threw on some shorts and a T-shirt and planted some flowers.








When I came inside, I announced that I would be preparing some divinely disgusting, artery-clogging potato skins for myself, that I would be glad to make extra for anyone else who might want some, but that anybody who didn't would have to make their own supper (everybody opted to make their own suppers).
After that, I curled up in this chair, with the electric blanket on high, and watched a movie that nobody else in my family wanted to watch--and I enjoyed it very much!










Now, I'm about to get into this bathtub, where I plan to spend the next hour with a good book--it's great to be queen!
But first, Happy Mother's Weekend to all the other Queen Mothers out there! I hope you're giving yourself The Royal Treatment!

Letting In Light

It has been said that anyone who survived childhood has enough material for a novel--or ten. (Flannery O'Connor has said that many a bestselling novel could have been prevented by a good teacher.) While I believe this to be true, I have to admit that it sounds easier than it is, at least in my case.

These past few months, in between revisions, edits, copyedits, and proofreads of Lula Bell...I've been working on a new novel. And that novel has required me to visit the darkest room in my mind, a room that I not only never visit, but that I keep locked, dead bolted, chained, and wrapped in neon-yellow caution tape. It is not a happy place. Yet, I have unlocked it and gone in almost every day for months, looking for a comfortable chair from which I might work (there isn't one). Hanging in the haunted room hasn't really bothered me. Yes, there are ghosts, but they're mine, so I know them and we're Okay.

I was beginning to think that I was an amazing anomaly: a writer who also happened to be the picture of perfect mental health. I was just weeks away from joining the circus, or moving to California, where I think there might be a few other mentally healthy writers--though none as mentally healthy as me--obviously. I was feeling pretty good about my miraculously strong, healthy little self.

And then, yesterday, I completed the last page of the first draft of this new novel and heaved a huge sigh of relief. I stood up in the dark room, said goodbye to all my ghosts, locked, dead-bolted, and chained the door on my way out, and put the caution tape back. Then, in the comfort of my bright, sunshiny office, I looked over the 230 pages I had written, and felt that I had earned a nap--great mental health requires rest periods--ask any kindergartner.

I went right to sleep, where some of my ghosts were waiting to watch home movies with me. I clutched their hands and held on desperately. We all sobbed. I was still sobbing when I woke up, and I couldn't get hold of myself. I called my husband. He couldn't understand a word I was saying, so he came home--to prevent a full-on nervous breakdown, even though I'm sure he worried that he might be too late. He held me and said all the right things, but the tears continued to flow.

I thought I might never stop crying. It was then that I realized I might not have been mentally healthy enough or strong enough to spend months working in the darkest room of my mind. It had been a bad idea. And now, I was paying for it. I felt very, very sorry for myself. I tried my usual fix: pizza. It didn't work. So, I cried myself to sleep.

But this morning, I was not crying when I woke. So, I was able to get out of my own mind and look around a little. In doing so, I remembered why I had gone to the dark room in the first place: because the ghosts aren't the only ones there; there are millions of real live kids living there, who can't see beyond the darkness and the walls, and who have no reason to believe they'll ever make it out of that room. I'd gone back to that room to open the door and let in a little light, because the light, the truth, reveals the way out.

And then, my daughter, to whom I'd handed off the first draft for reading, questions, comments and complaints, came to me. She said, "My friend, Blank, needs this book. Now. I mean, she really needs it. . . as much as she needs air and water." And light, I thought.

It feels like redemption, like hope, like spring: the sun blazing through winter-gray clouds, skeletal trees sprouting bright new-growth-green, flowers bursting forth from the dirt, and every church marquis announcing, "He is Risen!"

So, even though I won't be joining the circus or moving to California anytime soon, I am Okay. On the mental health scale reserved for writers, I might even be better than Okay--because I still have most of my hair and all of my teeth. (Flannery O'Connor wrote, "Writing a novel is a terrible experience during which the hair falls out and teeth decay. I'm always irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality, and it's very shocking to the system.")

Fiction writers of the world, God bless you. To everyone else, well. . . my advice is to steer clear of fiction writers the way you would steer clear of a large, homeless, hairless, toothless man crouched on the sidewalk, rocking and talking to himself--he's probably a fiction writer.

Happy Spring! Happy Hope! Happy Redemption! Happy Easter to all!

Hard Learned Hair Lessons

In honor of the cutie-pie-creation of this dust jacket for my new novel (coming soon!),
I am sharing a few hard learned lessons under the all important heading of Good Hair:

1.) Wearing Dorothy Hamill's haircut will not fool people into thinking you are Dorothy, just like wearing napkin rings around your wrists will not fool people into thinking you are Wonder Woman. Apparently.(Please, no autographs today. Because I don't know how to spell very well. And because I don't know whether to write Wunder Woman or Dorthy Hamil.)

2.) Ever heard somebody say, "JUST a body perm"? Well, this is JUST a body perm. (The higher your hair is, the closer you are to heaven. Which is why I can see into heaven right now. There are no perms there.)

3.) Of course, I'm the type of girl who perseveres, which is why one bad perm hardly stopped me from having another. And another. And another. Until my hairdresser finally said, "I can't give you another perm. Your hair will turn to straw." Naturally, I found another, much more reasonable hairdresser, who was more than willing to turn my hair to straw for me.
(Perseverance, people.)

Now, repeat after me: I will not cut my own bangs. I will not cut my own bangs. I will not cut my own bangs.

Happy hair, my friends!

Uninspired

I couldn't think of anything much to blog about this month because I've been holed up at home, writing. I thought about getting out. But then I looked outside and it was still February. So I began looking around my little writing hole, for inspiration. Here's what I found:
This photo of the house where my father was born sits on my desk reminding me just how far my people have come, and that I owe past generations both gratitude and continued hard work--clearing the path for future generations, as it has been cleared for me. This julep cup reminds me how blessed I am to live in Kentucky, and for that matter, the United States--because that's what makes clearing the path even seem possible.
My daughter drew the below picture when she was six; it reminds me not to spend SO much time clearing the path that I forget what's important to her--still.
(For those who can't make it out, it says, What Makes a Good Mommy: loves to play, a smart brain, a great smile, a good heart, stands up for me, sweetness, and pretty clothes--the clothes thing must've been more of a suggestion, since most of mine were--and still are--debatable as "pretty".)
Here's a piece of pottery my daughter made in the second grade, for Mother's Day. It was supposed to be a ladybug, but the legs, polka dots, and antennae fell off in the kiln. When my daughter enthusiastically unwrapped the piece to show me, she promptly burst into tears. "What is this?!" she cried. I quickly responded, "It's a belly-button-bowl and I'm proud to be the only mama in the whole wide world who owns one--thank you."
My belly-button bowl reminds me that our mistakes are part of our unique experience, part of what makes us...well, us...and to embrace all that is unique, in others as well as myself. (I make a lot of metaphorical belly-button-bowls. A lot.)
These are the orchids my husband brought me two weeks ago for no reason at all. They remind me that even when I get it all wrong, he still loves me, and that God is still getting it all right. I can--and should--always take time to delight in God's glorious creations.
At a wedding reception, my father tied this little bell onto my purse in the middle of a family tiff. It was his way of saying, "Hey, lighten up." It's a message worth repeating. Daily. (I can be a little...intense.)
This is a photo of my mother giving me my first bath; it reminds me that a mother's love, like God's love, is unconditional. I don't have to do anything to earn it--I don't even have to be capable of holding up my own head. This kind of love just is, and it's really the only kind worth having and giving.
This card from my sister reminds me how blessed I am to even have a sister, because a sister understands your history, and therefore you, like no one else on earth--and she usually loves you anyway--mine does (thank you).
The cough drops remind me that in absolutely any situation there is joy to be had, to look for the joy, find it, take it, taste it. (My grandfather, Poppy, always had two things: overflowing joy and Luden's wild cherry cough drops.)
Finally, this is my favorite photo of my daughter, taken by my friend, Sandy (http://www.sandrareaganphoto.com). To me, it seems like we just did that photo shoot last week, but in fact, more than a decade has passed. So, this picture whispers, "Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock..."
Life is ever-changing--and short--so I can't afford to waste a second of it: Clear the path! But not every waking minute. Take time to count blessings, to revel in the warmth and sweetness of family, to embrace human imperfection, and to delight in divine perfection. Lighten up! Laugh! Find the joy! Take it! Taste it! Tick tock!
Perhaps you're feeling a little uninspired, too--after all, it's still February. If so, I encourage you to look around. Inspiration is everywhere, maybe even--and especially--on your very own desk.

Happy New Year to the New Bride!

Our beautiful (inside and out) niece, Erin, is getting married this weekend, and there are so many things I want to tell her! So here goes:

1.) You're marrying a man. Therefore - and hold onto your hair here! - your husband thinks, speaks, and acts like a man.

2.) For your information, men do not ask for directions or any manner of assistance. Period.

3.) Men are not mind-readers. For example, it usually will not occur to a man that you want him to take out the trash simply because it's overflowing. You have to actually say, "Honey, would you please take out the trash?" (You cannot be mad at a man for not doing something you never asked him to do...because men aren't mind-readers.)

4.) Certain words have different meanings to men. For example, to a man, the word "clean" means "relatively presentable when compared to the homes of most of his bachelor friends", while to you, "clean" likely means "completely germ-free, sanitized, organized, and styled perfection". The word "party" also means something different to a man. You think table settings, place cards, entrees, and complimentary wines, while he thinks chips, dips, beer, and the largest television known to mankind.

5.) Whereas a woman has a large portion of her brain devoted to nurturing, a man has a large portion devoted to protecting. You may want to keep this in mind should your husband fail to make you chicken noodle soup when you're sick: While it may look like he's doing nothing, he's actually busy plotting all the ways in which he would kill the sorry fool who ever tried to hurt you.

6.) Men don't actively try to understand problems; they're too busy trying to solve them. If you want understanding, talk to your girlfriends; if you want solutions, talk to your husband.

7.) But know that he will never be able to solve or understand why it takes you twice as long to get ready to go somewhere. Given enough time though, he might accept it - or at least give up on complaining about it.

8.) The wide-eyed, tender-hearted, dreamer of a boy still lives inside the man. And he needs to play. With his toys. They started as matchbox cars and then became real cars, boats, horses, golf equipment, and other extremely expensive "toys". Both the boy and the man will be immeasurably happier if you let them have, and play with, their toys.

9.) Take turns choosing movies instead of trying to agree on one. The boy will always want to see millions of dollars worth of explosives and special effects - and doesn't really care about dialogue - or plot. When it's his turn to choose the movie, sit quietly, eat your popcorn, and let the boy - and his imagination - run free.

10.) Neither boys nor men play in the briar patch - and you shouldn't either. When a man wants the new Taylormade R11 golf driver for Christmas, he doesn't say, "Whatever you do, please don't buy me that Taylormade R11 driver." So, if you say something like, "Please don't buy me jewelry," when you really want jewelry...well, you aren't going to get any - for thirty years or so. It takes roughly thirty years for a man to figure out the briar patch game - just ask my uncle Bob.

11.) Understanding and accepting the above mentioned things should prevent several spats. Yet there are still bound to be some. When you're really good and angry, I suggest you excuse yourself to the bathroom. Close - and lock - the door behind you. Try some deep breathing exercises. If that doesn't work, then clean the toilet. With his toothbrush.

On a more serious note, the best advice I can offer either of you, in any situation, is this: Think, speak, and act generously, in love, keeping in mind that the opposite of love isn't hate; it's selfishness.

"Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility, value others above yourself, not looking to your own interests, but each of you to the interests of others."
Philippians 2:2-4

And know that when all else fails, I am here, loving you both, and wishing you life, love, and happiness beyond your wildest dreams. Call or come on over anytime.

With high hopes, great joy, and overflowing love, I am, as ever,
Your aunt Cat