Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 16
January 16, 2017
GET SOCIAL
When I realized that my kids, a third and second grader, could not read, write, or compute basic mathematics, I took them out of public school and began homeschooling. No one seemed worried that they were growing up to be illiterate dunces, but a lot of people were very concerned that they would not be “socialized” properly or get to go to the prom. As their mother, I was more concerned about phonics than cummerbunds.
Over the years, I have found the socialization arguments . . . well . . . muddled. What exactly is socialization? And will I recognize it when I see it?
“I hate my family,” the young college student said, flipping a trendy fringe of hair out of his eyes. “But they’re paying for my college so I’ve got to go home for Thanksgiving. What a pisser.”
Wanting to be social, I tried to figure out how to respond, because being curious and interested in others is my favorite social strategy.
“Maybe you should pay for your own college?”
“Are you nuts?” he spluttered.
I thought it might be possible.
In a moment of companionable socialization, I shared with some of my classmates that college algebra was giving me hives and panic attacks.
A highly social young man offered to help. He whipped out his cell phone.
“Just put this,” he said, holding up his phone, “in your sock and then I’ll show you how to get the answers for the test by texting.”
“You’re assuming I can text,” I said.
“Are you nuts?” he said.
No! Just arthritic—and honest.
Recently, before class, I was chatting socially with a few of my young college classmates. One highly social young man (I know he was social because he NEVER stopped talking about himself) began regaling us with tales of his high school cheating years.
“Yeah, so I had the answers written on my arm, from my wrist to my juggler vein.” He laughed. “When the teacher got wise to it, I smeared the answers off, destroying the evidence.”
Everyone joined in his clever, social laughing.
“Don’t you feel bad about cheating your way through high school?” I asked.
“Are you nuts?”
Apparently.
When my wildly educated professors use the “F” word in class or hilariously cop to having smoked dope once, twice, or always, I realize that they’re just trying to be hip and social and one with the organism known as “the group.” I get it. I was a social creature once.
Now, I’m just nuts, because I don’t care what the group thinks about my being a drug free, sober, religious, monogamous, honest chick. It’s not social. I know. But it does allow me to sleep better at night.
Besides, I’m the one those people try to cheat off of . . . the jerks.
Linda (Eyes On Your Own Paper) Zern
Over the years, I have found the socialization arguments . . . well . . . muddled. What exactly is socialization? And will I recognize it when I see it?
“I hate my family,” the young college student said, flipping a trendy fringe of hair out of his eyes. “But they’re paying for my college so I’ve got to go home for Thanksgiving. What a pisser.”
Wanting to be social, I tried to figure out how to respond, because being curious and interested in others is my favorite social strategy.
“Maybe you should pay for your own college?”
“Are you nuts?” he spluttered.
I thought it might be possible.
In a moment of companionable socialization, I shared with some of my classmates that college algebra was giving me hives and panic attacks.
A highly social young man offered to help. He whipped out his cell phone.
“Just put this,” he said, holding up his phone, “in your sock and then I’ll show you how to get the answers for the test by texting.”
“You’re assuming I can text,” I said.
“Are you nuts?” he said.
No! Just arthritic—and honest.
Recently, before class, I was chatting socially with a few of my young college classmates. One highly social young man (I know he was social because he NEVER stopped talking about himself) began regaling us with tales of his high school cheating years.
“Yeah, so I had the answers written on my arm, from my wrist to my juggler vein.” He laughed. “When the teacher got wise to it, I smeared the answers off, destroying the evidence.”
Everyone joined in his clever, social laughing.
“Don’t you feel bad about cheating your way through high school?” I asked.
“Are you nuts?”
Apparently.
When my wildly educated professors use the “F” word in class or hilariously cop to having smoked dope once, twice, or always, I realize that they’re just trying to be hip and social and one with the organism known as “the group.” I get it. I was a social creature once.
Now, I’m just nuts, because I don’t care what the group thinks about my being a drug free, sober, religious, monogamous, honest chick. It’s not social. I know. But it does allow me to sleep better at night.
Besides, I’m the one those people try to cheat off of . . . the jerks.
Linda (Eyes On Your Own Paper) Zern
ONCE MORE WITH FEELING
When I realized that my kids, a third and second grader, could not read, write, or compute basic mathematics, I took them out of public school and began homeschooling. No one seemed worried that they were growing up to be illiterate dunces, but a lot of people were very concerned that they would not be “socialized” properly or get to go to the prom. As their mother, I was more concerned about phonics than cummerbunds.
Over the years, I have found the socialization arguments . . . well . . . muddled. What exactly is socialization? And will I recognize it when I see it?
“I hate my family,” the young college student said, flipping a trendy fringe of hair out of his eyes. “But they’re paying for my college so I’ve got to go home for Thanksgiving. What a pisser.”
Wanting to be social, I tried to figure out how to respond, because being curious and interested in others is my favorite social strategy.
“Maybe you should pay for your own college?”
“Are you nuts?” he spluttered.
I thought it might be possible.
In a moment of companionable socialization, I shared with some of my classmates that college algebra was giving me hives and panic attacks.
A highly social young man offered to help. He whipped out his cell phone.
“Just put this,” he said, holding up his phone, “in your sock and then I’ll show you how to get the answers for the test by texting.”
“You’re assuming I can text,” I said.
“Are you nuts?” he said.
No! Just arthritic—and honest.
Recently, before class, I was chatting socially with a few of my young college classmates. One highly social young man (I know he was social because he NEVER stopped talking about himself) began regaling us with tales of his high school cheating years.
“Yeah, so I had the answers written on my arm, from my wrist to my juggler vein.” He laughed. “When the teacher got wise to it, I smeared the answers off, destroying the evidence.”
Everyone joined in his clever, social laughing.
“Don’t you feel bad about cheating your way through high school?” I asked.
“Are you nuts?”
Apparently.
When my wildly educated professors use the “F” word in class or hilariously cop to having smoked dope once, twice, or always, I realize that they’re just trying to be hip and social and one with the organism known as “the group.” I get it. I was a social creature once.
Now, I’m just nuts, because I don’t care what the group thinks about my being a drug free, sober, religious, monogamous, honest chick. It’s not social. I know. But it does allow me to sleep better at night.
Besides, I’m the one those people try to cheat off of . . . the jerks.
Linda (Eyes On Your Own Paper) Zern
Over the years, I have found the socialization arguments . . . well . . . muddled. What exactly is socialization? And will I recognize it when I see it?
“I hate my family,” the young college student said, flipping a trendy fringe of hair out of his eyes. “But they’re paying for my college so I’ve got to go home for Thanksgiving. What a pisser.”
Wanting to be social, I tried to figure out how to respond, because being curious and interested in others is my favorite social strategy.
“Maybe you should pay for your own college?”
“Are you nuts?” he spluttered.
I thought it might be possible.
In a moment of companionable socialization, I shared with some of my classmates that college algebra was giving me hives and panic attacks.
A highly social young man offered to help. He whipped out his cell phone.
“Just put this,” he said, holding up his phone, “in your sock and then I’ll show you how to get the answers for the test by texting.”
“You’re assuming I can text,” I said.
“Are you nuts?” he said.
No! Just arthritic—and honest.
Recently, before class, I was chatting socially with a few of my young college classmates. One highly social young man (I know he was social because he NEVER stopped talking about himself) began regaling us with tales of his high school cheating years.
“Yeah, so I had the answers written on my arm, from my wrist to my juggler vein.” He laughed. “When the teacher got wise to it, I smeared the answers off, destroying the evidence.”
Everyone joined in his clever, social laughing.
“Don’t you feel bad about cheating your way through high school?” I asked.
“Are you nuts?”
Apparently.
When my wildly educated professors use the “F” word in class or hilariously cop to having smoked dope once, twice, or always, I realize that they’re just trying to be hip and social and one with the organism known as “the group.” I get it. I was a social creature once.
Now, I’m just nuts, because I don’t care what the group thinks about my being a drug free, sober, religious, monogamous, honest chick. It’s not social. I know. But it does allow me to sleep better at night.
Besides, I’m the one those people try to cheat off of . . . the jerks.
Linda (Eyes On Your Own Paper) Zern
January 11, 2017
Freckle Devil
FYI: I haven’t felt represented by a president in the oval office since John F. Kennedy. There I’ve said it. It’s out there. Alienated, ignored, marginalized and discriminated against, that’s how I’ve felt for decades, and my feelings are bigger than the head of the Statue of Liberty and therefore really, really big—also important.
Even my husband has been part of the problem. He looked at me the other day and said, “Hey! You have a lot of freckles. Have you always had that many freckles?”
We’ve been married for almost forty years. Who’s he been looking at?
“Yes, Dear. I have a lot of freckles, just like that actress that played Carrie in that horror movie where they made fun of the freckled girl and she crushed, stabbed, and burned them all to death with HER MIND.”
Yeah. Her. The freckled chick.
President Kennedy had freckles, red hair, and a permanent sunburn. He was my president. He made it okay to be a skinny white girl with freckles . . . but then the sixties happened and all the hippies got naked and tans without tan lines, and I was OUT. So for thirty years I’ve learned to live with the stigma of being really, really white except for the freckled bits.
Sure, every once in a while the fashion industry throws up a billboard with somebody sporting some serious freckle action, but it’s a token tribute, probably to keep us from crushing, stabbing, and burning them to death with OUR MINDS.
In the Middle Ages, spots, marks, moles, or birthmarks were proof that the devil had been making out with you in the middle of the night, and then they drowned you in a barrel. It’s a miracle any of us survived to pass on the genes that cause freckles.
But here we are! Fact. No babies are born with freckles. It takes time and light to discover who the freckly ones are, and then it’s too late. By the time you figure it out they’re big enough to bite you if you don’t feed them. So, we’re here to stay. And President Kennedy made it possible to believe that even someone with freckles and a billionaire family can become president of the United States.
Being a woman of freckles has made me sensitive to the endless slights about how blindingly white my legs are or how many freckles I’ve acquired over the years. It’s been a rough road overcoming the feeling that I might like to crush, stab, and burn a gymnasium full of bullies to death WITH MY MIND. But I’ve squashed that feeling like a slug in my garden because I’ve also learned that feelings are like blood: gushy, messy, and designed to stay inside.
Linda (Dance With the Devil) Zern
Even my husband has been part of the problem. He looked at me the other day and said, “Hey! You have a lot of freckles. Have you always had that many freckles?”
We’ve been married for almost forty years. Who’s he been looking at?
“Yes, Dear. I have a lot of freckles, just like that actress that played Carrie in that horror movie where they made fun of the freckled girl and she crushed, stabbed, and burned them all to death with HER MIND.”
Yeah. Her. The freckled chick.
President Kennedy had freckles, red hair, and a permanent sunburn. He was my president. He made it okay to be a skinny white girl with freckles . . . but then the sixties happened and all the hippies got naked and tans without tan lines, and I was OUT. So for thirty years I’ve learned to live with the stigma of being really, really white except for the freckled bits.
Sure, every once in a while the fashion industry throws up a billboard with somebody sporting some serious freckle action, but it’s a token tribute, probably to keep us from crushing, stabbing, and burning them to death with OUR MINDS.
In the Middle Ages, spots, marks, moles, or birthmarks were proof that the devil had been making out with you in the middle of the night, and then they drowned you in a barrel. It’s a miracle any of us survived to pass on the genes that cause freckles.
But here we are! Fact. No babies are born with freckles. It takes time and light to discover who the freckly ones are, and then it’s too late. By the time you figure it out they’re big enough to bite you if you don’t feed them. So, we’re here to stay. And President Kennedy made it possible to believe that even someone with freckles and a billionaire family can become president of the United States.
Being a woman of freckles has made me sensitive to the endless slights about how blindingly white my legs are or how many freckles I’ve acquired over the years. It’s been a rough road overcoming the feeling that I might like to crush, stab, and burn a gymnasium full of bullies to death WITH MY MIND. But I’ve squashed that feeling like a slug in my garden because I’ve also learned that feelings are like blood: gushy, messy, and designed to stay inside.
Linda (Dance With the Devil) Zern
Freckle Devil
FYI: I haven’t felt represented by a president in the oval office since John F. Kennedy. There I’ve said it. It’s out there. Alienated, ignored, marginalized and discriminated against, that’s how I’ve felt for decades, and my feelings are bigger than the head of the Statue of Liberty and therefore really, really big—also important.
Even my husband has been part of the problem. He looked at me the other day and said, “Hey! You have a lot of freckles. Have you always had that many freckles?”
We’ve been married for almost forty years. Who’s he been looking at?
“Yes, Dear. I have a lot of freckles, just like that actress that played Carrie in that horror movie where they made fun of the freckled girl and she crushed, stabbed, and burned them all to death with HER MIND.”
Yeah. Her. The freckled chick.
President Kennedy had freckles, red hair, and a permanent sunburn. He was my president. He made it okay to be a skinny white girl with freckles . . . but then the sixties happened and all the hippies got naked and tans without tan lines, and I was OUT. So for thirty years I’ve learned to live with the stigma of being really, really white except for the freckled bits.
Sure, every once in a while the fashion industry throws up a billboard with somebody sporting some serious freckle action, but it’s a token tribute, probably to keep us from crushing, stabbing, and burning them to death with OUR MINDS.
In the Middle Ages, spots, marks, moles, or birthmarks were proof that the devil had been making out with you in the middle of the night, and then they drowned you in a barrel. It’s a miracle any of us survived to pass on the genes that cause freckles.
But here we are! Fact. No babies are born with freckles. It takes time and light to discover who the freckly ones are, and then it’s too late. By the time you figure it out they’re big enough to bite you if you don’t feed them. So, we’re here to stay. And President Kennedy made it possible to believe that even someone with freckles and a billionaire family can become president of the United States.
Being a woman of freckles has made me sensitive to the endless slights about how blindingly white my legs are or how many freckles I’ve acquired over the years. It’s been a rough road overcoming the feeling that I might like to crush, stab, and burn a gymnasium full of bullies to death WITH MY MIND. But I’ve squashed that feeling like a slug in my garden because I’ve also learned that feelings are like blood: gushy, messy, and designed to stay inside.
Linda (Freckle Devil) Zern
January 2, 2017
F is For Fun--Also Fatigued Dupe
Origin and Etymology of the word FUN
English dialect fun to hoax, perhaps alteration of Middle English fonnen, from fonne dupe, First Known Use: 1727
The holidays are over and our family had so much fun I may need a transfusion of sensible rubber garden shoes and straight-laced body shapers. There was fun food, fun games, fun conversations, fun traditions, fun gift giving, fun movie going, fun birthday-candle-blowing, and just for good measure fun wolf howling.
It was a jolly good time and a ton of fun. Thank God it’s over.
Fun is groovy, but I find it overrated at times. Fun starts out like a turn on that teacup ride at Disney. At first, it’s just a swirly good time, but by the end your neck is snapped back at a weird angle, and you’re praying for death. Swirly fun becomes a sucking whirlpool, dragging everyone down to the River Styx. And I know why.
Fun used to mean, in the old un-fun days, hoax. “Okay, all you silly peasants wrapping a dead tree trunk with May-pole ribbons, ain’t we having some fun now?”
Sure, the peasants thought, beats digging through the muck all day. Their masters muttered, under their breath, “Fonne [meaning dupe].”
And that’s how fun became the heart and soul of our modern world. Must have fun. Work equals muck. Anything muck related equals not fun. Dancing in circles around a dead tree trunk is better than muck lugging. Let’s dance. Or spin in a giant teacup until there’s vomit.
Note: Fun is often circular in nature.
The flaw in this thinking is that all that muck lugging kept the peasants in gruel and giant turkey legs. We’ve forgotten that. We’ve forgotten that growing gruel and giant turkeys is work, and it’s kind of important work because if there is anything in this world that should be considered without fun, it’s starving.
It’s possible that fun has gotten a bit out of hand in our modern first world. Possible.
More than peace, more than mercy, more than health, the young people that I know of pray to have fun. “Please [Lord] bless us to have fun.” No matter where they’re going, who they’re helping, or what they’re trying to accomplish.
I wonder if our prayers aren’t better expressed, “Please, Lord, help us to learn, grow, develop, endure, empathize, understand, or move a lot of muck out of our lives.”
Now don’t get me wrong. The holidays were a ton of fun. And I wouldn’t trade a single minute of fun for anything in the world. But let’s face it; it’s time to get back the muck lugging that keeps us all in giant turkey legs.
Linda (Muck Witch) Zern
English dialect fun to hoax, perhaps alteration of Middle English fonnen, from fonne dupe, First Known Use: 1727
The holidays are over and our family had so much fun I may need a transfusion of sensible rubber garden shoes and straight-laced body shapers. There was fun food, fun games, fun conversations, fun traditions, fun gift giving, fun movie going, fun birthday-candle-blowing, and just for good measure fun wolf howling.
It was a jolly good time and a ton of fun. Thank God it’s over.
Fun is groovy, but I find it overrated at times. Fun starts out like a turn on that teacup ride at Disney. At first, it’s just a swirly good time, but by the end your neck is snapped back at a weird angle, and you’re praying for death. Swirly fun becomes a sucking whirlpool, dragging everyone down to the River Styx. And I know why.
Fun used to mean, in the old un-fun days, hoax. “Okay, all you silly peasants wrapping a dead tree trunk with May-pole ribbons, ain’t we having some fun now?”
Sure, the peasants thought, beats digging through the muck all day. Their masters muttered, under their breath, “Fonne [meaning dupe].”
And that’s how fun became the heart and soul of our modern world. Must have fun. Work equals muck. Anything muck related equals not fun. Dancing in circles around a dead tree trunk is better than muck lugging. Let’s dance. Or spin in a giant teacup until there’s vomit.
Note: Fun is often circular in nature.
The flaw in this thinking is that all that muck lugging kept the peasants in gruel and giant turkey legs. We’ve forgotten that. We’ve forgotten that growing gruel and giant turkeys is work, and it’s kind of important work because if there is anything in this world that should be considered without fun, it’s starving.
It’s possible that fun has gotten a bit out of hand in our modern first world. Possible.
More than peace, more than mercy, more than health, the young people that I know of pray to have fun. “Please [Lord] bless us to have fun.” No matter where they’re going, who they’re helping, or what they’re trying to accomplish.
I wonder if our prayers aren’t better expressed, “Please, Lord, help us to learn, grow, develop, endure, empathize, understand, or move a lot of muck out of our lives.”
Now don’t get me wrong. The holidays were a ton of fun. And I wouldn’t trade a single minute of fun for anything in the world. But let’s face it; it’s time to get back the muck lugging that keeps us all in giant turkey legs.
Linda (Muck Witch) Zern
F is For Fun - Also Fatigued Dupe
Origin and Etymology of the word FUN
English dialect fun to hoax, perhaps alteration of Middle English fonnen, from fonne dupe, First Known Use: 1727
The holidays are over and our family had so much fun I may need a transfusion of sensible rubber garden shoes and straight-laced body shapers. There was fun food, fun games, fun conversations, fun traditions, fun gift giving, fun movie going, fun birthday-candle-blowing, and just for good measure fun wolf howling.
It was a jolly good time and a ton of fun. Thank God it’s over.
Fun is groovy, but I find it overrated at times. Fun starts out like a turn on that teacup ride at Disney. At first, it’s just a swirly good time, but by the end your neck is snapped back at a weird angle, and you’re praying for death. Swirly fun becomes a sucking whirlpool, dragging everyone down to the River Styx. And I know why.
Fun used to mean, in the old un-fun days, hoax. “Okay, all you silly peasants wrapping a dead tree trunk with maypole ribbons, ain’t we having some fun now?”
Sure, the peasants thought, beats digging through the muck all day. Their masters muttered, under their breath, “Fonne [meaning dupe].”
And that’s how fun became the heart and soul of our modern world. Must have fun. Work equals muck. Anything muck related equals not fun. Dancing in circles around a dead tree trunk is better than muck lugging. Let’s dance. Or spin in a giant teacup until there’s vomit.
Note: Fun is often circular in nature.
The flaw in this thinking is that all that muck lugging kept the peasants in gruel and giant turkey legs. We’ve forgotten that. We’ve forgotten that growing gruel and giant turkeys is work, and it’s kind of important work because if there is anything in this world that should be considered without fun, it’s starving.
It’s possible that fun has gotten a bit out of hand in our modern first world. Possible.
More than peace, more than mercy, more than health, the young people that I know of pray to have fun. “Please [Lord] bless us to have fun.” No matter where they’re going, who they’re helping, or what they’re trying to accomplish.
I wonder if our prayers aren’t better expressed, “Please, Lord, help us to learn, grow, develop, endure, empathize, understand, or move a lot of muck out of our lives.”
Now don’t get me wrong. The holidays were a ton of fun. And I wouldn’t trade a single minute of fun for anything in the world. But let’s face it; it’s time to get back the muck lugging that keeps us all in giant turkey legs.
Linda (Muck Witch) Zern
English dialect fun to hoax, perhaps alteration of Middle English fonnen, from fonne dupe, First Known Use: 1727
The holidays are over and our family had so much fun I may need a transfusion of sensible rubber garden shoes and straight-laced body shapers. There was fun food, fun games, fun conversations, fun traditions, fun gift giving, fun movie going, fun birthday-candle-blowing, and just for good measure fun wolf howling.
It was a jolly good time and a ton of fun. Thank God it’s over.
Fun is groovy, but I find it overrated at times. Fun starts out like a turn on that teacup ride at Disney. At first, it’s just a swirly good time, but by the end your neck is snapped back at a weird angle, and you’re praying for death. Swirly fun becomes a sucking whirlpool, dragging everyone down to the River Styx. And I know why.
Fun used to mean, in the old un-fun days, hoax. “Okay, all you silly peasants wrapping a dead tree trunk with maypole ribbons, ain’t we having some fun now?”
Sure, the peasants thought, beats digging through the muck all day. Their masters muttered, under their breath, “Fonne [meaning dupe].”
And that’s how fun became the heart and soul of our modern world. Must have fun. Work equals muck. Anything muck related equals not fun. Dancing in circles around a dead tree trunk is better than muck lugging. Let’s dance. Or spin in a giant teacup until there’s vomit.
Note: Fun is often circular in nature.
The flaw in this thinking is that all that muck lugging kept the peasants in gruel and giant turkey legs. We’ve forgotten that. We’ve forgotten that growing gruel and giant turkeys is work, and it’s kind of important work because if there is anything in this world that should be considered without fun, it’s starving.
It’s possible that fun has gotten a bit out of hand in our modern first world. Possible.
More than peace, more than mercy, more than health, the young people that I know of pray to have fun. “Please [Lord] bless us to have fun.” No matter where they’re going, who they’re helping, or what they’re trying to accomplish.
I wonder if our prayers aren’t better expressed, “Please, Lord, help us to learn, grow, develop, endure, empathize, understand, or move a lot of muck out of our lives.”
Now don’t get me wrong. The holidays were a ton of fun. And I wouldn’t trade a single minute of fun for anything in the world. But let’s face it; it’s time to get back the muck lugging that keeps us all in giant turkey legs.
Linda (Muck Witch) Zern
December 30, 2016
JUST ADD READING
In the beginning, I read because I had to figure out what those two crazy kids, Dick and Jane, were up to with their dog named Spot.
Then I read because the words were everywhere: cereal boxes, road signs, billboards, newspapers, and the instructions on the back of the Jiffy Pop popcorn. The words were every place I looked. And I could READ them. It may have been the magic of ordinary things, but it was magic.
After that, I realized that the Reader’s Digest people had filled our house with edited, condensed volumes of . . . well, everything from Michener to Buck. Those books were condensed—like soup—just add reading, so I did.
For a long time, I read to escape. Enough said.
For an even longer time after that, I kept right on reading because 1) it was one of the things I could do while I breastfed 2) it was cheaper than jet skiing 3) and it kept my mind from atrophying into tapioca.
In the time that followed, reading became a habit that enlarged my soul, filled my mind, dazzled my dreams, and acquainted me with the world as it might be, could be, should be, would never be, but wouldn’t it be cool if it was—in a sparkle unicorn kind of way? I kept right on reading, until I ran out of the kind of books that I thrilled to read.
Now I read to know what to write, always keeping in mind all the lonely little girls out there, in the dark places, who turn to books for comfort and company and who want to figure out what silliness Dick and Jane and their dog named Spot are going to get into next.
Then I read because the words were everywhere: cereal boxes, road signs, billboards, newspapers, and the instructions on the back of the Jiffy Pop popcorn. The words were every place I looked. And I could READ them. It may have been the magic of ordinary things, but it was magic.
After that, I realized that the Reader’s Digest people had filled our house with edited, condensed volumes of . . . well, everything from Michener to Buck. Those books were condensed—like soup—just add reading, so I did.
For a long time, I read to escape. Enough said.
For an even longer time after that, I kept right on reading because 1) it was one of the things I could do while I breastfed 2) it was cheaper than jet skiing 3) and it kept my mind from atrophying into tapioca.
In the time that followed, reading became a habit that enlarged my soul, filled my mind, dazzled my dreams, and acquainted me with the world as it might be, could be, should be, would never be, but wouldn’t it be cool if it was—in a sparkle unicorn kind of way? I kept right on reading, until I ran out of the kind of books that I thrilled to read.
Now I read to know what to write, always keeping in mind all the lonely little girls out there, in the dark places, who turn to books for comfort and company and who want to figure out what silliness Dick and Jane and their dog named Spot are going to get into next.
JUST ADD READING - FOR ADAM, WHO ASKED!
In the beginning, I read because I had to figure out what those two crazy kids, Dick and Jane, were up to with their dog named Spot.
Then I read because the words were everywhere: cereal boxes, road signs, billboards, newspapers, and the instructions on the back of the Jiffy Pop popcorn. The words were every place I looked. And I could READ them. It may have been the magic of ordinary things, but it was magic.
After that, I realized that the Reader’s Digest people had filled our house with edited, condensed volumes of . . . well, everything from Michener to Buck. Those books were condensed—like soup—just add reading, so I did.
For a long time, I read to escape. Enough said.
For an even longer time after that, I kept right on reading because 1) it was one of the things I could do while I breastfed 2) it was cheaper than jet skiing 3) and it kept my mind from atrophying into tapioca.
In the time that followed, reading became a habit that enlarged my soul, filled my mind, dazzled my dreams, and acquainted me with the world as it might be, could be, should be, would never be, but wouldn’t it be cool if it was—in a sparkle unicorn kind of way? I kept right on reading, until I ran out of the kind of books that I thrilled to read.
Now I read to know what to write, always keeping in mind all the lonely little girls out there, in the dark places, who turn to books for comfort and company and who want to figure out what silliness Dick and Jane and their dog named Spot are going to get into next.
Then I read because the words were everywhere: cereal boxes, road signs, billboards, newspapers, and the instructions on the back of the Jiffy Pop popcorn. The words were every place I looked. And I could READ them. It may have been the magic of ordinary things, but it was magic.
After that, I realized that the Reader’s Digest people had filled our house with edited, condensed volumes of . . . well, everything from Michener to Buck. Those books were condensed—like soup—just add reading, so I did.
For a long time, I read to escape. Enough said.
For an even longer time after that, I kept right on reading because 1) it was one of the things I could do while I breastfed 2) it was cheaper than jet skiing 3) and it kept my mind from atrophying into tapioca.
In the time that followed, reading became a habit that enlarged my soul, filled my mind, dazzled my dreams, and acquainted me with the world as it might be, could be, should be, would never be, but wouldn’t it be cool if it was—in a sparkle unicorn kind of way? I kept right on reading, until I ran out of the kind of books that I thrilled to read.
Now I read to know what to write, always keeping in mind all the lonely little girls out there, in the dark places, who turn to books for comfort and company and who want to figure out what silliness Dick and Jane and their dog named Spot are going to get into next.
December 25, 2016
MERRY. HAPPY. JOYOUS.
May your adventures begin with a bang in 2017 and continue with a shower of glitter.The Adventurers' Club
December 14, 2016
Finished Manuscript. New Book. New Genre. But I'm afraid ...
Finished Manuscript. New Book. New Genre. But I'm afraid to tell my editor because she's already got two additional manuscripts on her desk. Oh my! 
