Terri Wallace's Blog, page 3

Soon Enough (and all too soon)

Winter is holding on longer than I’d like. I am ready for my feet to be warm, for fresh vegetables, and for the smell of earth as I tend the garden.  I am ready for warm rains, and the smell of sweet grass, and warm sidewalks underfoot.  I want to throw open the windows and hear the birds chirping as I tap out words on the keyboard.

The chickens have been laying an egg or two most days, with the occasional Three Egg Day. Nothing like the consistent four eggs per day that we go last summer, but I am grateful nonetheless; they deserve the break.

The days are getting longer, bit by bit. When I leave work for my commute home, there is still a bit of sunlight left to guide my way.  By the time I arrive home it is dark, but I’m happy for that bit of light.  Soon enough the sun will burn hot and long and I’ll collapse into bed before the moon climbs in the sky.

Soon enough I’ll foreswear casseroles and comfort foods in favor of salads and grilled fare that won’t “heat up the house” in the making. Soon enough I’ll pull out the kids’ summer clothes from the attic and wonder how they could have grown so much without my noticing.  Where had the time gone?  I’ll want those moments back–those nights wasted bickering over chores and messy rooms and late homework.  Trailing a finger along the worn seam of a too-short pair of pants, I’ll want to reclaim that time…to take back those three inches of growth and re-live it, to notice it this time, to savor it.

Soon enough comes all too soon.

Tonight, I’ll build a fire in the fireplace. Maybe we’ll make hot cocoa and play a game.  They’ll talk, and bicker, and complain.  And I will listen and try to store it all away…because you never know when The Last Fire of the Season happens.  You don’t know when they will suddenly be Too Old for Family Game Night.  Or Too Embarrassed to be Hugged in Front of Friends.  These moments–these precious, fleeting moments–aren’t marked with fanfare.  They aren’t honored in their time…only in retrospect.

Soon enough comes all too soon.

Depression, #Outlander, and a New Year’s Wish

When you take away the twinkling lights and beloved carols, the bustle of family underfoot, and the sweet anticipation, winter can seem just…cold. Maybe the feeling is held at bay until after the last of the wadded up wrapping paper finds its way to the trash bin, or perhaps it creeps in not long after the ball drops on New Year’s Eve. But it comes. It always comes.

The frightful weather outside no longer seems delightful, instead of throwing another log on the fire and shouting for the storm clouds to do their worst you wonder just how much firewood there is left, and worry how the roof is holding up, and if your pipes might freeze.

Laundry piles up as you put off the wash until the temperature can fight its way back above freezing, and suddenly the same four walls that seemed so cozy and inviting now seem to close in around you. The family you love seems to get on your nerves, and you spend an inordinate of time hiding in the bathroom just for a moment’s peace.

You start to notice the gaps . . . Those dark spaces that used to be filled by someone you loved. You are reminded of the traditions that fell away this year, since the one who carried them out is no longer around to do so. Perhaps there were angry words before the absence, or maybe there was no time for words at all. The were just . . . gone. Or maybe they lingered until there was nothing left to remind you of the person that once was, and you wished you could recall something more than the weakened shadow with which you were left.

For all the joy the holidays bring, too often they also bring sorrow. Maybe this is why I read so much around the holidays. It isn’t because there is more time (because there isn’t), or because the cold keeps me nestled indoors (because I tend to get cabin fever), but maybe it does have something to do with the fact that books remind us that we are not alone.

Books remind us what adventure feels like, the joy of possibilities, and the intimate pleasure of a story well told. They give us a taste of love when our own life might be lacking it, and a sense of justice of which the world too often seems sadly devoid. Books remind us what honor looks like, and loyalty. They can show us joy, and peace, and light.

But some books, daring books, also remind us what darkness is . . . and how to find our way out of it.

Harry Potter reminds us what true friendship looks like. Friendship with all of its faults and flaws. Friendship that acknowledges both selflessness . . . and jealousy. Friendship that has room for shortcomings, for missteps, and that still finds its way to forgiveness and loyalty. The series shows us love in all of its myriad of forms: the love of true friends, yes, but also the love of brothers, of parent and child, and of mentor and protégé.

But, in these dark days of winter, sometimes love and joy can seem as scarce as the fleeting daylight. Sometimes the emotions more easily identified with are those that mirror the steely grey sky.

J. K. Rowling gave the dark emotions form in the Dementors. These creatures sucked the joy out of those around them, just as depression can steal away whatever joy we try to embrace. If only chocolate could stave off the effects of depression as well as it did the after-effects of a Dementor attack . . .

While Harry Potter may have personified depression with its Dementors (and while a dear friend and I often refer to ourselves during inexplicably cranky/depressive moods as feeling rather “Harry Potter Book Five”), few stories summon forth the darker side of humanity better than the Outlander series.

Diana Gabaldon allows us unimaginable intimacy with her characters. We bear witness to violation, to self-loathing, and to grief. But, more importantly, she leads us through to the other side of the dark journey.

[SPOILER WARNING….]

JAMIE ~

From the beginning, we know that Jamie has had to endure Dark Days. His mother died in childbirth, he believed his sister to be in ruin, his father died of a stroke during Jamie’s flogging, he believed his uncle to have tried to kill him, his wife is nearly burned at the stake, and he tried to return her to her rightful time even though such a move would mean losing his true love. Later, he endures unimaginable brutality to try to save his beloved Claire. And that’s all just in the first book!

The end of Dragonfly in Amber always results in an ugly cry. (Yet I keep reading it, again and again.) Whatever joy he found is ripped from him as he is separated from Claire for twenty long years. In her absence, he fully expects to die and does nothing to try to avoid death. Instead, he embraces the relief he expects it will bring.

Slowly, his life finds purpose again. First, as a de facto chief of the prisoners at Ardsmuir. later as provider for Laoghaire and her daughters. He is uncle to Young Jamie and surrogate father to Fergus. Sometimes, we are reminded, it is enough to keep going for the sake of others until you can find your own reason to continue.

CLAIRE ~

Claire’s strength is one of her defining characteristics. When ripped from her husband and the life she knew, she did not fall apart or expect to be rescued somehow. Other that one brief moment of tears while perched on the lap of a certain highlander, the woman was unwaveringly strong. But even Claire has her limits.

In Dragonfly in Amber, when Claire lost her Faith, her beloved first child, she did in fact seem to have a crisis of faith. The darkness surrounded her and she found little reason to go on. As angry as she was with Jamie, she felt ungrounded and without direction or purpose. Only after she realized that she was needed, that he needed her (what with being imprisoned and all), did she start to regain her sense of action.

In a later book, even when Claire was brutalized at the hands of kidnappers, she did not succumb to the darker emotions that might easily have drowned her. Although there was still much to be dealt with and worked through, she did not give up. As long as Jamie was by her side, she seems able to withstand nearly everything. He is her strength, as she is his. In fact, it seems that Claire is most vulnerable when Jamie, her emotional bulwark, is absent.

Undoubtedly the lowest point for Claire was when she feared that Jamie was lost at sea. Without Brianna to care for, there seemed little reason to continue. She contemplated suicide and found what solace she could at the bottom of a bottle. And the readers bear witness to her nearly ruinous grief. We want to shout to her that Jamie is alive! We want to tell her to hang on, that things get better, and that there are still so many others to live for . . . just as, in real life, when we wish to whisper these same consolations to our own real-life friends and family members who suffer from depression or who are struggling with grief. Hang on. Just hang on . . . it gets better.

YOUNG IAN ~

Young Ian suffers from his own grief. The pain of being separated from his family time and time again has to weigh on him. He also confronts the nearly unbearable struggle of trying to do the “right thing,” and of trying to put others first as he offers himself as a substitute for Roger and, in doing so, must turn his back on his family, his faith, and his heritage. Then, when he finally builds up a life with Emily and they try to start a family, to then suffer the loss of child after child until finally his own wife turns from him. And the aching loneliness he quietly endures as he tries to make peace with his loss . . . only to see in his Uncle Jamie and Auntie Claire the kind of love that he longs for. Remarkably, the constant reminder of their joy doesn’t call forth bitterness, but rather hope. Hope that if they can find their way back to one another, that perhaps he, too, can find his way back to happiness. Young Ian still has the soul of a poet and there remains in him the young lad that, on that day long ago in a brothel, when confronted with his Auntie Claire, long since presumed dead, finds the whole thing to be incredibly romantic. Although he faces his own torments, Young Ian meets them like the poet-warrior that he is.

Not everyone is as lucky.

FERGUS ~

Perhaps that is why, for me, the character whose struggle with his own internal demons touches me most is that of Fergus. Fergus, who in his youth made light of his missing hand and joked about finally being a gentleman of leisure, who never complained about his motherless childhood, who always seemed confident and jovial . . . that this is the character who tried to take his own life, that we didn’t see it coming, THIS is the character, the moment, the desperation that I feel sharpest. Because sometimes you DON’T see it coming. Sometimes, no matter how well loved they are, no matter how many people care, sometimes we just don’t see it.

That is why, in these dark days of winter, as we take down the tinsel and tuck away the garland, it is well to take stock of ourselves and those around us. Depression can set in like winter’s chill, and sometimes you don’t realize how cold you are until you can no longer feel.

A new year approaches. Perhaps instead of resolving to fit into a size four dress or buy something bigger, better, or more expensive, we could resolve to take better care of ourselves . . . and of those around us

My wish for the new year is simple: May your home be filled with books that speak to you, friends who care for you . . . and time enough to enjoy both.

#Outlander, Christmas, and Rereading Books

Books are my touchstones. I carry them with me…battered copies tucked in my bag, a library of books on my phone, and always, always books in my heart. So many of my old photos have books in them, and I can tell you what was going on in my life by what I was reading.

Christmas 1984 – loved stories, and history, and losing myself…that was my Laura Ingalls Wilder period. Still love history.

Christmas 1985 – middle school, awkward, one foot in adolescence and one in childhood…ahhh, yes. Sweet Valley High and Flowers in the Attic. Don’t’ judge.

Christmas 1987 – young, broody…that would be my Sylvia Plath period.

Christmas 1991 – idealistic, romantic, and nostalgic…that was the year I discovered Norman Maclean.

Fast-forward to 2015, and I am re-re-re-reading Outlander. Yes, yes, I know. I have read it a *cough* few times. But there is a very good reason for that: It’s worth rereading.

I have mentioned before that the Outlander series, quite literally, helped me survive my husband’s heart attack this past March. I read while he rested in the hospital. The books were my refuge, my companion, my escape, my comfort. They still are.

So, when I realized that I wasn’t feeling all Eggnog-and-Holiday-Cheer, I tried to slow down and take a breath. It helped…a bit. I felt less stressed, but there was still the voice in my head whispering about the Christmas lights that were still in boxes, and the decided lack of Christmas cookies, this year’s non-existent Family Christmas Card, and the fact that Christmas is two freakin’ weeks away and I have done exactly NONE of my Usual Christmas Traditions.

We have not gone driving around to look at Christmas lights even once, I have not watched my traditional Christmas movies (The Family Man; Love, Actually; The Holiday, or It’s A Wonderful Life), and I have bought exactly…nothing. So, basically, I feel like I am sucking at this whole Mom Thing.

*Insert holiday induced pity party here.*

So, after a nice cup of fortifying tea, I started wondering what the holidays would have been like for Jamie and Claire. (Well, not that first Christmas. We know exactly what THAT was like for poor Jamie…let’s not go there. *shudder*  Oh, and not that incredibly rage inducing and misguided Hogmanay with Laoghaire. *makes sign of horns*)

No, I mean the later Christmases…those at Fraser’s Ridge. Actually, in The Fiery Cross Diana told us (she’s good like that) what the holidays were like. Spoiler: They were nothing like the holiday season as we have mangled it.

Despite all the of the responsibilities of being Himself, Jamie still found time to carve Jem a wooden horse, and he also carved Claire a new wooden ladle with the image of a mint leaf carved on the handle. And, despite all the time spent physicking, Claire gave Jamie “a new shirt with ruffles at the throat for ceremonial occasions.”

As Diana reminds us:

Catholics as many of them were—and nominally Christian as they all were—Highland Scots regarded Christmas primarily as a religious observance, rather than a major festive occasion. Lacking priest or minister, the day was spent much like a Sunday, thought with a particularly lavish meal to mark the occasion, and the exchange of small gifts.

I imagine a lovely meal courtesy of Mrs. Bugg (God rest her soul), and perhaps Claire would make some of her molasses cookies. And I am quite sure there was a wee dram to be had. Perhaps a song or two as well. Likely no cherry bounce or jigs and reels. But it was enough.

There was no tinsel, no movies, no stampede of crowds. There was no competing to get the biggest or best present for kids or grandkids. There was no social obligation filling every spare moment. There was food, and family, a fire in the hearth, and food on the table. And it was enough.

Once again, books steady me, comfort me. And this is why I reread books…because, like an old friend who knows me well, books bring me back to what matters.

Finding the Quiet

It just doesn’t feel like the holidays yet.  Perhaps it is because the past week or so has been nothing but obligations: running errands, tending to unforeseen things that have a tendency to arise when there is no time to deal with them, and trying to “get ready” for the festivities (or rather, stress about buying all the things that have not yet been bought).  The end result, however, is more Bah-Humbug than Happy Holidays.

The days slip away, and each day I count down how many more days before the holidays are here.  I contemplate what event I can mark off next, as if they are hurdles to be overcome rather than moments to savor.  I—so caught up in preparing for fifteen minutes of unwrapping—have forgotten to slow down and enjoy the quiet sense anticipation of the season.

I do know how to manage it, which helps.  I need to find the quiet.  Sometimes I need to go outside and stand in the winter’s chill and lift my eyes to the heavens.  Or perhaps it is enough to wrap myself in a well-worn tartan and, with a wee dram in hand, sit before the flickering fire and let the stress rise and float away like the crackling embers.  Or solace may come to me in the still of night, while I listen to the rise and fall of breath next to me, and—reaching over and laying my hand across his chest–find blessings enough in the warm and solid presence of my husband.

There are too many commercials, too many parties and luncheons, too many forced celebrations.  I will find my joy in the quiet moments in between.  In the twinkle of Christmas lights in the darkness and in stars overhead, in the smell of gingerbread baked “just because.”  And in ancient carols spilling from smiling lips…rather than tinny sounding sounds blared over department store speakers.  I’ll take comfort in the pile of wood next to my hearth, in a pair of warm mittens when I tend to the chickens.  And, as I add more hay to their coop, I’ll recall another manger, another night, another twinkling star…and I’ll remember what is important.

Preparations (and #whisky cake)

Home and hearth.

The rest of the house sleeps, but the early hours–the hours before the sun breaks over the ridge–are the hours that allow my thoughts  to percolate…and my preparations for the things that lies ahead.  The  morning moments, before the bustle of breakfast or the scurry of the workday, grant me peace; I accept the offering and try not to squander it.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  The amazing abundance that makes it the table is a labor of love.  I tend to plan my meal months in advance.  Some of the dishes will be found at tables across America, and others are simply family favorites.

Last night I brined the turkey.  Last year was our first year to brine the holiday bird, and it was such a success that it was quickly decreed that All Birds Henceforth Shall Be Brined.

Today will be filled with All Things Cranberry: the traditional Cranberry Relish, our beloved Neil Gaiman Cranberry Sauce, and Sugared Cranberries.  (Seriously, there is nothing more precious than hearing a small child say, in his best Holiday Manners, “More Neil Gamain Cranberry Sauce, please?”)

Desserts will also fill the oven today.  Whisky cake*, pumpkin pie, and pecan tassies.  The sugar  cookie and Pfeffernüsse dough were made over the last weekend and are ready to be baked on Thanksgiving night as we drag all of the Christmas decorations down from the attic.

Today I’ll make fudge (pumpkin, and peppermint, and chocolate), peanut brittle, and rum sauce.   Candy dishes will be filled and refilled as little hands sneak “just a taste” when I turn to stir a pot or peek in the oven.

Tomorrow is for side dishes and things-that-go-on-trays.  Pickle trays, cheese trays, olive trays, veggie trays…  Heaping piles of side dishes will be prepared: mashed potatoes, praline sweet potatoes, salads, quinoa and wild rice with cranberries and carmalized onions.

Tomorrow is for last-minute vacuuming by over-eager children with energy to burn (likely from the rush of stolen sugary-things).

Tomorrow is for trying to fill the table with all the foods that represent home, and family, and tradition; for wishes of a winter filled with Enough…enough food, enough warmth, enough family and friends, enough Love to make it through the years Dark Days.

As you go about your last minute preparations, I wish you Enough.

 

* If you will be having family over for the holdays, or going to visit family, I HIGHLY recommend making a whisky cake.  My version is very, erm, “bracing.”  Just the thing for a lovely day with the in-laws.

Facing Fears (and other #Outlander ramblings)

The year I turned forty, I decided to finally stop making excuses and to start DOING all of the things that I wanted to do.  Primarily, that meant writing.  Instead of explaining how “I had three kids,” or “I worked full time,” or whatever else it was that I was blaming for not writing, I would just…write.  And it worked pretty well.  But since then, I have accumulated new fears–fears far scarier than putting words to page.  And some fears can’t be conquered…but they can be acknowledged.

In an effort to silence the fears that keep me up at night, I will give those fears a name.  I will acknowledge them, and I will let them be…because sometimes it is the things that you avoid that you start to dread the most, thereby adding to its power over you.

1.  Failure a/k/a THAT Part of Things

I love to write and, frankly, I really don’t want to suck at it.  Writers, as a whole, are notoriously hard on themselves.  About a third of the way through any given project, we suddenly decide it sucks.  Neil Gamain wrote about it this part of the process.  I think that his agent or editor or someone referred to it as “That Part of the Book.”  When he would call in a panic thinking that his latest work-in-progress was utter shit, she would simply say, “Ahhhhh, you’re at THAT part of the book.”  I really need to remember that…perhaps have it tattooed somewhere.  Maybe then I’d remember that all things have a THAT part.  Even Life.  Perhaps, looking back, I will think, “Ahhhhh, I was at THAT part of my life.”

2.  Broke But Not Broken

Some think that speaking of money (or any lack of it) to be quite vulgar.  I consider it to be part of life.  Whatever money there is simply disappears.  That is the nature of having children, and health issues, and a book addiction.  I won’t pretend that it isn’t hard, and I’ll be damned if I try to keep up with the Joneses.  We are not the fucking Joneses.  Period.

3.  Scary Health Things

The hardest fear for me to contemplate, to name, to face…is health problems.  It is terrifying to see the love of your life struggling.  But diseases are faceless bastards and even if you are inclined to try to kick their ass, they don’t really HAVE an ass, so basically it is like punching a void.  It is even more infuriating to realize that you can’t manage someone else’s health condition.  I cannot eat well for my husband.  I cannot exercise for him.  I can do those things for ME though (and I do try to), because it helps me feel stronger and  better able to be there for him.

4.  Last One Standing

Okay, I lied.  #3 is not really the scariest.  It is this one, #4.  I am blessed to have both parents still alive  and kicking.  Admittedly, my mom is on oxygen…but I’d wager she could still kick some major butt (and she can shop like no one’s business!).  My dad is strong and ornery and does more in a day than most people accomplish in a week.  My husband and brother are also still alive despite their choice of Dangerous Protect and Serve vocations (*knock on wood*).  But I am painfully aware that accidents happen, health fails, violence erupts, and days are numbered, and I am scared of watching those I love died.  Maybe it will come without warning.  Maybe they will suffer.  Yes, this is the one that keeps me up late at night.  When I try to stare this one down, I inevitably blink.

I was re-re-reading An Echo in the Bone last night…

(SPOILER WARNING….seriously, you had to see that coming, right?)

…and I came to the part where Jamie and Claire are talking about where Jamie should be buried.  (My husband and I had that talk not long after his heart attack.  It was not a talk I wanted to have, but some questions should really be asked while there is still someone around to answer.  So, yes, this part felt a bit…raw.)

He lifted the flask in salute to me, and drank from it.  “Good to know someone will miss me, when I fall.”

“I didn’t miss that ‘when,’ rather than ‘if,'” I said coldly.

“It’s always been ‘when,’ Sassenach,” he said gently.  “Every chapter must be so translated. Aye?”

I took a deep breath and watched it drift out in a plume of mist.

“I sincerely hope I’m not going to have to do it,” I said, “but should the question arise–would you want to be buried here?  Or taken back to Scotland?”  I was thinking of a granite marriage stone in the graveyard at St. Kilda, with his name on it, and mine, too.  The bloody thing had nearly given me heart failure when I saw it, and I wasn’t sure I had forgiven Frank for it, even though it had accomplished what he’d meant it to.

Jamie made a small snorting noise, not quite a laugh.

“I shall be lucky too be buried at all, Sassenach.  Much more likely I shall be drowned, burnt, or left to rot on some battlefield.  Dinna fash yourself.  If ye’ve got to dispose of my carcass, just leave it out for the crows.”

Later Claire turns the tables, though:

“You didn’t ask what I want done with my body.”  I’d meant it at least half in jest, to lighten his mood, but his fingered curled so abruptly over mine that I gasped.

“No,” he said softly.  “And I never will.”  He wasn’t looking at me but at the whiteness before us.  “I canna think of ye dead, Claire.  Anything else–but not that.  I can’t.”

(And it is only now, in writing this, that I realized that my wonderful, brave, loving husband never did ask me where I should be buried.)

These fears that find us in the dark of night are never truly conquered.  We can struggle with them and subdue then for a while.  But they remain.  Whatever fears I have, though, I find them lessened in the sharing.  For that I am grateful.

#NaNoWriMo and the Voices in My Head

I am up to my neck in NaNoWriMo.  It is less than a week in, but I am already behind my target word count. Despite the fact that football season is over, Life STILL seems to be conspiring to steal away all my time.  Not cool, Life.  Not cool.

Also not cool is the fact that my brain is especially taunting lately (probably because my brain is in cahoots with Life)~~

Are you sure you really want to start the story THERE?  

Is that really an era appropriate name?  

Now what would a reader sympathize with that character when you have him do THAT?  

And, seriously, if he simply MUST do THAT, shouldn’t you make it later in the story?

To which I reply:  Shut up, brain; I’m writing.  Sometimes I internalize the retort but, embarrassingly, I have also said it aloud…in public…repeatedly.  Still, if helps get the words on the page I have no problem with making a fool of myself.  (Just ask my kids.)

As I write and talk to myself and obsess, I will keep you updated with my progress–and if you have any words of wisdom, encouragement, or know where you can hook me up with a Time-Turner, please share.

(No, seriously.  I could REALLY use a Time-Turner.)

Oath Taking

Life changes a lot over sixteen years, and I have changed with the living of it. My world has lost some lives…and gained some. I have added three souls to this world. I have uprooted my world, took leaps of faith, and found the bits of myself I thought I’d lost. Through it all, the one constant was family.

Sixteen years ago today, the only thing that held the cold autumn breeze at bay was the heavy layers of satin and lace that I wore. Feeling more like a young girl playing dress-up than a fairy princess or a young bride, I moved through the day cloaked in unreality. (Perhaps that, too, kept away the cold.) Our guests had no such protection and huddled in small chattering groups as they tried to keep warm. The pristine white betrothal tent was carpeted with the fading grass of summer and a generous sprinkling of crisp fall leaves; the day was divided between seasons with one foot in each. And, with all eyes on me, I felt much the same as the piper’s drone announced my arrival: one foot leaving behind those years of Just Me, and one foot posed on the brink of Us. In the sea of faces, I found the only one that mattered at that moment, and I focused on the man that I had long loved. Still clutching my father’s arm I moved forward. The walk that day was short, although the journey was long. The piper played on as my father walked me towards my future and, as the last note hovered in the breeze, I felt him let go. For a moment, one last fleeting-yet-impossibly-long-moment, I stood alone. And then Travis was there, taking my hand, leading me forward.

We stood together before witnesses and, shivering with something quite unrelated to the brisk chill, clung to one another. With hands bound together with a length of tartan, and with no idea what Life would bring, we bound our lives together. The vows we shared, that oath we took, were words full of Hope and Love; but still, for all of their sincerity, the words were untested. For what did we know then of loss and hardship and fear?

All these years later, they have most definitely been tested; all of these years later, I love him even more.

Life changes a lot over sixteen years, and I have changed with the living of it. What has not changed is the unwavering belief that love is a choice, and that an oath is not to be taken lightly. So, whatever the next sixteen years bring, and whatever Life tests us with…I choose Love.

This is my promise. This is my vow.

71 Days

There is only so much time. Each day has the same twenty-four hours; we just have to decide how we are going to use them. I saw a quiz (or maybe it was an app) on several friends’ Facebook pages this week. Apparently, the gizmo calculates how much time you spent on Facebook over the past year. I don’t think that any of the “totals” I saw were less than 1700 hours. *reaches for calculator* Uhhhhhh…that comes out to nearly SEVENTY-ONE DAYS on Facebook. Seriously. Seventy-one freakin’ days…nothing but Facebook. Now, honestly, who knows how accurate the thing is; but still, it made me think about how I spend my time.

There are a lot of things that simply have to be done each day, whether we like it or not. Life is full of time suckers. There is the commute to work (for me, that kills nearly 1.5 each day). I try to make use of that commute time, though—most days that becomes my Talk Time. I call my parents and talk about my day, their day, the kids, their health. And I consider that time well spent. I’m getting older which, of course, means they are, too. I want to make sure that I get in all the talks I can…while I can. *knock wood*

I also try to spend a bit of time each weekday on Twitter and Facebook connecting with friends, and readers, and people that will become friends and might someday read my stories. (Weekends I try to stay off social media, because, you know, Family Time.) And, like my parental talk time, this is precious, too. Some of my dearest friends are those I have never met in person, but when my husband had his heart attack they rallied around me. They are important.

Credit: hhttp://cristianmihai.net/2013/10/17/a...

I spend most lunch hours writing, but it isn’t enough—not nearly enough. I have been contemplating doing NaNoWriMo this year. If you haven’t heard, November is National Novel Writing Month. And, if you weren’t aware, yours truly is writing a novel. It is unlike anything I’ve written before, and if I can somehow coax All The Things In My Head onto the page then maybe I can do the story justice. But first, I need to finish the first draft. This is where NaNoWriMo comes in.

Apparently, I need deadlines (I also really need to win the lottery, but that’s another post). When left to my own devices, I meander and wander and lollygag. I need a firm end point in order to get things done. Yes, I know, NaNoWriMo is an artificial, self-imposed deadline. The world will not end if I don’t finish the first draft, no one will be sad or let down…except me. So if fake deadlines will make it happen, fake deadlines I shall have.

There are twenty four hours in the day, and I am squandering them. I am letting far too many hours slip through my fingers, and I can’t get that time back. But I can try to make the most of my time from here on out.

I can’t blame having young kids, or needing to cook or clean, or having to work full time, or having familial health issues—plenty of people have had all of these Real Life Things to contend with and STILL managed to write best sellers, or Science the Heck Out of Things, or write music, or…whatever. The difference is that they made their Thing a priority. That squeezed in a few minutes here, a few minutes there. They got up earlier, or went to bed later, or made story notes on the back of their grocery list while waiting in line, or at their kids’ bus stop, or on the sidelines at football practice.

There is always a good reason to NOT do The Thing You Love. There is always an excuse for why it has to take a backseat to All The Other Things. But the thing is, when all is said and done, I don’t want to have another excuse. I want to have another story (hopefully well told) to share.

So, starting today, I am going to “mind my moments” and try to use them to the best effect. And *nervous sigh* I am going to commit to NaNoWriMo. I might even share some of my daily words here…if I am feeling particularly brave (or masochistic, depending how you look at it).

Wish me luck.

The First Rule of #Outlander Book Club

The only rule for Book Club, is bring whisky!

This month is the month that I am hosting a book club. The rules* are simple: (1) the person hosting the event gets to pick the book; (2) she also provides the wine (or, in my case, whisky) and snacks; and (3) anyone who fails to finish reading the book before Book Club must make amends through a gift of wine (or obviously, in my case, whisky).

I know you will be shocked to learn that for my Book Club title, I chose…Outlander. Inconceivable, I know. *ahem* Right. (And, no, I did not simply choose the book because it is really long and could result in compensatory whisky for me.** Mphmm. Cynics!)

A few of the ladies in Book Club have actually already read Outlander, but they are going to re-read it in preparation. Others have never read it and are only now being initiated into All Things Outlander. I exchanged numerous texts today with one such Outlander Initiate who can now count herself among the legions of JAMMF fans. I recognize the giddy biblio-high on which she is riding: the frantic texting, the swooningly sweet recitations of dialogue…yep, she has it bad.

When I suggested (okay, demanded) Outlander as my Book Club selection, I was drunk with power. Finally, I could inflict SHARE Outlander with other book lovers. I could talk about it in detail without eye rolls and murmurs of “obsessed” and “needs a life” being whispered behind polite smiles. No, after they read it, they, too, would finally understand.

I quickly invited even more people to join Book Club because, kind soul that I am, when I find am amazing book I want to share it. And I was prepared to share it, truly I was. I had dog-eared numerous “important sections,” and I had highlighted all the good parts (sooooo many good parts), and I had even discussed appropriate Scottish themed food and beverage (*cough* whisky *cough*) selections with my husband.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the sense of…of what? Ownership? Protectiveness?–I felt towards the book. I didn’t expect to feel such a need for them to understand it, to be carried away by it, to love it as much as I did. Perhaps it is a wee bit like taking a significant other home to meet your parents, or *gulp* your closest friends. You want so much for them see the best in the other, to get along, to adore the other as much as you do. Sometimes they do…but sometimes they don’t.

It is now just one week until Book Club. Time will tell whether I have added to the book’s legion of fans, or if the book simply didn’t speak to them as it had to me. Still, I am hoping, and planning, and making a list of all of my favorite parts from the first book to share next week. Because when you make these introductions, you always do want to make a good impression.

So, while I fret and worry and obsess over which whisky pairs best with Outlander, feel free to help me win over the newbies by sharing your favorite moments, quotes, scenes, and characters from the first Outlander book in the comments, and I will make sure to bring up these epic bits up at Book Club!

* Actually, there is just one hard and fast rule: BRING WHISKY!

** That is a perk, to be sure, but that was not my motive. (However, slow readers be advised: I like Islay whisky best; Laphroaig and Arbeg are personal favorites.)