Terri Wallace's Blog, page 8

Ri tragadh ‘S ri lionadh

It happens every year, so I don’t know why it shocks me when it happens again.  As the days grow shorter and the holidays grow closer…the darkness seems to close in like a fog.  Somewhere amidst the twinkling lights and joyful carols you can feel it.

Sometimes the sadness lurks inside the song itself.  One of my favorite Christmas songs is “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” but I don’t like just any version of the song.  I only like the version that includes the line “…but until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow.”  Because, for me at least, the holidays are filled joy and tradition and family and friends…and more than a wee amount of muddling.

I juggle bills and obligations.  I work around traditions and expectations.  I try not to let my mental picture of “The Holidays!” take away from the reality and true meaning of the holy day.  Most days I fall short.

The house is starting to look plenty festive.  I have a bit of gluten free cookie dough in the refrigerator waiting for a free evening.  There is wood piled up.  I even have a big bag of marshmallows just waiting to be lit aflame and then quickly blown out and consumed in all of their charred and gooey glory.

There is a new bottle of Glenfiddich tucked between the Laphroaig and Glenmorangie, and I am eager to make another whisky cake.  And the fog that seems to have encompassed my city the past few days makes it feel like the perfect time to fire up the oven and fill the house with the strong smell of some Christmas spirits.  And, last night, I quite nearly did just that.

Only I didn’t.  Instead, I helped my kiddos clean up their rooms.  We tucked things away and found places for things that had been underfoot too long.  We talked about school, and life, and friends who are hurting.  We talked about rumors and small towns and loyalty.  We talked about friends in need.  The talk lasted long into the night and left me with a lingering sense of unease. Often midnight revelations are poor bedtime companions.

So today I find myself preoccupied.  I can’t focus on the Christmas list, or the fact that I haven’t bought Christmas cards (let alone signed or mailed any).  If truth be told, I have not bought any Christmas gifts yet.  And yet I do not doubt that my Christmas is already more festive than many of those around me.

A co-worker’s home burned down last night.  From all appearances, it is a total loss.  A friend of mine lost her brother just before Thanksgiving.  A family we know had to deal with a suicide attempt.

Yes, these short days bring darkness closer around us.

I was talking to a dear friend the other day about space and deep seas and voids…and the fear which such immense caverns of nothingness can evoke.  She told me that the cold continuum of unending space terrified her, and I agreed.  I thought it funny at the time that darkness can feel both too vast and too confining at the same time.  It pushes in on you and stretches out around you until there is nothing left but you and the dark.  That is when you either surrender to it, or you hold out hope for a spark…a sliver of illumination, or possibility.   You try to wait out the ebb and flow and pray for the darkness to recede.

There are a lot of sparks that illuminate my life.  I have been blessed with love, and friends, and family.  I have enough: enough food and clothing.  I have a warm home and things to do each day which give me purpose.  I am forty-two years old, but none the worse for wear.  Most days, I like who I see in the mirror.  Not a bad thing, that.  These are what makes the long nights bearable.

GLOIR DON ATHAIR

Gloir don Athair,

agus don Mhac,

agus don Spiorad Naomh.

Mar a bha, ‘s mar a tha, ‘s mar a bhitheas,

fad shaoghal nan saoghal. Amen.

Just the thing for some Holiday “Spirit”

Today was the Thanksgiving “muncheon” at work.  Ever the rebel, I decided that I would liven up the festivities with a nice Glenmorangie cake.  I placed the cake in the break room at 8:30 a.m.  It was completely devoured within the hour.  Although, admittedly, I did eat one piece myself.

The holidays mean relatives descending upon your sanctuary.  They come from far and wide and, even if they aren’t staying for longer than it takes to eat The Meal, they still bring a lot of baggage with them.  Slights, resentments, and betrayals unknown or unrecalled are all stirred up.

In order to prepare for the inevitable drama, it is best to have plenty of strong tea on hand (or coffee, if that is your thing).  Perhaps some eggnog–well fortified–will help, too.  But, at my house, I go with a very special cake to help get me in the holiday *ahem* spirit.  This Glenmorangie cake is just the thing to fill my stomach, settle my nerves, and help those passive aggressive remarks slide by unnoticed.

Glenmorangie Cake

Cake:

1 c. softened butter (no substitutes)

2 c. sugar

4 eggs

3 c. self-rising flour

1/2 c. milk

1/2 c. Glenmorangie

1 tsp. pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350° F.  Grease and flour one 12-cup Bundt pan AND one 6-count cupcake pan OR one eight inch round pan.  (This makes more than just the one Bundt cake, and I tend to snack on the “extra” cake and keep the “fancy cake” for The Meal.)

Using an electric mixer, cream the butter until fluffy.  In a separate bowl, combine dry ingredients and set aside.  Add the eggs one at a time to the creamed butter.  Slowly add the flour mixture.  Then add milk, vanilla, and whisky.

Divided the batter 2/3 in the Bundy pan and the remainder in the cupcake pan or eight inch round.

Cook until golden brown.  (The Bundt cake will take longer than the others, so keep an eye on it.  It will take about 1520minutes for the cupcakes and about 35-45 minutes for the Bundt, depending on your oven.

When the cakes are done, remove from the oven and let them cool.  While the cake is still warm, brush it with the Glenmorangie Glaze.

Glenmorangie Glaze

1/2 c. butter (no substitutes)

1/4 c. water

1 c. sugar

1/2 c. Glenmorangie

Melt the butter in a sauce pan.  Stir in water and sugar.  Boil 5 minutes, stirring continuously.  Remove from heat and cool slightly.  While warm, gently pour in the Glenmorangie.  Spool/brush onto warm cake.  Let cool.  Store in air tight container.

Serve with coffee, tea, eggnog, or more Glenmorangie.  Let the festivities begin!

The Hell You Know

I have certain gifts.  One of them is the ability to remain annoyingly positive when those around me are racked with fear, doubt, and confusion.  I tend to just know that things will work out.  And they do.  But that does not keep me from feeling the pain of those around me.  Unfortunately, I can not more give them my certainty than they can cast off their doubt.  So we wait in an uneasy silence while The Thing looms ahead.

The Thing might be a career change, a major purchase, or a doctor appointment.  But change, whether desired or not, is Hard and Scary and, well, different.  Once the change happens, if can be dealt with, but until then there is nothing to do but wait.

Waiting can be more than just a kind of purgatory.  It can be Hell itself.  Time inches forward, dragging you with it.  You count the minutes, the breaths, the heartbeats until The Thing happens.

Being currently on the tail-end of A Waiting right now, I am perfectly positioned for such reflections.  And, because I had need of focus, the words my heart needed came to me, as they always do:

“In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver
Look, the trees

are turning

their own bodies

into pillars

of light,

are giving off the rich

fragrance of cinnamon

and fulfillment,
the long tapers

of cattails

are bursting and floating away over

the blue shoulders
of the ponds,

and every pond,

no matter what its

name is, is
nameless now.

Every year

everything

I have ever learned
in my lifetime

leads back to this: the fires

and the black river of loss

whose other side
is salvation,

whose meaning

none of us will ever know.

To live in this world
you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it
against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.
“In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver, from  American Primitive . © Back Bay Books, 1983.

For all those who are waiting for The Thing, may you find your own words of peace.

A Dhia cuidich mi.

The past week has been…trying.  (As in: I am trying not to lose my mind!)  Since I last posted, Life has thrown these things at me:

1.  My parents got in a car wreck (they are having more tests, but nothing obviously horrendous has ensured) *knock wood*

2.  My husband’s car wouldn’t start.  (I went to try to give his car a jump, to no avail.  My dad came to the rescue, though.  Thanks, Dad!  Three hours later, life was back to normal…for a while.)

3.  The next day, my father-in-law got in a wreck.  (I know, I know, I see the distinct Stay Away from Cars theme, here, too!)

4.  While in the hospital being treated for car wreck related injuries, my father in law was given a pain medication that he turned out to be allergic to…seizures ensued.

5.  The hospital gave him a medication to alleviate his allergic reaction…which it turned out he was ALSO allergic to.  His breathing stopped.  (At which point MY heart nearly stopped, because I was so rattled by what was going on that I suddenly couldn’t remember the words to ANY prayers.  I ended up mixing together my Hail Mary and my Our Father, and I finally gave up and just went with “Oh, God!  Please God, please God, please God…”)  I supposed that God understood the general gist of my convoluted prayer, because the doctors got my father-in-law stabilized and he was eventually admitted to the ICU.

6.  The next day, we were going to go see my father-in-law only to find that our tire was flat.  No big deal, easily fixed, but just one more thing to add to the list.

7.  Later this week, there will be more doctor appointments for other people that I love.  (Feel free to light a candle, say a prayer, send positive energy, or whatever else you can thing of.)

What was left of the weekend was spent preparing for The Arctic Blast that is supposed to be heading our way sometime tonight and which seems to be planning on camping out in my neck of the woods for a good week or so.  I brought in more fire wood, took care of the outside faucets, went to the grocery store (twice), and have been trying to catch up on laundry.

I spent a bit of time working on my Scots Gaelic and, thanks to the week I’ve had, I have successfully added two new swear words to my repertoire.  Then, feeling slightly guilty, I leaned a prayer (to balance things out, you know).  It is a simple prayer–one borne of desperation.  It is not unlike the frazzled fragment that finally found voice in the cold sterility of the emergency room on Saturday:  A Dhia cuidich mi.  God help me.  It is simple.  It is direct.  It is enough.

Then, feeling slightly more virtuous, I decided I should reward my efforts.  So…I made a Glenmorangie cake.  This was not merely a selfish endeavor, my you.  I thought that, what with the holidays coming up in a few weeks, it was the perfect time to *ahem* “practice” my recipe for whisky cake.  (Normally I make a rum cake, so clearly I needed to do a practice cake to make sure that a whisky cake would be worthy of the holiday table.  It is.)

Feeling quite pleased with my efforts, I decided (since the kiddos all seem to be taking turns complaining of some stomach ailment or another) to make up a batch of ginger syrup.  It is just the thing to have on hand for just such afflictions.

I also harvested the last of the rosemary in anticipation of The Cold Snap, and I hung it up to dry.

Home, hearth, and healing.

So, basically, I did a bit of puttering.  Because that is what you do when you can’t be of further help.  I can’t take away the pain or stress of a car wreck, I can’t hold back the cold…or the scary…or the unknown.  But, by God, I can brew a cup of tea, and toss another log on the fire, and try to let the sanctuary of home offer its solace.  (And a quick prayer, in whatever language, wouldn’t be amiss in times like this, either.)

Redemption…and the Patron Saint of Stomach Aches

Some days, my friend.  Some. Days.

The past couple of days have been…trying.  While it is true that nothing earth shattering has happened, all of the little things have been piling up in my world and have created something of a mountain in the middle of my life.  There are: unresolved health scares, endless laundry, too many bills, upcoming holidays (and all of the expense that come with them), not enough sleep, too many commitments, and general “life” stuff.  Don’t get me wrong.  I am glad for life and all of the drama and minutia that it entails, but some days there is just an awful lot of it.

Today is one of those days.

Mornings can be trying in any household.  Mine is no exception, except that today was exceptionally trying.  One of the kiddos decided she was “not feeling well.”  It was her stomach.  Her stomach seems particularly sensitive on days when she has P.E.  Go figure.

She refused breakfast (“Mom!  I can’t…my stomach!”)

There was much crying, screaming*, whining, cajoling, and feet dragging (about an hour and a half of it, truth be told).  I threatened to make her go to school in her pajamas if she didn’t suck it up and get ready.  She finally did…sort of.  She (barely) made it to the bus, albeit without the benefit of breakfast, brushed teeth, brushed hair, or a jacket.  (It seems that, despite her unbearable stomach pain, she had the wherewithal to fret over her appearance–which I found to be an encouraging statement as to her general health.)

I nearly had to drag her out of the car when the bus arrived.  I did have to wave at the poor bus driver to make him hold up while she finally relented and headed (wailing) to the bus.  Thank you Bus Driver, and I am sorry.  No really, please forgive any harsh words I have ever uttered about you.  You deserve a pay increase, too.  I mean it.

So I headed back home feeling like The Worst Mom Ever.

I had tried to explain to her that sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to…things we don’t feel like doing.  But we do them, because they have to be done, and because no one is going to do them for us.

I tried to tell her that there are only so many sick days, and you have to save them for things like fevers, and things that cause the contents of your stomach to expel (in one direction or the other…or both at the same time *shudder*), or things that are contagious.

I am not sure how much she actually heard, what with her meltdown and all, but still I said them.  I am pretty sure that I couldn’t make out even half what she was saying.  But that is probably A Good Thing, because of either of us could actually hear one another we would both likely have had some very hurt feels to contend with, on top of Everything Else.

Now it is finally quiet, and the silence echoes in my ears the way that the lively commotion of three over-sugared kids never could.  I drink my tea (woefully devoid of a bracing splash of Laphroaig), and I try not to dwell too much on the morning.  I offer up a prayer (just who is the Patron Saint of Stomach Aches?  What about the Patron Saint of Sucky Mothers?), and wait until the day crawls on and evening offers me a chance to redeem myself.

If you have any wisdom to offer, or if you are a better Catholic than I am and happen to know just which Patron Saint to invoke, let me know!

* I actually shouted at one point, “For all that is holy, child! I managed to give birth to three children with less screaming and drama than this!”

All Hallow’s Read (and free books)

There are simply not enough book giving holidays.  There, I said it.  I am perfectly aware that you can give books for Christmas, and perhaps a romantic tome for Valentine’s Day.  A book for a birthday is always welcome.  Personally, I have never received a book for St. Patrick’s Day, or Thanksgiving, or even President’s Day (although I would welcome a book for any holiday.)  Perhaps this is why I was so pleased when Neil Gaiman opined that Halloween should be christened All Hallow’s Read.  Along with candies, trick-or-treaters should be plied with books, lots of books, free books!  What’s not to like?  And, in keeping with the holiday, it is even better if the books are creepy, spooky, or down right scary.

Since not everyone can make it to my house for me to personally hand them a free book for Halloween (and, frankly, I have some trick-or-treating of my own to do, too), I thought it would be more expedient if I simply offered “The Collector” for free download from October 29th – 31st. 

“The Collector” is creepy, in that Southern Gothic kind of way, and it is the perfect length to read while waiting for the next round of trick-or-treaters to descend on your house demanding sweets.

Reading is a good way to get away from the stress of the season.  Like most holidays, I ache for it, I look forward to it, and then…I freak out because it snuck up on me.  Of my three children, only one is currently certain of what they want to dress up as for Halloween.  One child is still undecided.  The other one is still deciding whether Halloween or the local football game will win out this year.

I am planning a little reward for getting through Halloween without turning into a witch myself.  Once the kids have all succumbed to their sugar coma, I am going to download the next Outlander book on my To Be Read List (An Echo in the Bone), make a hot mug of tea with a generous splash of Laphroaig (…unless it is a particularly trying evening, then I might skip the tea and stick with just a mug of Laphroaig), and raid the kids’ Halloween stash (I consider this to be my fee for their last-minute costume drama, for walking them around the neighborhood, and for picking up enough candy wrappers to wallpaper our living room).

Sigh.  Wish me luck.

As Real as it Gets

I spent my summer writing.  (Big surprise!)  I was writing a novel that I had every intention of publishing under a pseudonym.  It was different from what I had written before.  It was still a bit strange, and quirky, but it was…different.  And different can be scary.

So I came up with a pen name and spent all summer creating a blog for Ms. Fakey Pants (a/k/a Terri 2.0).  I built her a Twitter following and secured her email accounts and did all of those things that one does when creating a fakity-fake-fake.  The problem was, I didn’t want to be fake.

I finally feel comfortable in my own skin, and damn if I want to hide behind some persona.  I really love this book, and the characters, and the quirkiness, and the paranomality (is that a word) of it.  I also like the sexy bits.  Sexy bits are good.  So…why?

Maybe because for as long as there have been writers there have been people throwing in their unsolicited opinions about what we should write.  Whether it is well-meaning relatives or nosy co-workers or fans who desire The-Series-Which-Never-Ends, there is always someone telling us “You know what you should write?”

Um, actually, yeah.  I do.  I should write whatever the &%$#@*^ I feel like writing.

So I am.

And I am going to own it.  No pen name, no persona…just me.

So, in the spirit of going au natural, I am posting a picture of myself sans make-up and glasses.  Just me and my naked face.  (No make-up?  No problem.  No glasses?  Well, yeah…that makes me feel naked.  And blind. Reeeaaaalllly blind)

The best part of not wearing my glasses is I can’t see any snarky comments!

Literary Obsessions and Book Crushes (e.g. “Outlander”)

I have barely raised my nose out of my Kindle the past couple of months.  I have been reading A LOT.  Maybe it is the fact that (as of tomorrow) Autumn is here!  Fall brings changing leaves, warmer clothes, more baking, and much, much more reading.  Or maybe it is that I finally stumbled across some books that have made me WANT to lose entire days to the written word. Either way, I am book poor and suffering from a severe book hang-over.

There will be no more Kindle downloads until payday (Oh, God!  Can I possible wait another three days?!), and then it will start all over again.

It began with Liliana Hart.  I downloaded a freebie, and that lead me to her J. J. Graves series. I developed a bit of book crush on Detective Jack Lawson (although I thoroughly deny the accusation that I am a badge bunny).

One I had worked my way through THAT series, the Starz ads proclaiming that “The Kilt Drops” started showing up in my Twitter feed.  Like this:

Since I am all about dropping kilts (*sigh* I love me the Scots men!), I promptly added the show to my DVR, and that is how I got hooked on the Outlander books.  After just one episode, I knew I had found my next book series to read.  I downloaded the first two books, because, well, it was payday, and I wanted to get them before I spent the money (because I am practical like that).  Then I ended up getting stuck at home (first with a sick child, then with a sick me). Hence, the binge-reading.

I made it through the first three books before my bank account protested, so I am stuck in literary limbo for a few more days.  I have resorted to rereading the first book (even though I only read it last week), because, well, James Alexander Malcolm McKenzie Fraser.  Enough said.

There is something to be said for a book crush.  Especially when the character is as wonderfully imperfect as the people who inhabit your “real world.”  Jamie is funny, passionate, (usually) honorable, and (usually) honest, and compassionate.  (And och! that voice!)  But he gets scared, and he withholds things, and he breaks my heart….  But he is wonderful to read.  And the characters is so well written that I can hear him as I read the words.  (Did I mention that voice?!)

I prefer my Jamie a little rough around the edges.

And I can honestly say that I had never used the highlight function on my Kindle until I read the Outlander books.  Certain turns of phrase, or emotions, or ideas are set forth with heartrending precision.

So, as with any obsession, I count the days until payday–another payday, another download–and I thank God that Diana Gabaldon writes epic tomes that, if read like a sane person, should last me more than a day or two.

These People I Meet…

I attract weird people.  There, I have said it out loud.  If there is an oddball in a room, he/she will find me.  Every strange, creepy character will undoubtedly seek me out.  Some might call it my curse.  As a writer, though, it has been more like a blessing.

If I want to write about a crazy ex-boyfriend who broke into a teenage girl’s house in the wee hours of Mother’s Day for God-only-knows what reason, only to throw himself through a glass door in an effort to escape once discovered…yeah, I’ve got this.

I am well prepared if I need to describe the  look of quiet resignation when a man flags you down on a deserted downtown street in the early hours of a crisp spring morning, and then asks you if you can spare a moment–he wants a witness in case the man who is approaching him tries to kill him,

I will have no problem describing the gooseflesh that rises and the cold sweat that flows when you find yet another angry, scrawled note on your car after a late night college course accusing you of leading him on by smiling at him, cursing you for daring to speak to someone else, and promising to keep watching you to make sure you are “safe.”

But the blessing run much deeper than the disturbances that shake the surface.

I have met plenty of people of the “good strange” variety.  I have been blessed with a friend who nourishes my creativity and impulsiveness, and who writes with me in comfortable silence as we tap on our keyboards and eat peanut butter sandwiches in the office break room. 

I have connected with a talented and generous writer who weaves stories from old wounds and teaches me to persevere with his tales of courage, and strength, and fortitude.

I have received musical nourishment in moments of sadness, endless wise counsel, and a willing ear from some I have never really laid eyes on, but who has seen the pain and doubt that comes with birthing a story and who has selflessly helped me in my labor.

I have encountered a soft soul who taught me the bittersweet joy of shared troubles– and who reminded me of the restorative power of a tale that, once read (and reread), can serve as an anchor in the storm.

And I have crossed paths with a writer whose stories shine with humor, and longing, and promise.  A woman whose strength and goodness are as evident as her grace and beauty.

I have known the comfort of being encircled by a few choice souls who allow me to vent, to dream, to try, and to fail–and who love me unceasingly.

I have a long history with one who doesn’t see his own greatness, but who is quick to point out my own promise–never seeing that he is my rock…my touchstone.  Nevertheless, he walks forever by my side…never questioning the journey. 

I have know the outcasts, the odd fellows, and the outliers.  We are bound by our strangeness.

How to Intensify Conflict & Deepen Characters—The Wound

gingerlovinmind:

When I write, I feel compelled to pick at scabs–to explore the threads that bind us to our past–in all of its messy, warped, co-dependent horror. The wounds, both large and small, that we continue to rub raw. Maybe that is why I love this post SO MUCH!

Originally posted on Kristen Lamb's Blog:

Hmmm, what’s the story behind THIS?

There are all kinds of arguments about which area of craft is the most important for creating great fiction. Plot? Character? Voice? Theme? My opinion. They’re all organs in one body. Our brains will still work if our lungs have bronchitis, but maybe not at an optimal level. Similarly, there are people with brain injuries who have a strong heart. A body can “live” without everything operating in concert, and so can any story.

It’s ideal to hone our skills in all areas, and our goal is to be skilled at all of them. Can we be equally skilled? That’s another debate for another post.

I will say that plot (skeleton/brain) is very important. Our characters (heart) are only as strong as the crucible. Ultimately, all stories are about people. We might not recall every detail of a plot, but we DO remember characters…

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