Can’t

Maybe I’ve tried too hard not to remember that today is September 11th.  Someone mentioned it yesterday in a meeting; we were scheduling something, and she said, “Oh yeah, can’t forget what tomorrow is”, and my first thought was, “Friday?”  (It’s been a long 4-day week, getting back into the school routine.)  But an instant later, I remembered. 

My problem is empathy.  I can drive myself crazy sometimes, envisioning what other people’s experiences are like.  It works for me as a writer, but sometimes when I see horrific events like 9/11, it’s the kind of thing that could drive me up a tree, never to return.  Especially in this day and age, when everything’s on video, it’s easy slip into my imagination and hear the sickening sound of bodies jumping from the 90th floor, landing on the pavement on Liberty Street or Church Street.  It doesn’t take much to feel the gritty soot on my skin and smell the sting of jet fuel and watch the papers fluttering all over lower Manhattan and feel the weight on my chest as I try to breathe air that isn’t really air anymore.

It doesn’t help that I used to work there.  For nearly 2 years, I looked out a window on the 53rd floor.  I had a fantastic view of NY Harbor and Staten Island’s north shore.  (Which happened to be my home.)  In May I could watch the big ships sailing up the Hudson for Fleet Week.  I’ll never forget asking my boss if I could take an early lunch so I could run to the World Financial Center on the west side and grab a quick picture with my Kodak Disk camera as the aircraft carrier John F. Kennedy sailed up the river.  It took two shots to get the whole thing, that monster was so huge. 

We’d watch the tiny yachts sailing around Liberty Island, or laugh as the tourists took pictures as they ferried from Battery Park to Ellis Island to the Statue of Liberty.  The Woolworth in the concourse shopping center was my favorite place, especially when they stocked yarn, but I could just wander around in there browsing for an hour.  Mrs. Fields cookies was a staple in my diet.  For the first few years I’d go there for a chocolate chip muffin, which I’d take up to my office to eat.  One of the ladies in my department asked about them and I raved, so I made a habit of getting her a pumpkin muffin, too.  I never tried the coffee; now that I like coffee, I wish I had. 

It feels so odd to think there’s now a hole in the world where I used to make my life.  All those documents I signed and stored in the file room are now so much ash and dust, crumpled in Fresh Kills landfill.  The people I knew there have scattered to the wind, too.  Some I’ve caught up with, others are gone.  My brother and I, with our respective partners, went back there in January 2002, and we immediately knew the place was haunted.  Walking up Greenwich Street to work used to be like walking a wind tunnel, particularly in the winter, but as we walked up that January, it was eerily calm, no breeze at all.  The area was walled off and the line to overlook Ground Zero was tremendous, and I’m not sure we really wanted to look anyway.  It’d be like looking at the gaping wound where a body part used to be, one you knew wasn’t coming back no matter how hard you wished for it.  Still, every time I cross the Goethals Bridge into Staten Island, I look to the NY skyline and know, something’s missing.  That phantom pain never goes away.

Eight years ago today it was an absolutely beautiful day.  (Which only makes it that much more ironic that here in SE PA, it’s raining cats and dogs.  The Universe is crying too.)  It was probably around 70 degrees, sunny, crystal blue sky, and I thought, “I haven’t seen a day this gorgeous in all my life.”  I sat down at work and my then-boyfriend (now husband) emailed me saying he’d heard a plane had just crashed into the Trade Center, and I thought, “Well geez, how much damage could a Piper Cub do?”  It had happened before by accident, but the building came out okay.  Then we heard about the second plane.  For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why two small planes would hit the towers.  It never dawned on me that someone would even think to do this.  We started filing into the cafeteria to watch CNN because all the online news sources were overloaded, and reality started to sink in.  I’ll never forget crying my eyes out, thinking about all the people I knew there who might still be there.  When I saw a diagram of where the planes made contact—so incredibly eerie, watching video of the planes just disappearing into concrete and steel—the 2nd plane hit the “south tower” (aka, Tower 2), the tip of the starboard wing went directly through the window I used to look out of every morning.  My department had moved from the 53rd floor to the 49th floor by then, but still, there were people I knew in that building at the time.  (Candace Hurley, if you’re out there, email me, please.)

We heard about the plane hitting in DC—my friend Hope Ramsay has an amazing story to tell about her experiences there on 9/11—and then a lady I worked with was concerned because she’d heard another plane was headed for Pennsylvania.  We thought maybe they’d be targeting historical sites, but my co-worker’s concern was that we’re a technology company; maybe they’d target us.  We’re not that important.   

My sister went down to Richmond Terrace on Staten Island to take pictures, and I think she was there right about the time the towers started to come down.  I remember seeing it on TV and thinking, “No!  That’s not possible!  They’ll stay up; they HAVE to!”  But no amount of wishing was going to change what we were watching live on TV.  To this day, I still harbor this tiny hint of denial that they really should still be there.

I’ll also never forget how, 3 days earlier, on September 8th, I left my VFRW meeting and went home to Southampton, PA.  I did some shopping at Ames on Street Road and standing in line at the checkout, we all heard the roar of jet engines overhead as the Willow Grove Air Show went on.  John and I met on Township Line Road to watch the goings on as the Blue Angels ripped through the skies, performing the most amazing aerial maneuvers.  It was, very literally, an awesome sight to see, and I can’t forget telling John, “What must it be like to have to live with this kind of thing on a daily basis?  I’m so glad that’s not going on here.  How on earth would any country in the world dare to come after us when we have this much power?  Shouldn’t this scare anybody into being afraid of us?  “  Three days later, I was proven wrong. 

Eight years have passed, and it’s like nothing has changed.  The feelings are very nearly as raw as they were then.  I still remember the first baseball game after 9/11, and crying my eyes out when that eagle soared around Yankee Stadium.  (One of the few times I’ll ever give W credit for a class act.)  I cried a lot that week.  The boys were little so I doubt they understood why Mom was catatonic in front of the TV every night, watching the towers come down over and over and over.  When the TV news stopped showing it, my mind took over, and it hasn’t stopped since.  There but for the grace of God could’ve been me. 

There’s a Darryl Worley song with the words, “Have you forgotten?”  No, Darryl, I haven’t, and I can’t.  I want to, but I can’t.

Busy Girl

Been working on Gabriel’s Angel—which, I find out now, is a title that’s already been used by Nora Roberts; at least I’m in excellent company.  Please feel free to amuse yourselves in my absence.  (I was going to write “yourself” but sometimes I get surprised.) 

I’ll give you a topic.  This is my new favorite song, and I’m not sure if it’s the lyrics or the Irish lilt in the singer’s voice that does it for me.  Either way, it wasn’t available on iTunes so I dug ’til I found a site that would let me download it.  I was the happiest girl in town, and it took me a little while to remind myself that, unlike records or tapes, I can’t wear out an MP3 download.  Life is good. 

Beauty’s Running Wild by Scars on 45

It Never Gets Old

NJRW posted the finalists in the Put Your Heart in a Book contest.  The only thing cooler than seeing my name on this list is seeing Laura’s name there too.  This isn’t the order of finish as of right now, but as far as I’m concerned, it should be.  (But okay, yeah, winning would be pretty damn cool too.)

I’ve been mad at work on edits/rewrites to Gabriel’s Angel.  If the stars align in my favor, I might have it done this weekend.  It’s been a blast, visiting with old friends all over again, creating a new story for them.  I really do love these two.  Just when I finish a story and I think, “I’m crazy for these people; what else can I do?” a new pair comes along and I fall in love all over again.

Okay, back to the job at hand…

Homeward Bound

I read Lee Lofland’s blog this morning about an old woman who escapes from a nursing home, and all she says is, “I want to go home.  I want to go home.  I want to go home.”  (I highly recommend reading it before you put makeup on.)  It triggered the thought in my mind:  What is home?

Billy Joel once sang, “Home can be the Pennsylvania Turnpike.”  Trust me, we drove it from one end to the other this past weekend.  Home is NOT the Pennsylvania Turnpike. 

Home is where the heart is. 

Over the years I’ve become convinced that home isn’t a place.  I’ve lived in a few different houses in my life, and I don’t feel that much of a connection to them anymore.  I wasn’t upset when my parents sold the house I grew up in.  I was more upset about the slaughtered deer in the back yard than about leaving my first apartment, the site of my first foray into independence and adulthood.  When I moved out of the first house I ever owned–a gorgeous 100 year old mansion with 6 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, and a ghost–I wasn’t that upset because I had a new life to look forward to. 

On a cool spring evening in the house where we currently live, I took some knitting to the front porch and watched the world go by.  Alex went out to ride his scooter, and the neighbor kids rolled with him on the front lawn ’til the ice cream man showed up.  Relaxed in the fading sunlight, I felt like I was home.  Such peace and contentment, like if they could solidify that moment in amber, I’d be fine. 

For Fourth of July, we stood on the corner at the other side of the block and watched the parade (and they put on a great little neighborhood parade!).  In that moment, laughing and smiling with my neighbors, feeling an intense sense of belonging to something bigger than myself, I felt like I was home. 

Sitting next to my hubby in Citizens Bank Park with a lemonade and a hot dog, watching my favorite team play my favorite sport on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I felt like I was home. 

Laughing my butt off with my bestest best friends at the NJRW conference last October, I felt like I was home. 

Sitting in front of the computer, my fingers flying over the keyboard as the story drains out of my head, I’m very much at home. 

Home isn’t a place.  It’s a state of being. 

John and I have done everything we can to make this new (well, “new to you”) house a home for the boys, but one day they’ll grow up and make homes of their own somewhere else, separate and apart from us.  We’ve both called other places “home”, and even though moving was a b*tch, we very well might find another home in our lifetime.  You never know what curve balls life will throw at you.  The best thing about it is knowing that home is a moveable feast. 

And to my sweet, hard-working, long-suffering husband of 6 years as of this Sunday, just like Billy Joel said, “Home is just another word for you.”

Blake’s Story

We spent the weekend in and outside Canton, Ohio for the Pro Football Hall of Fame enshrinement.  It was one big party and we had a wonderful time, but I’m almost glad to be home, especially since I scheduled myself for a day off afterward.  Eleven hours in the car, either as driver or passenger, will make that necessary.  In one day I went from an hour into Ohio, across PA from one side to the other, and into New Jersey and back.  I don’t want to cross another state line again until I absolutely have to.

On Saturday morning we had some extra time so we slept in, goofed off, and then went looking for food.  Unfortunately our hotel–which was WONDERFUL, by the way–was off the beaten path, so the choices were limited to McD’s, Subway, or the gas station/CircleK.  We drove Massillon Ave for a while but didn’t see anything.  (We did find My Sister’s Yarn Shop but didn’t stop.  Idon’tneedmoreyarnIdon’tneedmoreyarnIdon’tneedmoreyarn…)  Since we also hadn’t made any coffee in the hotel room and we missed their breakfast buffet, coffee was a key priority.  Finally we passed a shopping center with a nice little place on the corner called Blake’s Cafe & Cupcakery, so we decided to give it a shot.  After all, a muffin can be quite filling.   

It turns out the place is fantastic.  It’s decorated like a Starbucks with a much more homey feel.  In the middle there’s a fake fireplace, two overstuffed leather couches and a chair around a coffee table; the volume on the TV was tuned down so as not to be obtrusive but enough to keep our fleeting attention.  The cupcakes looked scrumptious.  We placed our order and they said they’d bring it out to us.  I felt comfortable.

While we waited, I read the little brochure on the table and got an instant feeling of home from this place.  I hope they don’t mind that I’m retyping it but I wanted to share:

“Blake’s Story…

In 2000, we gave birth to our beautiful son, Blake.  Almost 3 years later, he was diagnosed with autism.  He was the one in every 150 kids…the one out of every 94 boys…to have the disorder.  And although we never would’ve wished to have a child with a disability, we can truly say that we feel very blessed to have him in our lives exactly the way he is.  He has taught us how to enjoy the simple pleasures in life and, most importantly, how to love absolutely unconditionally, no matter what.

If you’re a regular customer, you will undoubtedly see Blake in the cafe from time to time.  Though Blake is highly functioning, please know that he has a difficult time explaining his thoughts and may sometimes act differently or say things that are unexpected.  Please be understanding and compassionate, recognizing that these behaviors are simply a part of autism.

When we decided to open this business in 2009, we named it Blake’s Cafe & Cupcakery in honor of him, not only to draw attention and awareness to this disability which affects so many children and adults, but also with the hopes that someday he will (be) capable of running the business.  He often says that after he finishes elementary school, he’ll go to middle school, then to high school, then college, and finally, to Blake’s to work.  We pray he’s right.

He is the reason we are here for you.  Thank you for your business.”

Chalk up another day of wasted makeup.   

The food was fantastic and the coffee was heavenly!  I really REALLY wanted a cupcake but alas, by the time I’d eaten my buffalo chicken wrap and drank my coffee, I had no room left for a cupcake.  Same on Sunday when I made John take us back there.  (I was not about to leave the state without a copy of “Blake’s Story”, in a holder by the register.)

If you happen to pass through the Uniontown, Ohio area, please make a point of stopping at Blake’s.  I was disappointed I didn’t get to meet  Blake in person but it was the weekend, and he was probably doing what any 9 year old kid does on summer weekends.  I was also disappointed I didn’t get a cupcake, so get one for me while you’re there, please.  I fell madly in love with the place and I’ve already told a few friends, if I win PowerBall, I’m calling the owners, Derek & Marcie Williams, and asking about franchising opportunities.  I’m sure our Alex would love to work in a Blake’s, too. 

Legalized Price Gouging

I don’t usually aim for “newsworthy” material–there’s enough drama in my life already–but I have to pose this question.  Since when is price gouging legal? 

We went to the Face2Face concert (Billy Joel & Elton John) last night, and it was a normal ride into South Philly up until we got to the parking lot.  We have Phillies Sunday season tickets, so usually we pay $12 to park.  (It was $11 last year and $10 the year before.  As far as I can see, the ballpark hasn’t changed an iota.  If someone DARES tell me, “Expenses went up; we have to pay our ticket-takers more”, listen bub:  I didn’t get a raise this year, and I was told to “just be happy you still have a job.”  Same goes.)  Last night we pull up and hear, “$20, please.”  Uh, excuse me?  Looks like the same ballpark parking lot we’ve been frequenting for 5 years now.  Why the sudden one-time uplift in pricing?  Okay, fine.  Whatever.  John hands over the $20 and we’re in. 

Now granted, we didn’t read the website ahead of time to see what was permissable to bring into the ballpark and what wasn’t, but when we go to a ball game, it’s fine to bring in a drink (or three) and a sandwich, as long as the drink container is sealed, it isn’t glass, and it’s not beer.  I can see the sense in that; baseball is played during the summer when it’s hot.  People need to stay hydrated, or they pass out.  When you go to the ball games, you have the option to bring your own food or buy theirs.  Theirs is pretty good so sometimes we take that option, sometimes we don’t.  It’s nice to have a choice. 

Anyway, we’d stopped on the way for hoagies at Corropolese’s (shout out; OMG, that was the best Italian hoagie I’ve had in a while) and picked up some bottled water.  I didn’t open mine so I brought it to the gate so I wouldn’t have to buy a $4 bottle of water.  Cost-saving, right?  Not really.  I got to the gate and when they checked my bag, they said I couldn’t bring in outside food or drinks.  I had to surrender a full, sealed bottle of water, as did the lady ahead of me.  Kind of disappointing that I couldn’t bring a $1.39 bottle of water so I could buy their $4 bottle of Dasani.  It’s the same water. 

Mind you, Citizens Bank Park only shows concerts in the summer.  It’s not like they put on a show in December when you DON’T need the water so much.  It’s either hydrate or call the medics when I pass out.  The water costs the same at the ball games (when it’s optional), so fine, whatever, I’ll deal with it.  But we walked up to the stands, thinking I’d buy John a birthday beer, and the same Michelob Ultra that costs $6.75 during the ball games now costs $8.50!  Pardon me, but isn’t that the exact same beer we’d buy at a baseball game?  Nothing looked different about it.  The label wasn’t printed on 24K gold.  It wasn’t served to me by a Hooters waitress or a Chippendales dancer.  (The guy at the stand was funny, especially when we balked at the price, but I’m sure Citizens Bank Park had nothing to do with that.)   We passed on the beer and spent $8 on 2 bottles of water instead.  Judging by the crowds around us and the supremely irritating vendors who kept trying to sell beer DURING THE SHOW, we were in the minority.  (Hey dude, why don’t you ask me to pass the beer to somebody when I’m not paying $97 to see someone sing, okay?  And dude in the middle of the row, how about you drink a little LESS so I don’t have to keep getting up so you can go drain the main vein every 5 minutes?)

And I’m sorry, but Bud Light for $8.50?  What did the planners at CBP smoke for lunch?  That stuff is beer-flavored water, and they want $8.50 for it?  I think not.  I wouldn’t even drink it for $2, but every beer they offered was $8.50, regardless of brand (or quality).  

The worst part of it is, there was no option.  If I wanted water, I either bought theirs or I stuck my head under the fountain for the warm stuff outside the ladies’ bathroom.  (‘Nuf said.)  Why is it we have options at the baseball games but not at concerts?  It’s not like people get more or less drunk at one or the other.  Trust me, there were a few folks who were well overserved in our area. 

Oh, and don’t let me forget about the $10 margaritas.  We didn’t even go near those stands.

I’m going to try to word this into a thoughtful, well-crafted letter to the operators at Citizens Bank Park.  What I witnessed last night was nothing less than legalized price gouging. 

Oh yeah, and one hell of a great show by Billy Joel and Elton John. 

Something else on that “you can’t” sign outside the ballpark:  cameras.  Yeah, right.  We saw flashes going off all over the place.  Mine included.  You’ll get my camera phone when you pry it out of my cold, dead hands.  And let’s not talk about that after-hoagie brownie I smuggled into the ballpark.  Neener, neener, neener.

Lost in my own skin

Ryan’s been at his dad’s for over two weeks now.  I saw him 2 Fridays ago when I brought Alex for visitation, and I saw him again on Sunday when I picked Alex up.  Other than that, he hasn’t called (he says he can’t) or sent  email (he says the connection is terrible).  I missed him, so on Sunday night I called my ex’s cell phone and left a message.  Ryan returned the call last night, and we talked for 40 minutes.  Nothing’s changed, though I did tease him about his mustache.  It was visibly growing in, last time I saw him.

This morning I dropped Alex off at camp.  He’s such a big guy, physically, even if developmentally, he’s still my little boy.  He’s excited about his independence.  (He was so proud to have his own umbrella today, even if it was a 24-inch Winnie the Pooh Umbrella he’s had since it was bigger than he was.)  I drove away as he stood there in the drizzle, with his fellow campers and his counselors, and immediately I missed him. 

On the drive in—which seems to be when I’m most philosophical—it occurred to me that maybe what I miss isn’t so much the boys.  I’m delighted to see them growing into themselves.  It makes me feel like “I done good.”  What I miss is my identity.  As they grow up, I still wear the “mom” label, but I’m not a mom the way I used to be.  The days of spoon-fed mashed veggies and watching Sesame Street are behind me now.  The boys are growing into who they’ll be, but I’m growing into who I’m going to be too.  I won’t be Mommy anymore.  Already, I’m Mom.  My identity is changing.

(It makes me think there’s a very real benefit to prolonged monogamy.  As my other roles change and adapt—and despite my family’s belief that my brother is awful at accepting change, I really believe I’m the worst at it—as long as we’re both healthy and together, I’ll always be “Honey”.)

Often I’ve heard the expression, “Just be yourself”, but for years I wasn’t sure who that was.  I’ve spent so much time trying to be who people needed me to be that who I am got lost somewhere along the line.  I try to remind myself of the things I enjoy doing, the things in my life that make me happy, but I’m not sure that fully explains it.  Who am I? 

It’s raining outside and I have 3.5 more work days ahead of me before a very busy weekend.  I picked a lousy time for a midlife identity crisis. 

There IS crying in baseball

And not because of any particular game.  (Sorry, Stevie; yes, this blog will be about baseball.)

I don’t know what it is that gets me so emotional, but I cry at baseball.  I cried when McGwire broke Maris’s record (and this was when juice was only a liquid squeezed from fruit).  I cried when Ripken broke Gehrig’s record.  I cried when the Yankees paraded up Broadway in ‘96.  (It was a few weeks after delivering my 2nd child; I wasn’t just emotional, I was hormonal.)  And all the ones that came after.  I cried like a baby when the Phillies won last year.  Heck, just thinking about it, I still tear up.

While enjoying a lazy Saturday morning, John found a documentary about Ted Williams on HBO, so we watched.  You guessed it:  I cried.  I’m not even a Red Sox fan.  (I’m REALLY not a Red Sox fan.  I respect their immense talent, but I prefer it when they don’t win.)  I knew a little about the Splendid Splinter, but not that much.  Today I learned about the person he was, and I empathized.  More than anything, I could see why Boston and all of baseball fell in love with the man.  He put everything he had into the game; maybe even some things he shouldn’t have.  (That line about, “I smell sh*t.  There must be a writer around” had me rolling.)  He gave everything, and he held nothing back.  I could aspire to be like that, but I’m too much of a marshmallow. 

Watching the story of his later years, and his last appearance in Fenway at the ‘99 All Star Game, and the way the players walked up to him “wide-eyed, like kids walking up to Santa Claus”, I cried all over again.  He was larger than life.  He was almost larger than baseball itself. 

We keep our signed Harry Kalas baseball on the TV.  It’ll be there all season.  Once in a while the Superpretzel commercial comes on, the one that ends with a black-and-white photo and the words, “We miss you, Harry”, and I choke up all over again.  The games go on, but I miss Harry Kalas like I miss my own grandfather.  After all the Phillies games we watch, I may have listened to Harry more than I did Grandpa.  I love ’em both.  (Note the use of present tense, not past tense.)

I went to the Tim McGraw concert in Allentown a few years back, and when he sang “Live Like You Were Dying” and he held up Tug’s World Series ring for the camera (and I wore a Phillies jersey!), I will bet you anything there wasn’t a dry eye in the county.  Certainly not mine. 

When the Phillies had their ring ceremony this past April and Pat Burrell came back to stand in line with his former teammates and get his ring, and Pat Gillick sobbed, I was right there with him.  At home, of course, but I don’t know which of us cried more.  (It was a class-act move on the Rays’ part to let him come back, and I salute them for that.)

I was in the ballpark on a sunny summer Sunday when Doug Glanville shattered teammate Eric Milton’s bid for a no-hitter.  In the 4th inning I turned to John and said, “Don’t look now, but there’s something on the scoreboard you need to notice.”  (It’s tradition to never use the words “no hitter” when a pitcher is working on one.  Unless, of course, you’re a position player, who will try to bust the pitcher’s balls by saying, “Hey Joe, is that a no-hitter you got going?”)  In the 6th we held our breath.  The guy behind us got on his cell phone and called home.  “Honey, turn on the game.  I can’t tell you what, but just trust me.  You want to see this.”  In the later innings, if the no-no is still on the board, in a show of respect, the other players will move down and let the pitcher sit alone on the bench.  To this day, I have a hard time forgiving Glanville for screwing up that simple pop fly in the 8th, and then killing Milton’s try for a shutout in the next play.  Maybe on my deathbed I’ll say, “It’s okay, Doug.”  Then again, maybe not. 

When MLB Network got started, they showed segments of Ken Burns’ “Baseball”, and I cried then too.  Laughed a lot also, but some things about baseball never fail to make me cry.  It’s the vintage clips of historic games, amazing plays, classic players exhibiting almost superhuman feats of strength.  There’s something about baseball that’s infinitely rich in tradition and hope.  Baseball endures like the human spirit.  It takes a hit, slips a little, sometimes it falls, but it always gets back up and keeps going because tomorrow is another game.  It leaves us bored and restless in one minute, and breathless with anticipation the next.  With baseball we feel extreme highs and lows, just minutes apart, and we keep coming back for more because we want to know what happens next.  It’s the story that never, ever ends.

I love the Walt Whitman quote at the end of Bull Durham: “I see great things in baseball. It’s our game, the American game. It will repair our losses and be a blessing to us.”  Why yes, I do have a copy of the script.  Surprised?

And yet I don’t cry at football.  I scream and I curse, but I don’t cry.  Why is that?

Yes, I guess you could say baseball makes me cry.  I have no problem with that.  I wouldn’t want it any other way.

What to do while waiting

Here I am, waiting on responses from a few queries and submissions.  I’m not in the right frame of mind to edit anything I’ve finished lately—with the mood I’ve been in lately, everything I wrote sounds like crap—and I don’t have a new story in mind to work on.  It’s frustrating, being stuck here in the middle.  I want to do something, but I can’t. 

Yesterday I brainstormed with a friend who needed help with her plot.  It was a lot of fun, much like going shopping with a friend to buy a stereo.  In the end, it’s not my money being spent, but it’s also not my stereo going home.  I can make all the suggestions I want, but ultimately, the job is all hers.  Besides, what matters most is what feels right to the other person.  I could recommend a story about vampires, but if she’d rather work on a story about talking kittens, a story about talking vampire kittens probably isn’t going to work.  (Give me enough vodka and I’ll see what I can make happen.) 

So in the mean time, I’ve been knitting.  In addition to the pair of socks I made John for Father’s Day, I’ve finished 2 socks but unfortunately, they’re not a matched set.  One is for Ryan, and the other is for me.  The one that’s for me actually has a story to go with it. 

I found a cute little sweater pattern that I wanted to make for my niece, and it requires a brand of yarn I happen to have on hand.  One skein was available, the other was part of a sock.  I figured I’d use up the full skein, then unravel (aka, frog) the sock and use that on the sweater.  (Once again, I’m putting aside my own wants for someone else, even if my niece definitely didn’t ask for a sweater from Auntie Carla.)  The only problem was, when I went to check out how much sock needed frogging, I realized I was well past the point of no return.  I’d made the cuff, turned the heel and finished the gusset, and I was halfway through the foot.  A few dedicated hours and I’d have a completed sock.  This was no time to unravel something that was so close to fruition.

So I spent most of Sunday finishing the sock.  It’s now finished, but now I need 2 more skeins of that yarn; one to make the 2nd sock, and the rest to work on the baby sweater.  Too bad I didn’t consider making baby socks with the same yarn, so they’d match with the sweater.

Sock knitting is addictive.  I never thought I’d be able to work with DPNs, but really, there’s something about knitting in the round, over and over and over again, and surprisingly, it’s not monotonous.  When you’re knitting with two needles (as I’m often knitting with just one needle), you can always say, “Let me finish this row before I…” but with DPNs, you can go on forever or until you reach the desired length.  It’s seamless, and it’s magical.  When you use self-striping yarn, you look forward to seeing what color row comes up next and how big it will be.  This morning I worked on the gray wool socks again and even though the color never changed, it was just as much fun to watch the sock growing in my hands.  Seriously, it’s magic!

Sock knitting will never overtake writing as my favorite hobby, but it’s definitely running a close second.  The problem is that since writing isn’t bringing in any money, and sock-knitting will cost me money when I start running out of yarn (somewhere in the year 2015), not to mention the time I spend knitting could be spent writing, eventually we’re going to run into a logjam here.  But in the mean time, I’m going to enjoy myself. 

Learning to Write Again

I may have to change that title.  It sounds like I had a stroke and I’m in therapy, learning to write again.  (Spoken by the mom of a boy who had hip surgery at age 4 and had to learn to walk for a 2nd time.  Any question why I’m dreading the thought of more surgery?)

But really, a few times and from different sources, I’ve been referred back to “Techniques of the Selling Writer” by Dwight Swain.  Since I otherwise don’t seem to be getting anywhere anyway, I finally decided it can’t hurt to give it a try.  Actually, a second try.  I tried reading it once, about 10 years ago, and it put me to sleep faster than chloroform. 

My copy arrived yesterday, and what a surprise:  it put me to sleep again.  I slept through 4 innings of the Phillies’ game.  (I hate when that happens, but at least I woke up in time to see Victorino’s game-winning hit.  BTW, VOTE VICTORINO!  www.phillies.com )  But I think this time, I may be in the right frame of mind to absorb what Swain has to say a little better than I was ten years ago.  For one thing, one of the first elements he discusses is feeling, and that struck a chord with me.  I went back to look at where I was stuck in my rewrite of “Worlds Apart” and I realized, the emotion was missing.  What was there was rather dry, almost like a news account of events happening to the characters.  Odd to say that even while the book put me to sleep, it also woke me up. 

I plan to read some more, albeit a bit at a time.  I’d like to stay awake past 9 for a change.   But I also hope that this book will help me to learn to write again.