Yay for pee!

Because I can't seem to stop telling on myself, and because the last few posts have been very serious, and because it's good to laugh at yourself:

My cat (who has a history of urinary blockages) was acting kind of funny yesterday. Enough so that I started stalking his litterbox to see if he was peeing and stayed up most of the night literally worrying myself sick over the idea that he had yet another blockage.

He peed this morning and seemed fine.

But when I got home from work, I discovered that he hadn't peed since this morning. I started worrying again, even though he seemed like his usual, muppety self.

And then he peed again. A lot.

So I snuggled him and said, "I'm so glad you peed! YAY FOR PEE!"

He, of course, looked at me like, Does this mean I get more food?????

 

"Grief doesn't change you, Hazel. It reveals you."

- John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

As promised a couple of posts ago, below is a video that chronicles all of the misadventures.

I like the shorter video, but I felt like I needed to do something a bit more comprehensive.

I think it's going to take a while to process the last few days. For now, I'm taking the dolphins we saw swimming nearby before and after we scattered Mom's ashes as a sign that it was the right time and place. Still, I was surprised by how emotional I got when I came home today and realized I have this empty box and I don't know what to do with it....

All I know for sure right now is that I'm okay, and the Misadventures with Box o'Ma are a big part of why I feel that way.

Fun while it lasted

My sisters and I are getting up in about five and a half hours to scatter Mom's ashes. To close out the Misadventures with Box o'Ma, I put together this little video:

Thank you, Partners in Awesome (even the honorary ones who could only participate in spirit). I truly could not have made it through this without you.

"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain"

- Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

Two weeks ago today I finished the first draft of the book I began writing at the end of January. I wrote a book in 157 days. (Just a first draft, but still.)

I wrote a little bit more on the next day, partly because I felt like I wanted to clean up the epilogue a little and partly because I wanted to be able to say I wrote for 240 consecutive days. (It was incredibly easy to stop, though.)

I'm a little sad I didn't make 250 consecutive days, but at the same time, I'm glad I was able to give myself a break.

I've been sleeping like complete and utter crap. When I finally get to sleep, my dreams are harsh and crazy and fill me with anxiety and trepidation. (My dreams are often weird, but not usually so bad. Painful.)

And I've been feeling...weird. Not like me. Easily angered (in such an irrational way that it even surprises me). There's a rumbliness in my belly that's got me on edge. At certain moments, I feel so sad and alone that I want to go up to whomever is nearest and hug them. Or start crying. (I can't even remember the last time I cried.)

I know that I'm feeling these things because the days are ticking down. For months, I've had my sights set on calendar boxes: specifically planned outings and fun times with friends, misadventures I wanted -- needed -- to have, writingwritingwriting to make my self-imposed deadline. I finished the first drafts of both books. I did it early. I've had nearly all of the planned misadventures. I got to use my passport!

In the moment, I enjoy each of these long-awaited experiences as they happen, but when they are over, I find myself asking the question Ramona asks at the end of the first book, the question that became the title of the second book: Now what?

I had dinner with my friend Mary tonight. She asked how I was doing. I explained that I've been feeling moody and anxious, that I'm having more trouble than usual sleeping. I told her I know what's causing it, so I'm just trying to float through it. But the hardest thing for me to process is this realization I had just a day or two ago.

The first time I made a friend after my mom died, it dawned on me that that friend would only ever know me as I was motherless. And it made me ache a little to know that. After Wednesday, anyone who becomes my friend will only know me after the Misadventures with the Box o'Ma. New friends may be incredible people, but they will never be Partners in Awesome. (It's something I'm not sure you can fully appreciate or understand without experiencing it firsthand, but maybe that's just all this accumulated moodiness saying that.)

Wednesday is coming up fast (so fast), so much faster than all the days of writing and all the days of waiting for planned misadventures to fall into place.

I'm filling the time I used to fill with writing watching movies and TV and reading. Between last night and tonight I got caught up on Falling Skies (my favorite summer show). One of the episodes featured a chorus of kids singing the song "One Voice" by the Wailin' Jennys.

In less than 24 hours, it's become my newest musical obsession. (The bold part is the part that kills me.)

This is the sound of one voice
One spirit, one voice
The sound of one who makes a choice
This is the sound of one voice

This is the sound of voices two
The sound of me singing with you
Helping each other to make it through
This is the sound of voices two

This is the sound of voices three
Singing together in harmony
Surrendering to the mystery
This is the sound of voices three

This is the sound of all of us
Singing with love and the will to trust
Leave the rest behind it will turn to dust
This is the sound of all of us

This is the sound of one voice
One people, one voice
A song for every one of us
This is the sound of one voice
This is the sound of one voice 

I usually write blogs when I want to share something I've figured out, some funny anecdote, or when I need to air out the thoughts in my head (before they make my brain explode). This is different. This is me accepting my brokenness in this time and place, recognizing that it's not something I can fix (even if that's all I want to do), and just reaching into the darkness to find something to hold onto.

Now what? I can't say; I don't know. But, I hope....

It's all happening

My mom's birthday is in less than two weeks. She would have been 60. She died a little more than three and a half years ago, so my sisters and I agreed that this would be the right time to scatter her ashes.

I'm not sure what it means to my sisters; we haven't really talked much about it, aside from figuring out the logistical details of when/where/how we'll get there.

For me, it's the end of the Misadventures with Box o'Ma, and that's a pretty big deal. To date, I've had 40 misadventures with a total of 30 "Partners in Awesome." (So much better than a partner in crime.) Box o'Ma and I have visited every state in New England at least once; we've flown to New York City, DC, Chicago; we've been to the Jersey shore, various roadside attractions, and many museums; and, of course, we've  gone rollerskating. After this weekend, I'll add another Partner in Awesome to the list, and I will have brought my mom to another country, something she never got to do when she was alive.

I have (or will have) brought Box o'Ma to every place I wanted to. I have found ways to include nearly everyone I wanted to -- and I asked those who couldn't participate directly to suggest songs for the soundtracks to my roadtrips, making them Honorary Partners in Awesome.

It's time. And, that's okay.

Except it's also hard. It's another loss (even if it's time, even if it's right, it doesn't mean it's easy).

I've been going through the pictures and video that I've taken over the course of all our misadventures and various other strange and fun things that have been part of my journey the last few years. I've often said that my somewhat unusual grieving process can be separated into four loose categories: remember, love, adventure, and joy.

Remember

 

**

Love

***

The adventure one isn't ready yet -- I still have a couple of planned misadventures that need to be included. Soon.

Joy

Those last two pictures in that video are not very attractive, but I included them because they always make me smile. That's some unabashed joy right there. I can't remember what I was laughing at in either picture. All I know is that both were taken by Daniel while misadventuring with him and John.

I started running around with my mom's ashes because I needed to find a way to continue to feel connected to her. And I did, but I also got so much more. (So. Much. More.)

If I could have one last conversation with my mom, I'd tell her a bunch of things that (I think) she already knew: I love her, I miss her, and there are so many good qualities I got from her for which I am truly grateful. But I'd also tell her about the misadventures. I'd tell her they helped me be okay. They helped me do and try things I might not have otherwise. They helped me feel like I was giving her a chance to experience things she didn't in life. They helped me make friends I didn't expect to make (who have turned out -- in every case -- to be amazing people), and they brought me closer to friends I already had.

It's hard to close such an incredible life chapter without feeling a bit sad and nostalgic, but the thing I have to remind myself is this: There's still a whole new chapter (maybe many, many more) waiting for me, and I get to carry all these experiences with me.

If I had one last conversation with my mom, I'd thank her for giving me this last gift (even if she didn't know she was doing it).


* Blog title because I still love the movie Almost Famous.
** Songs in "Remember" -- "Come Softly to Me" by The Fleetwoods, "Alice's Restaurant" by Arlo Guthrie.
*** Song in "Love" -- "All is Love" by Karen O and the Kids.

I don't even

I don't know how this happened.

I've been keeping track of the days, sure. It's been 231 consecutive days that I've written. On January 21, per my random, self-imposed deadline, I finished the first draft of the book I'd been working on for TWO YEARS (and for the first 82 consecutive writing days). Next day, I started the sequel, with a goal of having a first draft of it by July 17.

Every time I did the math (based on word counts in this draft compared to word counts of the first book), it worked out. I was going to get it done in time. Maybe even early.

And then life started getting in the way. I still wrote every day, but I was exhausted. I wasn't writing as much. I was letting myself off easy (or, you know, sleeping). I've been goingoingoing with lots of derby stuff (CRAP. I just remembered I didn't prep the evals for this Saturday's bout like I'd planned to do tonight) and work being nuts and other obligations to family and friends.

The last four work days have sucked tremendously, and have taught me that there really are a lot of incredibly dumb people out there in the world.

But today? Today I wrote about 1500 words. And I finished the chapter I was working on.

It's day 231, less than five months since I started this book, still nearly a month til my self-imposed deadline, and I HAVE ONE MORE CHAPTER TO WRITE.

Wow. Just wow.

Come out, Mr. Sun!

Apparently, as a small child, I loved the Beatles's song "Here Comes the Sun." Because of that, my mom used to tell me that "Mr. Sun" was my friend, so if it was raining or cloudy she would say, "Tell your friend Mr. Sun to come out and play!" And I would yell, "Come out, Mr. Sun! Come out!" And then I felt all special when the sun would come out. (I only remember the times when it did; I guess I probably got a bit sullen when it didn't.)

It's been a long couple of weeks -- trip home, officiating a friend's wedding, visits with friends, derbyderbyderby, still writing every day, and a lot of stress at work. I've enjoyed all the things I've done, and I wanted to do them, but it's been exhausting. I need A LOT of down time/alone time to recuperate from any kind of activity, but especially ones that involve lots of people around me (which describes nearly all of the things I've been doing lately). But I haven't been getting that down time/alone time. It's made me exhausted and cranky. Add to that a cold that mostly passed me by and barometric pressure headaches from all the rain. It all equals one very grumpy and over-stressed Graceless.

My entire work day yesterday included interactions with people who kept screwing up really basic things, missing information, things not working the way they should. Mistakes compounded by more mistakes compounded by computer glitches. And then I made it worse, because I assumed something would work the way it was supposed to (even though I should have known it wouldn't). All of which created a giant mess I'm going to need to untangle -- it's going to be A LOT of work, it's going to be stressful, and at least some of it is going to have to happen in off hours. (And a lot of this could have been avoided if people had done what they were supposed to do when they were supposed to do it....)

I got out of the office and I was angry and tired and frustrated. I did my laundry, because I needed to do it. Because I thought sitting around and reading for two hours might make me feel a little better (it did, but not enough). I bought a bottle of wine and a bottle of sangria on the way home (and didn't even open them last night). I went to bed still a bit grumpy, still frustrated, anxious about all the work that lies ahead. I didn't sleep very well. I got up, checked the mail, and there waiting for me was my passport.

I'd delayed so much in getting it (mostly because of the costs associated with it) that I wasn't sure I'd get it in time. But here it is. I've got a passport, and now there's nothing really standing in the way of Misadventure Canada.

I sent one of my long, rambly group emails to a bunch of people asking if anyone would be willing to be my Partner in Awesome for this one, asking for ideas (I'm not sure where to go, what to do -- Canada is HUGE!), asking for suggestions for a roadtrip soundtrack.

In less than an hour, I'd lined up a Partner in Awesome and several suggestions for the trip (including soundtrack).

The sun is currently out (after a very dreary week) and although all the crap at work is still waiting for me on Monday, I feel good right now. I feel excited about tonight's doubleheader (where I'm head reffing for the third time and then jammer reffing -- the first time I've been able to skate two bouts back to back in a long time due to the concussion I got last summer).

Tomorrow is going to be one of those stay-home-don't-get-out-of-PJs kind of days to recover from all the gogogogogo.

And in between, it's really good to have such generous (well-traveled) and awesome friends to help me accomplish something really important.

Blooming epiphanies

I've been saying for a while now that I had this not-quite-formed epiphany clawing at the back of my head, and I expected it to act like most of my epiphanies and announce itself during a long drive (which was sorta convenient, since I knew I'd be spending many hours in the car by myself this weekend). It didn't come on the way home for Grandma's birthday, but I figured maybe it just needed more time to germinate. When it didn't come on the way back either, I guess I had another little epiphany: The whole time I'd been thinking that this epiphany hadn't quite surfaced, it was staring me right in the face. That is, the epiphany itself has already taken up space in my brain. It's the part where I figure out how to put it into action that hasn't materialized yet.

It's an intuitive kind of thing for me, which means I can't easily summarize it.

I got my first job when I was 15 and a half (you still count the halves then) at the local daily newspaper (daily circulation was around 80,000; Sunday around 110,000 at the time). I worked there for five years while I studied journalism in school. (I had dreams of being an investigative reporter for the Detroit Free Press* while writing novels "in my spare time." I've always wanted to write fiction, but even as a teenager, I never thought it would pay my bills.)

The paper I worked for is still around, but so many have folded in the 14 years since I left the field. Announcements of layoffs aren't even particularly big news anymore, they're that common. Print news is almost completely dead (and, personally, I hate the way the field of journalism is evolving). 

But oddly, the things that are killing the print news industry and radically altering the publishing world are the same things that are offering previously unheard of opportunities for people.

Have you seen Amanda Palmer's TED talk? It's called "The Art of Asking," and she discusses the Kickstarter campaign that successfully funded her last album and tour. She talks about how crowd funding isn't a matter of just standing there with your hand out. It's about connection, and vulnerability -- two things that resonate deeply with me. But it also gave her the creative freedom and control that she didn't have -- couldn't have -- with her mainstream record label.

Following in her footsteps, Rob Thomas and Kristen Bell launched a hugely successful Kickstarter campaign to fund the Veronica Mars movie. And then Zach Braff did it, too. There were a lot of people who were pissed off about him using a venue like Kickstarter to fund a movie, but I think he makes a compelling argument that this will give him an opportunity to have the kind of creative control he wouldn't have in the traditional movie industry -- this way he's accountable to the people who invested in his creative vision rather than people who want to warp his creative vision to protect their financial investment.

Then there's HitRecord, the online production company co-founded by Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Basically, it's a community of people who collaborate to create art and then they share in the financial success of that art. Last year, they released the first volume of the Tiny Book of Tiny Stories (which I highly recommend).

As I was noticing all these interesting things happening in other sectors of the arts and entertainment, I came across this article about a website that allows writers to basically make their own book tours. I've heard from friends with book deals and read in lots of articles how book tours are mostly a thing of the past and that publishers don't really want to spend the money on them anymore (at least not for people who aren't well-known). As the article points out, live readings are one of the best ways to develop a loyal audience. (Remember how Amanda talked about developing a die-hard fan base by connecting with them? Here it comes around again....)

A little while later, I stumbled on this article about how David Mamet is quasi-self-publishing his next book. (I say quasi, because his literary agency is basically cutting out the publishing house, and he's taking control of the marketing, but it's still quite similar to the normal publishing route in a lot of ways.) 

Then there was this one about how the work of female authors gets marketed in the traditional publishing world. Not only is she right, but it's annoying as hell. (Not only are the covers just plain stupid, but it annoys me to know end to think people are underestimating me and my brain.)

This blog intended for freelancers talks a lot about a new/different economy; this article discusses new opportunities in the indie publishing world, particularly related to e-books (but there's a lot of commentary on the current state publishing industry in general).

Then today, I saw this article about a local doctor who has stopped accepting insurance AT ALL. Instead, he's posted his prices on his website (which don't look all that unreasonable to me). Patients can pay out of pocket and get their insurance companies to reimburse them (or not, I guess). It gives him the freedom to set his own rates (including sliding scales for people having financial difficulty), to make house calls, to avoid the nuisance of dealing with insurance companies. (It probably also ends up exempting him from HIPAA, which would relieve a huge administrative burden as well.)

All of these things look connected to me -- it's about eschewing giant bureaucracies, getting closer to the people you intend to reach (listeners, viewers, readers, patients), and having more say in how you produce your work. This resonates so much with me (not to mention with all the themes of this blog). I've never wanted to be some famous writer. I write because it's who I am. I want to share what I write because, like most humans, I crave connection and community -- because I know this planet is going to die one day and all that really matters is how we connect to each other in our own finite collections of moments.

I have written every day since November 1. In that time, I finished the first draft of a book I spent two years on. By mid-July, I plan to have written the first draft of its sequel (in less than six months). After that, I get to do some good quality reading and revising and editing before...what?

Well, if I go the traditional route, the next step would be to query agents. Once you get an agent, they have to shop around to different publishers. Once a publisher signs you, it still takes a couple years before your book hits the shelves.

If your book is wildly successful, you might make some money, but the publisher makes more. A lot more. (Especially on e-books.)

But your work isn't done. Remember how publishers aren't really interested in sending no-name writers on book tours? Read that article about David Mamet again -- he wants to take over the marketing aspect, because he doesn't trust a publisher to do it and do it well. Even with a publisher behind you, a lot of the marketing still falls on the writer.

Last year, Roland Merullo -- a mentor in my MFA program, who has published a number of books the traditional way -- followed a different path with his most recent book. He held an IPO where people invested the upfront costs of the book (and were paid back, plus 10%) and in addition, he hosted a successful Kickstarter campaign for smaller donations. He worked directly with a small publishing house and the funds raised went toward printing and publicity costs.

When I look at all these puzzle pieces, it just seems like a no-brainer to skip the traditional publishing route and find another way. A better way. I don't know what that way is just yet. There are lots of options. I know that professional editing is essential; as is professional design, typesetting, and distribution for print books; as is marketing and publicity. These are not things I have the skills to do by myself, but the epiphany I was talking about way at the beginning of the blog (remember that?) was this: I don't have to go the traditional publishing route to accomplish all it has to offer. And circumventing that system will probably get me much more of what I want in the end (ultimate creative control, greater connectedness to my readers, a quicker turnaround time). I haven't figured out all the details, which is why it still doesn't feel fully formed, but I shouldn't let myself get distracted by that now anyway. For now, my focus needs to be on the writing.

And with that, I better get working on today's bit, because it would suck to break my streak at day # 209.



* I picked that paper not because I had any desire whatsoever to live in Detroit, but because I'd seen several exceptionally well-written articles from the paper at a journalism conference I attended when I was a junior in high school.

"Incredibly, Mom stayed dead but the sky changed."

- Karen Russell, Swamplandia!

Dear Ma,


It's Mother's Day again. This makes four. I guess I'm just going to have to accept that they're going to keep happening every year, no matter how I feel about it.

But, I can't say it's been a terrible day (cat pawing me in the face to wake me up and feed him not withstanding). I got a text from a good friend early this morning, checking on me, and assuring me that you'd be proud of me. I finished reading a book I really enjoyed. I took a nap. I ironed all the springy/summery clothes that were ridiculously wrinkled from being tucked away all winter (which is pretty much the only time I iron anything anymore). I watched a movie about Edgar Allan Poe (remember how much I loved him as a kid?), and I got caught up on Doctor Who (including another episode written by my favorite writer). Here it is 9 at night, and I'm still in my pajamas from last night with unbrushed hair. So, no, I can't say it was a particularly difficult or taxing day.

Although the hair thing, that's complicated. I've been letting my hair grow for more than a year now, because you used to say -- even years and years after I'd started wearing my hair short -- that every time we talked on the phone, you still pictured me with long hair. So, I decided I should have long(er) hair when we scatter your ashes this July. (I'm probably going to cut it short again after that, but who knows.) I still have one of those expensive hair brushes you used to buy me at Scot's Corners Pharmacy with the black handle and the orange rubber part that held the thick black bristles. It was imported from France or Italy and was ridiculously expensive, but it was one of the only brushes that could tame my thick hair. So you said. Anyway, I've had this brush since I first moved to Maine, and last week the handle broke off. I tossed the handle, but I couldn't bear to throw the bristle part away. Scot's Corners Pharmacy is long gone, and I doubt I'd find another brush like this. Even if I could, I wouldn't want to. I'm not going to get sentimental over a brush. It's not the brush that matters. It's just another reminder of things I've lost that I can't ever get back.

Being motherless is something I face every day. Some days are harder than others. What's difficult about this day is all the reminders of how many other people have mothers they love who they can see and talk to and just know are there when they need them. ...But the thing is, it's also a reminder of how many of us there are -- the ones who don't have that and will never have that again (and, in some cases, never even had it at all).

I've been writing a bunch of these kinds of letters lately. Not from me to you, but from Ramona to her dead mother. (It starts getting a little brain-squishy if you think about it too much, so don't.) I've been finding them harder to write than I expected (even when I steal generously from letters I've written you).

My horoscope today:

You can't quite get a handle on your emotions right now -- so don't bother trying to understand them precisely. Get a loose sense by telling a story that resonates with you in some way.

That pretty much sums up my life....

Grief is a tricky landscape to navigate, that's for sure. And, I hope my friend was right, that you'd be proud of the way I've made my way through it.

This day used to be a painful reminder of things I'd lost, things I'll never have in the future. (It still is to some extent.) But for now, it's a reminder of some of the things I still need to plan, some of the details I can't let slip, because there are a finite number of adventures left, and I intend to make the most of them.

Love you, Ma. Always.

"There's plenty of sense in nonsense sometimes, if you wish to look for it."

- Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Angel

I love receiving things in the mail, especially random packages. I still remember one my friend Amy sent me my senior year of college, one Emily sent me toward the end of our MFA, one Dani sent me last fall. My derby wife often sends me random things (usually with some connection to garden gnomes).

Because these deliveries have brought me such joy, I try to remember to send people random things in the mail, too. Sometimes, it's just a little plastic monkey from a gumball machine (or, in one case, an envelope FILLED with little plastic monkeys). Sometimes, it's a whole box of stuff aimed at each of the senses (except smell -- I have almost no sense of smell and it's a pain in the butt trying to track down something to represent smell anyway). I can't even remember all the ninja socks I've mailed people when it seemed like they were having a hard time (it's a scientific fact that you feel braver with ninja socks on).

Yesterday, a link to this article came across my Twitter feed, and I was struck dumb with delight by this:

The boxes! I’m always looking for clever, novel things to send but my favorites are boxes of chocolates. They seem like such a luxury. The oddest thing ( thing? ) was some of the cremated remains of the writer Shirley Jackson, who wrote “The Haunting of Hill House.” Her daughter sent me the ashes, and I sent them ( in a carved antique box ) to my editor, Gerry Howard. I wish I had more of the same to send my editor at Byliner, Amy Grace Lloyd. She deserves some baked writer ashes … Sometimes I takes me days to compile a box. Usually — and I’m getting more careful about this — I look for clever, useful, beautifully packaged things. My theory is that if I vary them it’s more likely at least one thing will occur as a delight for you.
( secret? I try to send smells, sounds, flavors, and i avoid sending more words. gosh i hate to type. )

And now I feel like I want to make friends with Chuck Palahniuk. (I've never even read any of his books -- lots of my friends love him, have recommended him, quoted him in ways that make me think I'd love his writing, but I've just never picked up a book of his.)

Oddly, the same day friends of mine who have been hit by a grief train this year received my latest box of fun stuff and right now I've got stuff for three little mailings ready to go. 

It's just a coincidence, but I feel like I experience way more coincidences and fewer deja vus than, apparently, is normal.