Inspiration Constipation
Today’s guest post is from John, who writes at The Adventures of Daddy Runs A Lot. I can’t remember how I found his blog, but I suspect I followed him after reading one of his thoughtful comments on someone else’s blog or one of his funny tweets. All I know is once I started reading, I was hooked.
Enjoy!
***
The thing about writing for an audience that is, essentially, just like you (what, you’re not all tall, bald, musician, marathon-running bloggers with twisted, possibly-heretical senses of humor who can’t sing?) is that it’s easy to run out of ideas. We’ve all been there . . . it’s not that life is bad, it’s just that, well, current events just aren’t blogworthy. It’s not that we don’t want to write for our blogs — it’s just that we’re not feeling it.
In short, blogstipation strikes.
- The first rule of advice for when blogstipation strikes is the same advice that any doctor worth his salt1 will tell you — don’t force things. Forced writing can lead to really, really bad things . . . most notably, a loss of the enjoyment of writing. I’m just as guilty as the next guy2 about forcing a smile. And, of course, I’ve forced writing before — and, every time I’ve done it, I’ve taken an unexpected break from everything, in the hopes that my love of
dick jokesthe written word would come back to me. So far, it always has . . . but, more & more, when I find that I just don’t want to sit down and write, I don’t. A day or two later, I’ll be back with a vengeance. - Every little bit helps. If you took a peek through my drafts, you’d likely be afraid, because my thought process is awkward, and I have a plethora of quasi-completed posts that really only barely make sense. But, sitting down and getting something out, provided that you’re not forcing, and lead to a great deal of relief.
- Next, as long as I can, I read what others have written. Just like picturing a river flowing might help one overcome a shy bladder, reading what others are writing can help get the words flowing. It might be a turn of phrase that someone uses reminds you of your 3rd grade teacher, which reminds you that cursive is a completely useless skill, like being able to tell when squirrels are afraid, which was Janitor’s sixth sense in Scrubs, and then you find yourself writing a list of your favorite sitcom characters of all time . . . which is always a great post because people can stop by and commiserate that they just don’t make television like they used to3 and those young whippersnappers need to get off of my lawn.
- The blogging world may be the one place where people actually want to look at your vacation pictures — use this. Use this well.
- Dick jokes are loved the world over . . . as are boobs. Write about them, and people will come. Who cares if they’re disappointed when they get there? Heck, some of the funniest, and easiest blog posts are those about the wacky search terms that lead people to their blogs4.
I wonder…
About the Writer:
Like most everyone he knows, John is both a conundrum and a work in progress. He holds out hope of writing a novel, and a musical, and a symphony, and learning to ballroom dance while both meditating to a state of higher awareness and sculpting a great masterpiece. He’ll never give up those hopes.
He holds a BS in computer engineering and works as a web developer, but when he talks about his profession and education, he’ll talk a whole lot more about his classic-rock cover band and that minor in music he picked up along the way.
If you’re not careful, he’ll actually talk your ear off talking about his kids (two, a boy & a girl, seven months apart). There is no greater thrill to him than playing in the pit of a community theater production. He’s deliriously proud of his juvenile sense of humor. He laments the rampant misuse of the word “enormity.”
Despite suffering from a serial lack of sleep, you’ll find him waking at 4 in the morning to train for his next marathon, or triathlon, or whatever the heck else he decided to put his body through. John lives with his wife, two kids, two dogs, and a cat in central Pennsylvania, and his blatherings can be found at Daddy Runs a Lot. You can also follow him on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest.
The Single Life… On Kindle, That Is
My brain is ping-ponging this week. I have ideas, baby. And those ideas are running my life, even though I suspect it should be the other way around? Or should it?
I do not know.
You’ll be thankful, I think, that I came to my senses and deleted most of this post before inflicting it upon you. I was bumbling around, writing about my high school reunion (I don’t want to. Go, that is. Period.), the gigantic bruise on my behind (it’s impressive, but not post-worthy, I don’t think. Or photo worthy, so don’t even ask.), Kindle Singles, and pancakes. I was about to launch into some of the aforementioned life-running ideas and whatnot, when my brain temporarily righted itself.
Maybe we’ll chat about some of those other things another day, but for today I want to tell you about one of my new favorite things: Kindle Singles.
Hold on! Come back!
I can’t make any grandiose promises (what am I, a politician?), but I’m pretty sure this post isn’t total dullsville. If you hate books and reading, then move along. But if you like literature and stuff, hang around. I have recommendations for you. And cookies! (The cookie part is a lie. Maybe I am a politician…)
So here’s the thing. I’m a huge fan of real, hard copy books, and as long as books are printed I will buy them. There’s no denying, however, that electronic reading is an idea with some stickiness.
There was a lot of talk at BlogHer Writers about the future of publishing, specifically around this electronic revolution’s impact on the industry. Nobody has a definitive answer just yet, but it’s clear that we’re looking at boundless possibilities for content, surpassing anything we could achieve in print. Publishers are experimenting with music downloads, video extras, and tie-ins, such as games.
We’re on the precipice here, people.
It’s all pretty exciting, but I was still slow to warm to the eReader, until I spent a weekend on my sick bed, browsing Amazon to entertain myself. Kind of by accident, I discovered that you don’t need a Kindle to get content; you can download an app and get content on your computer, iPad or iPhone. Forty eight hours later, I’d read The Hunger Games trilogy on my computer and I was hooked – on The Hunger Games and on the convenience of an eReader.
We now own an actual Kindle (thanks Mom & Dad!), and by we, I do mean Mark. It was technically his Christmas present, but I borrow it. Often. I like all the free and cheap books Amazon offers, because I’m more willing to take a chance on books that I might otherwise consider risky (don’t you hate it when you pay $25 for a book and hate it? Hate is much more affordable on the Kindle).
But my favorite, favorite thing about our eReader is Kindle Singles. Do you know about these? I am in love. Kindle Singles, according to Amazon, “offer a vast spectrum of reporting, essays, memoirs, narratives, and short stories presented to educate, entertain, excite, and inform.”
Indeed.
I read a single or two each week, sometimes more. The length is perfectly suited to someone with Ping Pong Brain. Lately I’m so sleepy at night that it’s taking a mighty long time to finish reading a book. I’ll continue to plug away at full-length books, but it’s nice to read a single or two, as well, and feel like I accomplished something.
Since I love them so, I decided to recommend a few of my favorite Kindle Singles today (in alpha order, because that’s fair):
:: Cooking Solves Everything: How Time in the Kitchen Can Save Your Health, Your Budget, and Even the Planet by Mark Bittman. There’s a whole post – or two or three – coming about this one. Bittman explores ways we can improve our lives, and so much more, by cooking simple meals at home.
:: The Getaway Car: A Practical Memoir About Writing and Life by Ann Patchett. Writers, this one’s for you. I desperately want to sit down with Ms. Patchett and have a cup of coffee. She seems like a fascinating and perfectly lovely person, full of wise words and a dry sense of humor.
:: The Long Run by Mishka Shubaly. Stunning. This is the story of a man who ran his way to sobriety. The subject of addiction is close to my heart – another post for another day – and I’m drawn to stories of survival. Although Mr. Shubaly’s definition of sobriety varies a tad from my own, his tale is no less riveting. I related to him even though we seemingly share a lot more differences than we do similarities.
What are you waiting for? Go on.. download and read!
I wonder…
:: Were you an early adopter of eReaders or are you still holding out?
:: If you’re a Kindle Singles fan, what are some of your favorites?
***
NOTE: Once again, I feel the need to tell you that I am not an Amazon affiliate, nor am I receiving any compensation from Amazon or these authors. I’m just sharing this info because I like you.
read moreWhatever You Do Today
Every once in while, as you bob and weave through the blogosphere, you read something and think, Yes! Exactly! and Thank you! That’s why I read blogs, and – truthfully – why I write one. Because sometimes we (the readers, the writers) find each other on just the right day. Today’s guest post was one of those. Amy sent it to me on a day I was busy lugging around a load of disappointment in… myself. I read her words and the negative internal dialogue went poof!
I’m excited to host Amy here today. We met first on Twitter when I stalked wrote to say I loved her book, and have since had the chance to hang out a couple times. This is the truth: Amy’s every bit as fabulous in person as she is on the page (or screen). She’s the real deal, people. And I’m thankful I know her.
With that, here’s today’s guest post…
***
I’m just dipping my toe in the Pinterest waters these days. I’m not sure that I really need another social media garden to tend, but it’s calling to me, and I’ve been lurking a bit, searching, not knowing what I’m even looking for. Sometimes life is like that.
And then I saw this:
And the gift of that statement socked me right in the solar plexus, taking my breath away.
What if, at the end of today, I didn’t look back and castigate myself for the things I didn’t get done?
What if, at the end of today, I don’t hate myself because, after twenty minutes of my child shrieking at me, I shrieked back?
What if my second book, my screenplay, my blog, all my writing that fills up my time without my children and fulfills my need to create, could bring me joy without a sense of obligation? What if I could think to myself “Lucky me! I got twenty minutes to write today!” rather than “Twenty minutes? And you call yourself a writer?”
If any of us are ever going to get anything done besides being a mother, if we are to create at all, we need what Martha Graham called
a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us
marching and makes us more alive than the others.
But the world won’t end if I don’t get to the gym this week, if I order pizza for dinner, if the speech I’m giving in March goes untouched for one more day, if I am a mother and writer and woman who is less than perfect. For my work, I need the blessed unrest that keeps me marching. But for my husband, my family, my life, I need to let whatever I do today be enough.
I wonder…
:: Why is this a lesson so hard for many of us to learn?
:: Do we as women and mothers have a harder time with this than men do?
:: And is that fault in the stars, or in ourselves?
***
About the Writer:
Amy Wilson blogs at whendidigetlikethis.com. She is the author of When Did I Get Like This? The Screamer, The Worrier, The Dinosaur-Chicken-Nugget Buyer, and Other Mothers I Swore I’d Never Be and the play Mother Load. This spring, she is directing the New York City premiere of Listen To Your Mother. Join the When Did I Get Like This? Facebook page or follow Amy on Twitter.
Happy (Almost) Valentines Day, And May it Be Bloodless This Year
Last Valentine’s Day was a bloody mess.
I’m not trying to pretend I’m British. Last year there was actual blood, and lots of it.
And crying.
And a trip to the ER.
And, ultimately, an anxiety/exhaustion-induced chocolate binge that would put Night-Before-the-Diet-Starts-Oprah to shame. To shame.
The story, published previously on this blog, is below. Spoiler Alert: Although the blood was plentiful, the wound itself ended up being fairly tame. But… the whole thing still bothers me.
It bothers me that no matter what I do to keep my kids safe, they can still be in danger.
It really bothers me that danger lurks at my own dining room table, of all places.
It bothers me that ever since “the incident,” when you say Valentine’s Day, I say blergh. Not because it’s a ridiculous holiday (it kind of is), but because forever more I will equate the day with a trip to the ER, and with the terrifying worry known to mothers around the world.
But. Even though there’s no undoing the association, I have to admit these things:
- It all ended up just fine. In the grand scheme, our Valentine’s Day ER Adventure was but a flesh wound. (Not dead yet! Anyone want to name the film?)
- My kids are of the age when any reason to eat candy is most excellent. Therefore, Valentine’s Day rules.
- Who am I kidding? I love to eat candy. Therefore, Valentine’s Day rules.
Therefore… I’m going to enjoy the class parties with my kids, and make them heart-shaped toast on Tuesday, and give them boxes of chocolate. Because I love them, dearly, and as we’ve established more than once (today and previously), I love candy.
As for you, I wish for you a Happy Valentine’s Day 2012. I wish you love. At the very least, I wish you chocolate. The good stuff, not that creepy pink sugary filling crap.
For the new people around here, last year’s story follows.*
*Modified slightly from it’s original version. The facts and the characters remain the same, though.
***
I was feeling a bit behind on life. I felt like I was moving at warp speed, focusing on all of it – family, work, writing, blogging, all that other stuff we have to do every day – and none of it, simultaneously.
Then, around 6:15 on Monday night, Valentine’s Day 2011, my world stopped momentarily. The blog, the writing, my life and everything in between disappeared.
We were sitting at dinner, about to give the boys their little Valentine’s treats. P, who is 21 months old, was strapped into his booster seat. The seat was, of course, strapped to the dining chair. In his excitement over presents (“Prays!” he says), P pushed his feet against the table and launched straight back, like a tree falling in the forest.
And let me tell you, it does make a sound when a tree falls. It sounds like a clap of lightning followed by screaming. So much screaming.
I launched out of my own chair, Mark later noting that I looked like a cartoon version of myself, feet spinning, the air moving like a tornado around me. I bashed my arm on another chair, my hip on the table, nearly slipped, and narrowly missed falling on top of my wailing child, who was still strapped in his chair.
Mark and I reached P simultaneously. Mark undid the buckles while I scooped P, his mouth wide with a scream, into my arms. Instinctively I put my hand on the back of his head. I registered warmth and wetness.
Blood. And lots of it.
According to witnesses (okay, just Mark), my face went from Mom-Fear-Thinly-Veiled-as-Mom-Comfort to Blank to Panic in a sort of slow motion montage. No question, an ER trip was imminent.
As only parents can do, we put on our grown up pants, made our faces calm and our voices even. We rallied older brother, H, into the car and gently loaded P into his own seat.
I had this brief, bizarre internal debate with myself over strapping him into his car seat. I wanted to hold him, but I knew that I couldn’t. What if we had an accident on the way to the ER? The debate didn’t last long, but deciding to put him in a car seat made me ache, deep in my chest, down through my gut. Down into the mom soul.
My little debate with myself was another reminder that there is no end to a mother’s ability to feel… what?
To feel pain, guilt, fear, doubt.
To feel strength, courage, faith.
I wonder if I’ll ever know where to put all of these feelings, how to manage them. It’s as if they’re all careening around my heart and my mind, jockeying for my attention. Be proud! Be worried! Be joyous! Be pissed off!
P cried as I strapped him in the seat. He wanted to be held as much as I wanted to hold him. So the feelings jostled about, forcing me to use my brain and my heart together, ultimately putting his safety first and figuring out how to comfort him (and a worried big brother) in the process.
The rest of the story is standard fare, thank God.
P calmed down as soon as the car started rolling. He talked about the lights and cars we saw on the way, and I was reassured. A mother’s mind automatically goes to brain injury when her child’s head splits open. It was comforting to hear him chatter, to see him coherently take in his surroundings.
In the end, P got two staples in his head. He took them like a champ, sat up and said, “Home. Night-night.” Mark and I looked at him and said, “Yes, sir. That is exactly what we have in mind.”
And then I choked back a sob of grateful relief.
This was not our first trip to the ER. It was not even our first trip with P. Twice before – before this Valentine’s Day fiasco – I’ve felt time freeze and had fear render me temporarily blind, numb, breathless.
Twice, and now a third time, we’ve been abundantly blessed. The accidents, while scary in the moment, have been mild. Things often look way worse than they are. Yet another lesson motherhood hands us.
In my life with this little daredevil, danger magnet, I’m sure there will be more scary moments. And I will never be prepared for any of it. How could I be?
My prayer, though, is that it’s never scarier than this. That when it’s all said and done, we’ll be laughing, joking about our little Massive Headwound Harry, and saying prayers of thanksgiving that the world only stopped for a moment. And once that world started turning again, we were all whole, healthy, and together.
read moreBoys and Books
The boys:
Karate stance, crazy leap/kick, hi-ya!
We’re injas! (Ninjas, that is.)
Hey, you sit here, with your head down, and I’ll jump over you!
If we pull this table over here, and stack these bean bags over here, and put this tray on top, and put this bucket on our heads, we can slide down our fort!
Me:
Please don’t point your finger-guns at people. Or any living thing. Ninjas don’t even use guns.
Get off of your brother’s head.
No, you cannot use my tray to slide down your bean bag tower. I don’t care if you have a bucket helmet. I’m not worried about your head, I’m worried about my tray.
I said, get. off. your. brother’s. head. now.
It is not funny to fart on people’s heads.
No, it’s really not funny.
Dudes, that’s gross.
End scene. Only it’s not a scene. It’s my life.
I am alone, people. The lone sane voice in a testosterone-fueled house, where danger is equivalent to fun, gross is equivalent to hilarious.
I know girls do this stuff, too; I’ve witnessed little girls go all in with the gross-out humor. But anyone who lives with boys knows that high energy rough-housing, often flavored with disgusting sounds and smells is more than a once-in-a-while activity. It’s a way of life. The jumping, running, shooting, building, burping, and farting never stop.
So we send them outside to play and enroll them in sports. We make sure they have constructive ways to burn up that energy.
Although I appreciate, and even embrace, their wild nature, I am also so grateful that my tiny neanderthals love to read. Both of my boys will happily look at books, and even more happily listen to stories, with patience you wouldn’t believe possible after witnessing their active playtime.
My guess is that nearly all young kids appreciate story time, but I’ve heard from people with older kids that reading can lose its appeal as kids grow. Some things never change, and apparently it’s still not cool to be a book nerd. While I don’t want to be Tiger Mom-like in my zeal, I do want to encourage a love of books.
One of our favorite authors around here is Jon Scieszka, who writes the Trucktown books. Both of my boys love all of the crashing, smashing silliness in Mr. Scieszka’s books. In fact, yesterday after P. finished leaning over the back of the sofa, dropping cars as though they were bombs on the fire truck below, we read Truckery Rhymes three times. We cuddled under a blanket, stopping often to talk about the pictures and compare the original versions of the rhymes to the truck-ed out versions.
I live for those moments. The moments when non-stop motion ceases, a soft cheek rests on my shoulder, allowing me to not-so-secretly breathe in my son’s subtle sweaty-yet-sweet scent… well, that’s heaven on earth.
Recently, I went in search of more information about the man behind Trucktown, hoping to order a few more books moments. My search led me to Guys Read, an online literacy program started by Mr. Scieszka. According to the site, Guys Read is focused on helping boys (young and old) become self-motivated, lifelong readers.
Research shows that boys are having trouble reading, and that boys are getting worse at reading. No one is quite sure why. Some of the reasons are biological. Some of the reasons are sociological.
But the good news is that research also shows that boys will read — if they are given reading that interests them.
I find that disheartening and thrilling at the same time. Disheartening, because I don’t want my bookworms to give up on reading; there’s not an awful lot I can do about their biology (see: farting on brother’s head). But it’s thrilling to know that there are people like Jon Scieszka and resources like Guys Read.
Perhaps there’s hope for this generation of boys.
Perhaps my guys will never outgrow the thrill of a good book.
I wonder…
:: Whether you have boys or girls, how do you foster a love of books and reading?
:: Will you push them to read even if they say they hate it? How will you combat the “it’s not cool to read” argument?
:: Do you have any great guy-themed reading resources?
** PLEASE NOTE **
This post could be a review for Jon Scieszka/Trucktown/Guys Read, but it’s not. I’ve never met or talked to Mr. Scieszka, and I am not being compensated in way, shape, or form. I just wanted to share this information with you, because I think it’s awesome. The end.
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