There are two kinds of people in the world: those old enough to have 28-year-old twins, and those not. Clearly, I am far too young for that, but a woman who looks an awful lot like me has written a spectacular tribute post celebrating their birthday and World Prematurity Day over on the Mike&Ollie blog. You don't want to miss it. Read more here.
Nobody will ever deprive the American people of the right to vote except the American people themselves and the only way the could do this is by not voting. — Franklin D. Roosevelt, 32nd President of the United States
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who vote and those who don't.
Vote.
It's your right.
It's your responsibility.
Not voting is not a form a protest, it's abdication.
Not registered? You can register to vote on Election Day (November 6, 2018) in:
California
Colorado
Connecticut
DC
Hawaii
Idaho
Illinois
Iowa
Maine
Minnesota
Montana
Now Hampshire
Utah
Vermont
Wisconsin
Wyoming
Don't know where your polling place is? Find it here.
Don't know how to cast your vote? Take a minute, get a sample ballot from your area here, and figure it out.
Don't know why you should vote? Here are some of my reasons:
Vote because you are a citizen and it's your privilege and responsibility.
Vote so you have a say in how things run and who we will be as a country.
Vote so you can complain. That's right, put up or shut up.
Vote because when you don't, someone else gets to tell you how things will run.
Vote because "Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried…." So said Winston Churchill, who was paraphrasing some unknown pundit.
Vote to keep this crazy, mixed up, flawed, fantastic experiment of a country from losing the bet that it wouldn't work.
I never miss Michigan football. At just 13 per games per season (when we go to a bowl game), it's an easy commitment to make. I've always liked Michigan basketball (in theory), but freely admit that the season is just too long for me, with more than 30 games in the regular season and a bazillion tournament games.
Basketball is fun, at least college basketball, and March Madness is … mad. It's one of the few times in life when you feel like anything can happen. And, according to my brother, it usually does. The youth, the adrenaline, the superstitions, the speed of the game, all add up to a level of unpredictability that can change the momentum in a literal moment.
It's a time when a school no one has ever heard of—University of Maryland Baltimore County—becomes the trending hashtag #UMBC as the first ever 16 seed to beat a #1 team in the NCAA tournament
It's a time when fans (even only sometimes fans, like me) are on the edge of their seats. I had a great time watching Michigan's buzzer beater against Houston last Friday night. It was particularly sweet because I got to watch it with my own Michigan junior, who came home for the weekend. We ran around the room cheering, like the team ran around the court after watching Jordan Poole arc that perfect winning three-pointer into the hoop at the last second.
The last two minutes of a basketball game are all that really matter (blasphemy, I know, but it's true). This was certainly true of the Michigan-Houston game. Watch those two minutes in the clip below and you can see the "hero", Jordan Poole and his winning shot. You can see the "goat", Houston's Devin Davis, miss his last two free throws, which should have won the game.
You may have already seen a clip of that shot. I wouldn't be surprised. It's been viewed hundreds of thousands of times.
But have you seen this clip? Maybe not. These seven seconds were caught by Jeffrey Parsons just a few seconds after the buzzer beater. Michigan's forward Mo Wagner stopped mid-celebration to console Houston's devastated Corey Davis, Jr. The photo at the top of the article shows Wagner giving a conciliatory pat to Devin Davis—the guy who missed the free throws.
Or how about this one, University of Virginia coach Tony Bennett, who could have been the goat after his team's historic loss.
Everyone wants to be the hero. Jordan Poole and his "overdose of swag" certainly does. He's practiced for it and that's great.
No one wants to be the goat. Certainly not Devin Davis, who has overcome a lot in his short life, and shouldn't get derailed for two missed free throws.
It's a world of heroes and goats. But I like the way Wagner and Bennett are redefining things for us. Maybe a hero is not just the guy who made the winning shot, but the guy who took a second to recognize another's pain. Maybe the goat is a hero in disguise, teaching us the most important life lessons.
Because everyone has the potentialities of a hero or a goat.
Because, despite what we see in the world, in politics, and in business—in life, it is how you play the game.
There are two kinds of people in the world: adults and children, and these designations have nothing to do with age.
My world today, at this moment, is crowded with all things adult. I've been trying to suck up all the adultness I can muster to find rational, effective, and productive ways to fight all the new battles that have been launched by our new administration.
In the midst of all that, my best adult role model — my mom (who I am pretty sure was born an adult) — is lying helpless in an ICU hospital bed. There is nothing like a critically ill parent to make you have to adult-up.
Then along came Christine Wolf (an amazing writer), who shared a writing prompt from ChicagoNow: When was the first time you felt like an adult. Thank you for the prompt and the distraction, Christine. I've already paced every square inch of this hospital and you reminded me that writing is my way through things.
It's almost ubiquitous that having children suddenly makes you feel like an adult. My first high-risk pregnancy and my very preemie twins certainly started me down the path to adulthood, but the first time I really felt like an adult was a couple of years later, when the daily traumas of their premature birth were pretty well behind us.
It was an ordinary day with two toddlers (if there is such a thing). I was on the phone getting a fix of adult conversation when I heard a small crash in the kitchen. Upon investigation, I realized Molly had knocked over the trash. Not a big deal. I picked everything up while I continued my conversation.
Molly came up to me and put her arms around my neck and hugged me tight. I finished up my call and picked her up into a hug. She was not crying and didn't seem upset, but she wouldn't let go of me. I set her down and noticed that her fists were squeezed tight. A stream of red leaked from her right fist down her arm. I started hyperventilate. I wasn't great with blood.
You are the grownup, I reminded myself. "Sweetie, open your hand so Mama can see," I told my daughter. She did, and I saw more of the internal anatomy of a hand than I had ever hoped to see. I figured out later that she had picked up the sharp lid of a tuna can from the garbage and in transferring it from her dominate left hand into her right, she had sliced open her palm. Not good.
I grabbed a clean kitchen towel and told her to squeeze it tight. Then I called my husband at work. "Hi …" That's all he got out.
"Molly cut her hand. It's really bad. And I just realized you can't help me." And I hung up on him. Poor man.
About to panic, I once again reminded myself that I was the only adult in the house and that meant, well, that I had to be an adult.
I called my neighbors who had four kids. Ed tried to chitchat, but I told him what had happened. He, being a full-fledged adult, asked "What can I do?"
"Come get Isaac," I said. I grabbed Molly and one diaper bag, practically threw Isaac, his blanket, and the other diaper bag at Ed as soon as he got to the door, and buckled my wounded daughter into her carseat.
A wave of vertigo swept over me as I started the car. "Stop it," I said to myself. "You can do this. You must do this." So I rolled down the car window and spoke encouragingly to Molly all the way to the hospital where they had spent the first five months of their lives.
Molly and Isaac were practically legends at Evanston Hospital. Several people on staff (even in the ER) recognized us. We had to wait quite a while for a hand specialist to make sure there was no ligament damage before they could stitch her up. Molly was stoic. She still had not cried.
Once the x-rays and exams had been taken, a nurse in the room let me step down from being an adult during the most crucial moments of the night. "Look," she said. "You don't need to be here. You won't be able to hold her. We have to strap her down. If you stay, she's going to think you are a co-conspirator. Go take a break, check on Isaac, and when you come back, you can be the hero who rescues her from us monsters."
I wavered for a good 15 seconds before I took her advice and bailed. Some adult! I called to check on Isaac. He was sleeping peacefully at the neighbors. I called my husband to apologize for leaving him hanging and to update him on everything. I waited five more minutes and then I made my way, guiltily, back to the ER.
The nurse was right. Molly stopped crying and reached for me the second I came back into the room. She glared at the medical staff as if they were the devil's own and clung to me as we left to go home and pick up her brother. In her eyes, at least, I was the adult she could count on.
*Thanks again, Christine, for allowing me to escape being an adult for this hour while I played with my words.
There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who write blog posts and those who are trying NaNoWriMo … again. (If you don't know about NaNoWriMo, see my earlier posts about it.) See you on December 1.
There are two kinds of people in the world: baseball fans and those who, like my daughter, think watching baseball is like watching grass grow. At this point, I'm not really a fan. Oh, sure, I root for the Cubbies because, you know … the Cubbies. The true age of miracles will have begun if the Chicago Cubs ever win the World Series, and I want the universe to know that I'm on the right side of that.
But I was a fan when I was a kid, mostly because of my dad. I'm sitting here with him now, not talking to him because he's sleeping, and thinking about baseball. We were Detroit Tigers fans and in the '60s, that was something. Many of my earliest memories have to do with Tiger baseball games. It was part of our family's DNA. My dad always says that he knew my mom was the girl for him when she sat through a double header on their first date. My mom goes back and forth on whether her fortitude on that first date was a good thing or not.
Willie Horton (the Tiger left fielder, not the felon of attack-ad fame) was my hero when I was a little girl, probably because I got a Willie Horton bat at Tiger Stadium on Bat Day in 1967. That summer, the Detroit Tigers came in second in the American League, and the excitement of a winning team was one of the few positives in a city that was was rocked by violent race riots.
I remember going to a Twi-night double header that lasted into the wee hours when the second game went into extra innings. I asked my brother, the walking-sports-record-book, whether he remembers it being the infamous June 17 games against the then-Kansas City A's, which still holds the American League record as the longest double header in history at nine hours and five minutes. The Tigers won Game 1, but lost Game 2 after 19 innings. I can't believe my brother doesn't remember if that was the double header we saw (although to be fair, he was only five), but I'm going with yes. I was most excited because we got to stay up so late.
The next year, the Tigers took the World Series in seven games against the Cardinals. I can still recite most of the roster from that team. We trick-or-treated at the home of series MVP pitcher Mickey Lolich. I remember being let out of third grade early one day that fall so we could all go home and watch the game on TV. I remember riding home on the handle bars of Jimmy Brown's bike, listening to the opening inning on his transistor radio. I remember listening to the games in the car on WJR AM, and growing into a cranky teenager who would much rather have been listening to rock and roll on FM stereo.
Mostly, though, I remember baseball and the Tigers being all about my dad. Every night, when he walked in the door after work, my dad would shout: "I'm home, sports fans!" I'm sitting here with my dad for an entirely different kind of twi-night double header and I'd give a lot to hear that kind of enthusiasm again. I'd give even more if I could take him home.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
I promised more posts. That was back in July. Clearly, I lied. Whether it was to you or to myself, I'm not quite sure. I do know that I have a whole bunch of posts written in my head. Good ones. Excellent reads. In the meantime, this amused me, as almost all "Two Kinds of People" things do. Enjoy. More soon. Promise.
(I should probably have kept this image for my dance post. You might see it again.)
Not long ago, my friend Hey-It's Mike Anderson posted a visual two-kinds-of-people gag on my Facebook Wall. It may or may not have been the image above (I couldn't find it on my feed), but that's not important. What's important is the thing Mike wrote along with the image: "I miss the blog." Hundreds ofSeveral A few other people "liked" his post.
Now, before you go getting all up in my face about how immodest it is for me to tell you this, let me just say that, as a writer, this is probably the best thing anyone has ever said to me. It means that someone READS MY STUFF. And misses it when I'm not writing. This is huge. HUGE, I tell you.
It's also motivating. Not motivating in the sense that I immediately wrote a new post or anything. But motivating enough that I'm finally getting around to it just a few short weeks (months? Mike?) after the gentle nudge. Again, in writer-procrastination time, that is immediate.
You see, half the reason I haven't been posting here is that I have a lot of other work that I'm supposed to be doing. So, I haven't been writing. Of course, that doesn't mean the other work is getting done, it just means that I was leaving open that window of opportunity to do it, you know, eventually.
But, I miss writing when I don't do it. I miss my legionsdozens couple of readers, and was frankly thrilled to discover they actually exist.
So, today I'm posting. If you're one of the two (kinds of) people who read this blog, thank you. Leave a comment so I know you stopped by.
I also submitted two poems (I've been told I'll hear whether they've been accepted in two to six months, so don't hold your breath). Who knows. Maybe I'll even get some of that other work done. Thanks Mike. Now look what you've gotten me into.
Image credit: Bubble Gag. Nudge credit: Mike Anderson
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who stay on top of things and those who get way behind. Yeah, I'm way behind on almost everything these days, especially this blog. Keeping up will be my number one resolution in 2014. Maybe my only resolution.
I wish you all the very best in the coming new year. Celebrate the waning days of 2013 with joy and as much laughter as you can muster. See you on the flip side.
"When you are discontent, you always want more, more, more. Your desire can never be satisfied. But when you practice contentment, you can say to yourself, 'Oh yes - I already have everything that I really need.'" —Dalai Lama
There are two kinds of people in the world: the "I Wants" and the "I Haves". I often wish I could "want" less. Certainly, my wants have changed over the years. Many of the things I used to want (even many of the things I have) seem frivolous, even ridiculous to now.
Like some of the things we registered for when we got married. Would I still register for fine china and crystal if I were to get married today? I don't know. I do know that I don't worry about breaking my glasses from Ikea or my nearly unbreakable-and-cheap-to-replace-even-if-they-do-break Corelle dinner dishes. I don't think I sold any of my wedding gifts in our yard sales, but someday I probably will. I know my parents did when the divested themselves of decades of stuff and moved to Florida.
I have had many tragic cases of the "I-Wants" in my life: that expensive SLR camera I wanted (and never got) as a teen; that 1972 convertible VW bug that I regretted buying almost the minute I pulled it into the driveway; countless fashion faux pas too numerous and embarrassing to list here.
There is certainly a level of peace in giving up many of the greedy "I-Wants" of youth and young adulthood. Aging parents, stiff joints, and vulnerable babies help us trade in some of the tangible things we wanted for the intangible and infinitely more important "I-Wants" of health and happiness. You kind of know that you've grown up when most of your "I-Wants" are for the people you love rather than for yourself.
But is the Dalai Lama right? Do we already have everything that we really need?
I used to think so. I used to think that not wanting was the key to happiness, but I'm not so sure anymore. I still want. Some of my wants are selfish (like a new kitchen, for which I have even created a Dream-Kitchen Pinterest Board). Career success is a big want. And I have all kinds of wants for my kids. There are things I wish I could give them, sure, but more important than things, I wish I could give them peace of mind from some of the stresses in our lives that are not of their doing.
I guess I think that it's not such a bad thing to want. Wanting keeps us busy. Wanting keeps us trying. Wanting keeps us doing the things we have to do, even if we don't necessarily want to do them. But most important, wanting keeps us alive.
My parents are not that old (mid-seventies)—I hope they have many good years ahead of them. Since they left Michigan about eight years ago, I can't tell you how many times I've heard them say "We don't need anything. We don't want anything." Sounds good, right? Not so much.
Some health issues have begun robbing them of the ability to experience joy in life that they used to find in little and big things alike. To enjoy life, you have to want—you have to want to go places and do things and see people. I never in my life struggled to find a gift for my mother that I knew she would like (until recently). She loved presents, and it was a blast to give them to her. Now, she doesn't want anything. For holidays to be fun, you have to want to shop for gifts that your children or grandchildren will love and to love the gifts they have bought or made for you. I see the want slipping away from them and it scares me.
So, I'm going to keep wanting. I want to get healthier and skinnier, so I'm going to keep walking. I want to be more financially secure, so I'm going to keep working. And I want my parents to rediscover that life is worth wanting, so I'm going to be patient, and continue to love them and the life they have given me.
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who bloom early, and those who bloom late.
Conventional wisdom has it that truly creative works come from the energy, the hope, and the exuberance of youth. But conventional wisdom is wrong.
Youth Is Served
It's easy to find examples of people who flourished at a relatively young age. We need look no further than Picasso, whose best work came when he was young. Just 20 when he painted “Evocation: The Burial of Casagemas,” Picasso went on to create many of the greatest works of his career by the time he was 26. Consider also T.S. Eliot, who wrote “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” when he was 23. John Lennon’s haunting “In My Life,” a paean to love and loss, was written at the ripe old age of 25.
The Glory of the Late Bloomer
But for every John Lennon, there is an Alice Munro, publishing her first book at 37. And then there is Alfred Hitchcock, who directed classics “Dial M for Murder,” “Rear Window,” “To Catch a Thief,” “The Trouble with Harry,” “Vertigo,” “North by Northwest,” and “Psycho" between his 54th and 61st birthdays, as Malcolm Gladwell references in his 2008 New Yorker piece, "Late Bloomers.” Gladwell believes that youth doesn’t corner the market on incandescent work. He notes: “Some poets do their best work at the beginning of their careers. Others do their best work decades later. Forty-two per cent of [Robert] Frost’s anthologized poems were written after the age of fifty. For [William Carlos] Williams, it’s forty-four per cent. For [Wallace] Stevens, it’s forty-nine per cent.”
My Story
As a late bloomer myself, I appreciate and celebrate those artists who found their voices years after they hit drinking age. I am “young” in many ways: God help me, but my favorite store is Hot Topic, where my 11-year-old daughter and I buy the T-shirts (Walking Dead, Doctor Who) that make up the balance of our wardrobes. But according to the calendar, I’m getting long in the tooth: born the day Martin Luther King gave his “I have a dream” speech, I’m looking 50 straight in the eye.
I do things…late. I married years after many of my college friends had already tied the knot; my husband David and I had our beloved daughter Marion well into our 30s; I went back to graduate school and pursued a degree in library science after years as an editor. And I didn’t start writing until I was in my 30s. In fact, I dropped out of a creative writing class in college (taught by a gifted poet and instructor), because I didn’t feel as though I had anything to say. It wasn’t until I took a continuing education class, as a lark, out of Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois, that something clicked for me: I had something to say. I was 30 years old. And then it took me almost two decades to define exactly what that was.
My instructor at Northwestern, Fred Shafer*, saw something in my work and invited me to join a writing workshop he held out of his home. And then I started writing in earnest: eking out stories after work, on weekends, at night. Stories started getting published; I won a grant; we had a child, and David and I decided we’d love it if I could stay home, and write, and hang out with our kid. More stories were written, and I kept sending them out. My pace is glacial: one story got 33 rejections before The Sunpicked it up (thank you, Sy Safransky). But slowly, stubbornly, I started building up a backlog of short stories that worked together. The stories carried a common theme, loss; something we all experience if we live long enough.
Living and Losing
But why could Lennon write about loss when he was still in his mid-20s? It could be argued that he’d had a hard life, that he was an old soul. Lennon’s backstory hints that both those suppositions are likely true. But complementing them are theories such as the one posited by University of Chicago economist David Galenson, who believes early-blooming artists like Lennon are “conceptual” in nature: that is, they start with a clear idea of where they want to go, and then they just do it.
Galenson, discussed in Gladwell's article, contrasts conceptual artists with what he calls experimental artists, who “build their skills gradually over the course of their careers, improving their work slowly over long periods.” Lennon could write about loss when he was 25, but it seems I had to do some living before I could.
As I turn 50, I have faced some challenges—job loss, illness, death—that I couldn’t conceive of decades earlier. Loss can inform people, season them, and make them tough and compassionate. And it can lead to art: I was learning about the craft of writing even as I learned about life. As Gladwell notes, “Experimental artists build their skills gradually over the course of their careers, improving their work slowly over long periods . . . Prodigies are easy. They advertise their genius from the get-go. Late bloomers are hard. They require forbearance and blind faith.”
Who Is in Your Corner?
If you are a late bloomer, you need someone in your corner. As Gladwell says, “If you are the type of creative mind that starts without a plan, and has to experiment and learn by doing, you need someone to see you through the long and difficult time it takes for your art to reach its true level.” In my case, I had a gifted teacher, Fred Shafer, who encouraged me and helped me grow in my writing. I had friends, fellow writers, who were learning and growing along with me, and who encouraged me. And I had a life partner, my husband David, who believed in my writing—believed in me—even though it took me years to get more than a handful of stories published in literary journals.
I’m just shy of my 50th birthday and Queen’s Ferry Press is publishing my first collection of stories, The Decline of Pigeons, under the thoughtful guidance of publisher and editor Erin McKnight. Some artists are born mature: precocious “old souls” who possess insights and create beautiful, meaningful work at a young age. I admire that, but my path has been different. For me, for my writing, there has been no substitute for experimentation, and living.
What is your path?
(*ed. note: Fred Shafer will be teaching for four weeks at Off Campus Writing Workshop in Winnetka, Thursday mornings beginning September 12, 2013. Nonmembers welcome.)
Janice Deal is the author of The Decline of Pigeons, a short story collection to be released by Queen’s Ferry Press, July 16, 2013, and a finalist in the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction. Six of the nine stories, which detail the sometimes bitter, sometimes transcendent ways that people cope with the inevitability of loss, have appeared in literary magazines including The Sun, CutBank, the Ontario Review, The Carolina Quarterly, StoryQuarterly and New Letters.
She is currently working on a novel, and is the recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Artists Fellowship Award for prose. Janice lives in Downers Grove, Illinois, where she watches zombie movies with her husband and daughter.
Baby, you're a firework
Come on, let your colors burst — Firework, by Katy Perry
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who love fireworks and those who have fizzled. I'm not a huge fan of the Fourth of July since my parents moved to Florida. It seems like we're always scrambling for something fun to do and never quite getting it together. My youngest boys are now in the high school marching band, which makes our local parade a lot more fun than it used to be, but that's damning with faint praise. I do love the fireworks, though, which our town does well, right over the lake, just a five minute walk from my house.
When I was a kid, we went to see fireworks every year in Michigan, battling the mosquitoes and walking what seemed like long distances for short shows, but I still loved it, and I thought the rest of my family did, too. Turns out not so much as far as my dad is concerned, who has long since turned to watching the pale imitation of televised fireworks from Washington, DC.
It's so not the same.
Beautiful, etherial, loud, and gaudy, fireworks can only truly be enjoyed live and in person. They are not better on a giant scoreboard or in slow-motion instant replay. You cannot capture their essence on film or digital images, in still or moving pictures.
I love the thrill of the booms and bangs as the sound ricochets off the buildings and rumbles up through the ground straight into my heart. I love the glittering lights and jeweled colors, the smell of the gun powder, and the spidery smoke entrails left behind. I love the collective oohs and aahs of the crowd. While others are ignited by the grand finale, that explosive bouquet at the end, I prefer the individual blooms earlier in the show, so I can pay complete attention to every detail, comparing one to the next.
And that is the best part about fireworks. It is one of the few remaining activities in life that requires you to be absolutely in the moment…because if you're not, you'll miss it. You have to be right there, right then to see and hear and smell and feel the brief burst of joy that only a firework can offer.
Our life is full of missed moments when we're too busy to pay attention. The long Fourth of July weekend is over, but I'm grateful that the pyrotechnics of the holiday once again have reminded me to enjoy our short summer before it flames out, too.
Hope you had a great Fourth. Did you celebrate with fireworks?
There are many ways of going forward, but only one way of standing still. — Franklin D. Roosevelt
Bet you can guess the theme of this post—there are two kinds of people in the world: those who move forward, and those stand still.
A few years ago, I realized that to avoid being left in the dust of the horserace that is writing, I had better start moving forward. It was a good call. In the five years since I started writing this blog, here are just of few of the changes that have taken place:
Amazon has taken over the world (at least the retail world, and certainly the book-selling world).
Blogging has changed from online personal diaries to big business, with even the largest, most respected media outlets and companies boasting at least one, often many blogs. "Blogger" now really just means "writer".
We've gone app-crazy—in December 2008, there were about 10K iPhone apps; by January 2013, there were more than 775,000, and that doesn't even count all the other apps for all the other platforms now available.
You get my point. I was right (I love being right) about how quickly the world of writing was changing—and continues to change. Then why are so many writers still stuck with the myopic vision of publication that reigned for all those decades before the Internet took hold?
I talk to a lot of writers and I honestly believe the number one reason is fear. Fear of change. Fear of technology. But mostly fear that their long-held dream won't come true. You know the dream: being a best-selling, critically acclaimed author published by a big-name house, toasted by the glittering literati, celebrated on national talk shows, and holding court over admiring fans at champagne-laced readings all over the world.
OK, that dream won't come true—at least not for most writers. But it never did come true for most writers. Here's the good news: in the new world order of publishing, there are so many more dreams that are possible for so many more writers. If you are an excellent writer willing to work hard, you can become a published author. You can write online for your business. You can blog about your travels or your hobby or your passion. You can write a book and people will be able to read it in a real live paper version or on their favorite readers.
But you can't do it standing still. And you shouldn't do it unless you have a plan and get to know what's going on out there in the publishing world.
Five years ago, I started this blog with nary a clue as to what I was doing. Then I jumped into Facebook. And Twitter. And Pinterest. And WordPress—first .com and then .org. I learned some code. I learned what worked and what didn't. I started giving classes on social networking. Last fall, I conducted a successful Kickstarter campaign to fund the production and printing of my first picture book, the Animal Store Alphabet Book. I started with a great idea, a fabulous illustrator, and a 21-page business plan. Hard-cover copies of that book came to life on January 1 of this year and today children and bookstores and libraries have copies of it.
Now I'm excited to be teaming up with the dynamic April Eberhardt, a self-described "literary agent for change". We're pooling our collective knowledge and experience, coupling it with our enthusiasm for the ever-exciting, ever-changing world of publishing, and bundling it together into a workshop that we call Pathways to Publication: Choosing the Best Way to Reach Your Readers.
If you want to take a step forward, I hope you'll consider joining us on June 7 in Chicago (the day before Printers Row Lit Fest). Click here for more information and to register. Special thanks to Karen Gray-Keeler and Where Are We Going for supporting this project.
As excited as I am about all these possibilities, and before I started any of this, I learned how to write…because no matter which path you choose, it's the writing that counts.
Have you taken a step off the dime? How are you moving forward?
There are two kinds of people in the world: risk takers and scaredy cats. I've been thinking a lot about taking more risks as a writer. I think it's key, at least for me, to be braver, less coy, unafraid to come out from behind my protective armor. It's time for me to stop caring so much about what people will think of me because they might not like something I write. That being said, let's start again.
There are two kinds of people in the world: balls-out risk takers and chicken shits.
There. Do you hate me yet? The funny thing is that I swear like a sailor in real life, but somehow it seems…rude…in print. Using profanity in my writing, however, is not what I'm talking about when I say I need to take risks.
So, in an effort to be less chickenshitty, I'm opening the doors and windows of my comfortable writing home and stepping out into the big bad writing world. I'm joining new groups and exposing myself to new experiences. Like Write Club.
WRITE CLUB is bare knuckled lit.
WRITE CLUB is literature as blood sport.
WRITE CLUB does good without being annoying about it.
WRITE CLUB eats trouble and shits money.
WRITE CLUB is coming to your town.
2 opposing writers.
2 opposing ideas.
7 minutes apiece.
Audience picks a winner.
Writers compete for cash going to a charity of their choosing.
Here's what I say about Write Club:
It's kind of like debate team meets poetry slam—part preparation, part performance. And it's risky. The writers/performers take a risk. They put themselves and their writing out there for the world—or at least the audience—to cheer … or not. There is a winner and a loser.
In case you haven't figured it out by now, Write Club is a take off on the movie Fight Club. Now, I've never seen Fight Club, but even I know the first rule:
Write Club has rules, too, and the first rule is that everyone who attends must tell five to seven people about Write Club.
Oh, and in case you're wondering, no, I have not (yet) stepped into the Write Club ring. But I'm working my way up to it, since it seems that it might be the ultimate expression of Two Kinds of People.
Write Club got its start here in Chicago, and now has chapters in Evanston, Atlanta, Athens (GA), San Francisco, and Toronto. The next bout in Evanston is this Monday, May 6, 7:00 p.m. at Space. In Chicago, the next bout is at The Hideout, Tuesday, May 21, 7:00 p.m. Other cities, check your local listings.
Writers, what brave steps have you or are you taking in your writing? Other folks, are you taking any bold risks in your life these days?
P.S. And just because I'm this much of a word nerd, I looked up the origin of them's "fightin' words." Looks like the phrase was first used by Ring Lardner (a fellow Michigander) in Gullible's Travels c. 1917.
There are two kinds of people in the world, and I have been all of them. Infantile and wise. Majestic and wretched. Crestfallen and elated. Gracious and a horse’s ass. I have been these people and many, many more.
As a writer, this duplicity or plurality of being is important on many levels. Obviously, it's the name of my blog—Two Kinds of People (or 2KoP). I find that it’s a perfect vantage point from which to explore a whole variety of subjects in my writing—a sort of literary springboard.
I’m a self-admitted public radio (NPR) junkie, and two recent interviews have generated some writerly “ah-ha” moments that have made me understand that my interest in “Two Kinds of People” has something to offer all writers …read more on Write It Sideways.
[This post was originally published on Write It Sideways on March 25, 2013.]
feminism(noun) the belief that women should be allowed the same rights, power, and opportunities as men and be treated in the same way, or the set of activities intended to achieve this state.
There are two kind of people in the world: those who understand that rape is a crime, and those who make excuses for it. A couple of years ago, Forbes ran a post called "Who's Afraid of Post-feminism?" by Jenna Goudreau. After listening to and reading about the Steubenville rape and subsequent trial and conviction, I have to say that I'm not too happy to be living in post-feminist world, a world where a young female victim is still being blamed for the crimes committed against her by young men.
I am shocked that those boys and their friends thought it was OK to use new media to further victimize this young woman. I am shocked that traditional media further violated her by revealing her name and calling the conviction of the young men "a tragedy."
In the mid seventies, at the height of the modern feminism movement, the Take Back the Night(TBTN) movement began as stand against sexual violence. I know a young woman whose greatest fear is of being raped. She lives near a college campus and, in a sad irony, her terror began when she first heard students participating in a TBTN event as a young girl. Each year, as she heard the marchers protesting continued sexual violence in her own neighborhood, and realized that women were simply not safe—she was not safe.
And she's right.
Those young men in Stubenville shared their crimes across the interwebs and others participated, passing along appalling photos of the crime in process and adding lurid comments. No one called a halt. No one turned the Tweets over to the police or even to an adult who could intervene. That's a tragedy and, to my mind, a crime.
Until and unless we reach a point where women can make personal choices (good, bad or indifferent) and still be safe from sexual assault, until we stop hiding behind "boys will be boys" and victim blaming, then I'm revoking the "post" from post-feminism.
"Feminist theorizing about rape draws on a rich tradition of feminist scholarship in many disciplines, as well as on women's insights into their own rape experiences and on the knowledge gained through decades of feminist anti-violence activism. As such theorizing continues to develop—growing both more radical in its challenges to patriarchal social and sexual assumptions, and more global and intersectional in its analysis—it constitutes an essential support for feminist movements against sexual violence."
When it comes to rape, there can be nothing "post" about feminism. When it comes to rape, we must all be feminists. Our feminism must become more radical in its challenges against sexual violence. Feminism is not a dirty word. Feminism is not a crime. Rape is.
So go ahead, call me a feminist. I can take it. How about you?
You have to admit, Papa sleeping in a chair makes a good napping place for baby Molly.
There are two three kinds of people in the world: side sleepers (fetal or semi-fetal position), back sleepers (supine or royal position), and stomach sleepers (prone position). Unless, of course, you happen to be my dad (see photo), in which case your favorite sleeping position is in a chair, head thrown back and snoring loudly, or chin slumped to chest (usually going back and forth between the two).
Best practices in pediatrics these days say to put infants to sleep on their backs. According to the National Institute of Child Health's public information campaign called "Safe to Sleep" (formerly "Back to Sleep"), putting infants to sleep on their backs significantly reduces the incidence of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS).
This is great news for parents and babies of the 21st Century, but it comes decades too late for me. I was born when pediatric best practices said to put babies to sleep on their stomachs, so I am and always have been a stomach sleeper. This is more than you really need to know about me, but I bring it up because I have been told stop sleeping on my stomach.
I won't bore you with the medical reasons, but I will ask for your help. Except during pregnancy, I have always slept on my stomach. And while meeting my newborns was a joy beyond measure, being able to sleep on my stomach again was a very close second.
For years we were told it takes 21 days to break a bad habit or start a good one. I've never believed that statistic, and more recent research says the it really takes between 18 and 254 days, depending on your level of commitment and other factors. But even on the far end of that scale, the change happens only when you're making a conscious choice to change. Literally conscious—you are awake and alert and choosing to make a change. Here's my question: how do you change a habit when you are unconscious, i.e., asleep?
I'm doing everything I've been told to do to try to become a side sleeper (I'll never be able to sleep on my back, which is a good thing because it would probably involve snoring). I use one kind of pillow under my head, and sleep with another pillow between my knees, and a third in front of my chest to support the "upper" arm. But I'm still confused. What am I supposed to do with that "bottom" arm? Do I stick it under my head? Shove it down under the side pillow next to the "upper" arm? Nothing is working.
Shifting positions is problematic with all those pillows, too, not to mention disruptive to my husband's sleep. I've also been having even crazier dreams than usual, adding to my general feeling of exhaustion. If you have a suggestion, please let me know in the comments. I don't think I can last 254 days.
Have you ever had to change your sleeping habits? Or any other habit? Leave a comment if you have a good tip.
It's been a while since I posted a Wordless Wednesday photo, but I got a new camera for my birthday and recently took a fabulous trip and have cool pictures to share. Use this photo to:
Tell me commentwhat Two Kinds of People you think this photo represents ("There are two kinds of people in the world: … .")
In the absence of clearly-defined goals, we become strangely loyal to performing daily trivia until ultimately we become enslaved by it. — Robert Heinlein
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who set goals and those who fly by the seat of their pants. I've always been a pantser.
I know some writers plot out everything they write in advance, but not me. When I was in school and we were required to do outlines, I always wrote the outline after I wrote the paper. I just turned in the outline first. Other writers set daily word count goals, but my brain doesn't work that way. Ticking down the 50K words of NaNoWriMo can be a lot of fun, but most of the time word counts are just daily trivia that gets in my way.
Oh, sure, I have goals:
Have children. (Check √√√√)
Write.
Get people to read my writing.
Get my books published.
Spend six months a year living and writing in Italy.
Become rich and famous.
It wasn't until I started my Kickstarter that I finally began to understand the most important part of that Heinlein quote: "clearly-defined goals". I definitely didn't have those.
Goals are fine, but only if they're supported by a plan. For example, I always knew I wanted to have children. It took some doing to get ours here happy and healthy. But beyond that initial success, I failed to define my goals clearly, so now I'm dealing with questions like:
How long do you actually have to feed them? And must they eat every day?
How (and why) do boys turn a clean bathroom into a total disaster in less than five minutes?
Will my teenagers drive me completely batty before they come of age?
What's wrong with flood pants? I just bought those for you last week.
What is the exit strategy? Will they ever move out and live on their own?
So when we decided to run a Kickstarter campaign, I knew we needed goals and a plan. My brother helped me develop a detailed (21-page) business plan before we began our campaign. I should have consulted him before we had children.
I've always been terrified of the idea of being a salesperson. The threat of having to meet quotas scared me right down to my toenails. As we worked on our Kickstarter business plan, my brother tried to convince me that quotas work in favor of salespeople, because they will do anything and everything to make that goal. If it takes 100 phone calls to get five orders, and your goal is 50 orders, it stands to reason that you need to make 1,000 phone calls. Simple math. Terrifying numbers (at least to me).
Once we researched our vendors and knew where the price points fell and figured out how much money we needed to raise to do what we wanted to do, the plan came together: $10,000 in 31 days. Right from the start that goal seemed both completely doable and utterly impossible. But it worked. On day 30, we made our goal (thanks so much to everyone who contributed).
It was miraculous to see how closely the daily results mirrored our plan. If we had drawn a growth chart for the business plan, it would have looked identical to the chart of our pledges. I couldn't believe it. We made a plan and it worked … exactly as we planned it.
That was (almost) as big a success as actually making our goal and getting to publish our book. It has completely changed the way this pantser is approaching life and business these days. Now I'm looking over those vaguely worded goals I mentioned earlier and trying to find ways to define them more clearly:
Write.
I do write. I write all the time. I'm probably writing too much. What do I really want to write? What projects are speaking to me? What writing do I need to do to help sustain our family? Which projects, if any, can I let go? Which project should take priority?
Get people to read my writing.
Which people? You're reading this post. You totally count. How many readers will make me happy? How will I know who has read my work and whether they like it? (Comment below, and then I'll know.)
Get my books published.
I have a lot of published writing. Most of it is online. Some of it is ghostwriting. I'm self-publishing the Animal Store Alphabet Book. Is that good enough? Do I need to be validated by being picked up by an agent? Will I only be happy if I am "traditionally" published? As Laura Munson once told me (as someone once told her), the only difference between being a published author and an unpublished author is that your book is published. You're the same you.
Spend six months a year living and writing in Italy.
Really? I have been to Italy exactly twice, more than 20 years ago. For vacation. I have no idea what it would really be like to live and work there. I don't speak Italian, and haven't made an effort to learn it. So is this a goal or a fantasy? (Who are we kidding? It would be great to live in Italy for six months a year. Specifically here.
Become rich and famous.
I have revised this last goal. I no longer have any interest in being famous, just rich. Still, what does that rich mean to me? Would being debt-free and living modestly be enough? If I could get my kids through college and into the world debt free, would that count? Would being able to do the Italy thing make me happy with my financial situation? I've always wanted a gardener. And a personal stylist. And a housekeeper/cook. But I could give up the gardener. And maybe the stylist. But not the cook! I definitely want the cook.
I have begun to understand that unless I clearly define my goals, I have no possibility of reaching them. Maybe the idea is to set smaller, realistic goals. Have big ideas, but smallish goals. Make the dream come true one step at time.
There is a caveat to the whole goal-setting thing. Once you set a goal and commit to it, you will do anything and everything to make that goal. That's the whole reason for setting goals, so perfect, right? Right, unless you have an obsessive-compulsive personality (as I do at times) and a family or other commitments. In that case, stock up on lots of frozen pizza, set a reasonable time-limit for reaching your goal, and tell your friends and family that you'll see them on the other side. If you're lucky, they'll still be there.
I do worry a bit about becoming a reformed pantser. The 12-step goal-setting program is starting to seep into other parts of my life. I feel an almost overwhelming need to make amends. Almost. I have a feeling that there will always be a bit of the pantser in me.
Goal-setter or pantser: which are you? Clickhere to leave a comment.
