Finishing My Novel Today!

I have hemmed and hawed about this stupid novel for too long. I'd hoped to finish it before Thanksgiving, and yet I am still at least two pages from being finished. It's going to take at least ten to finish the thing the way I want, but I'm carving out the whole morning and early afternoon to do it, no matter what. I'm taking my kids to school in about an hour, driving home, and sitting here until this thing is DONE.

I have so many other projects I want to start on, monologues for contests, plays destined for staged readings in the near future, another novel, a revision of my third novel so that I can enter it in the Amazon.com Breakthrough Novel Contest, and so on. Plus, I have a huge canvas ready so that I can paint a painting for Crystal's new decorating ideas in her room. And I have two novels by other authors that I need to be reading soon (is yours almost ready, Rocket?). All of these things are waiting for this revision to get done, and I'm antsy because I'm not doing it.

So, here it is, the ultimatum: 

You won't see me here tomorrow--and I won't even allow myself to comment on any of your blogs--unless my novel is done. End of story. 

I will do everything possible to be here, but if I'm not, know that I am working hard to finish this %&$#)@ novel revision. 

Monday Fun-Day!

I know how most of us approach Mondays. My husband moans and groans starting on Sunday afternoon, upset that his lazy weekend has to end and he has to face traffic, dress up, and spend the day in meetings or bossing people around (in gentle ways, of course). The temptation is to grimly face a whole week of working, knowing it will be DAYS before you get to wear those sweats all day. 

Why not approach this differently? Make a pact to go out to eat every Monday night, or take somebody to lunch at work, or carve out an hour in the afternoon to work on that novel/play/poem/painting/etc. The only watchable television is Monday Night Football, and that is only watchable for a specific viewing audience, so turn it off and play a game with the kids, or curl up to a good book you've been saving. 

I'm planning on doing absolutely NO real work today. I'm saving the class grading tasks for tomorrow (several script analyses, and discussion grades for the entire semester), and except for doing the dishes (only because I have no clean spoons), I don't intend to lift a finger I don't want to. No wrapping trash, no cat box cleaning (sorry, Skooker), no work. I might spend the morning watching the three remaining episodes of BBC's "Robin Hood" (insert drooling here), or reading, or finishing up my novel revising, or whatever. 

And don't tell me, "Well, some of us have to go to work." Yes, you do, but that doesn't mean you have to do much when you are there, or do it with a lousy attitude. And whatever you do, make it fun. Laugh. Be lazy. Or if being lazy brings you down, work super hard, cross everything off your list, and then leave an hour early so that you can pick up a few videos on the way home. (Videos? On a Monday? Are you kidding? No, I'm not!)

Don't accept your Monday as it is. Make it into something you actually want to do. Become your own Pollyanna, and make your Monday great enough that you look forward to the next one.

Awful Theatre and an Awful Legend

We went to "one of Seattle's best kept secrets" last night, a little light-filled holiday park called the Lights of Christmas, and as part of it, we saw a premier of Miracle on Candy Cane Street, written and directed by the leader of a local community theatre troupe. 

It was awful. It was painful. The stage was filled with child actors (mixed in with a few adults), the audience was filled with their relatives, and my husband and I found ourselves glancing at each other at nearly every line. The audience loved it. My kids loved it. They laughed at the almost complete unintelligible villain, who was dressed in a black satin cape, of all things, like the villain in a melodrama. (I kept waiting to see the Boo! Hiss! signs.) He was French, and we know how inherently evil French people are. The song numbers were stolen from Enchanted, The Lion King, and The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (no, really!), and the plot of the play was more contrived than my smile when my husband's discussing every hole of a golf game he just played.

I could go into more detail, but I won't, for I don't want this to get too long. Besides, the worst part of the play wasn't the performance, it was the play's pseudo-Christian premise, the "Legend of the Candy Cane." 

In case you are unfamiliar with this, and you love candy canes, please stop reading now. Really. Just stop. Even writing this down is enough to gag me, so if you continue on, know that you have been warned. 

The "legend" states that the candy cane symbolizes Jesus. And here's the proof:

1. It is in the shape of a shepherd's staff, symbolizing both his birth and that he is "our shepherd." 

2. If you turn it the other way, it's a "J" for Jesus.

3. The white of it symbolizes his purity.

4. It has three red stripes, to represent the Holy Trinity.

It's this last one that really kills me, though:

5. The stripes are red, to symbolize Christ's blood.

Ack! Gag! I haven't eaten yet this morning, or I know I'd be chucking it up (sorry, Stephanie!). Why this last thought is such a comfort to people is beyond me, especially when they put one of those little canes into their mouth and suck all the red off it! It's as offensive as the Easter when a well-meaning relative gave me a chocolate cross. I'm supposed to eat a chocolate cross? This is how I'm supposed to celebrate Christ, by sucking his blood and chomping down on the thing he was crucified on? 

It's a good thing I hate candy canes. I don't think I will ever eat one again. 

The Sweater, a Poem

I haven't done this in a while, but I felt compelled. Poems creep into me slowly, stewing, and then pop out rather suddenly. 

Here's this one:

The Sweater 

Your mother knitted it

Filling it with a sad mistrust,

Running along a few blue stripes

Of self-hate.

 

Others fashioned it with

Pins and needles

To poke at you

To prick you.

 

But you wore it all those years,

Hoping somehow

The warmth of your skin

Would soften those needles

That everyone one would get along

If only you tried a bit harder.

 

It itched and bled you

Hurt and maimed you

Strangled you around the neck

Too tightly woven.

 

You left the house

But took the sweater with you.

You wear it still,

Pretending it only tickles

Wishing

Hoping

If you only wore it long enough

The sweater would fit right.

 

But it’s too tight

And too loose

The garment isn’t very becoming.

(It makes you look a little fat)

And its garish pinks and gingers

Wash your face to pale.

 

Take that goddamn sweater off.

Can't you see it doesn’t fit you anymore?

 

Another Santa Letter

Have I told you lately how different my son and daughter are? Well, if you checked out the last letter by my daughter, you'll get to see for yourself in this letter below, written by my son (with my help spelling, since he's five). Here it is:

Dear Santa:

For Christmas, I want a little car that has any kind of color of stripes. And the other thing I want is a van that is a remote controller. And that’s it.

But I do want some more presents. A new lunchbox and a toy elf and no more. That’s done.

I love you, Santa.

Naturally, he neglected to remind Santa about all the fun times he's been having at school, on the bus, etc. For more info on that, see this post. He's probably hoping Santa won't know, or won't care, and won't shove a huge, anvil-sized lump of coal into his stocking, with a note reminding him that he's been naughty all year. 

Okay, so he hasn't been naughty all year. Just 89% of it. 

And Santa noticed. But Santa loves him anyway. 

One Letter to Santa

I've been writhing still under too many papers and too much end-of-the-semester stress, and I have nothing truly brilliant to offer today, either. (But when do I have anything truly brilliant? I Hope that's not what you visit for!) My daughter wrote her letter to Santa, though, despite my insistence that Santa is "a very nice story," so here it is:

Dear Santa Claus:

       Hi! How are you doing? How are your reindeer doing? Is Rudolph okay? I hope you have a great Christmas. Are your elves working really hard? I’m glad your elves are making gifts for girls and boys that are good. You are so jolly.

       Were we good this year? I’m making this note to you. What do you like about Christmas? I like putting up our Christmas tree and getting Christmas ready in our house. I like talking to Grandpa on the computer when we are opening our presents. I like the snow because I get to throw snowballs and I like to make snow angels with my family. I like decorating the tree, too.

       This Christmas I would like some puzzles (with 30 pieces in them), a panda pillow pet, a sewing kit, a toy frog, and a big coloring book. What I really want is Operation SpongeBob and other games on the Wii, board games, a Nintendo DS, and a mini-laptop that Brandon and I are going to share. I’d also like a Fashion Holiday Barbie Doll, a painting and coloring kit, a Non-stop Glamour Barbie Minivan, and a Rudolf toy with a glowing nose.

        Have a happy Christmas, Santa Claus. Take a big, long nap, and I hope your reindeer have a fun time, too.

I think she might have made the whole letter small talk and never gotten around to the gifts if I hadn't reminded her why she was writing. I'll post my son's when he's done with his if it ends up even remotely interesting.

Update on Caisla

I told you I would update you on Caisla's condition. She is in stable condition, but because of brain swelling, they had to do surgery to open up her skull yesterday. Her brain has no "dead" sections, as far as the brain surgeon could tell, but its damage is "extensive." 

We are still waiting and watching, I from a long distance. I hope I do not have to fly to Kansas soon, for that would mean bad news.

I will let you know if anything comes up, but in the meantime I'll try to post happier things. Right now I'm up to my eyeballs in papers to be graded.