Happy Mediocrity Day to Me!

[Disclaimer: I am really okay. One of my beloved readers actually called me this morning to make sure I was okay after she read this post, so I didn't want any of you to get scared. I'm pretty chipper this morning, but perhaps that doesn't come across in the tone of my post below:]

I've been seeing several celebrations by other blogs lately--five year anniversaries, one- and two-year milestones, so I thought I'd check to see how long I'd had this blog. I know I started blogging on Today.com first (and sometime in August, 2007), but I moved from there when my sister and so many others were locked out of their accounts when Today.com didn't like what they were saying.

But this is not an anniversary. It seems my first blog here was in April 23, 2009. So I've been blogging one year, four months, and 17 days. Wow! That is so not any kind of milestone! Fantastic!

Oh, and it's not like I've been blogging every day, either. In one month I only wrote six blogs, which comes out to about one blog every five days (see, I can do simple math). That's pretty awful! How much more mediocre can I possibly be?

And this proves something, and it's something I need to remind myself of every now and then: I do not have to be the best at something (or even really good at it) to have fun. I can write crappy poetry, and as long as I toss in a good one now and then (or at least one that rhymes) I can keep my sweet readers coming back. I can offer gardening/editing advice, and people take me seriously.

Now that I think about it, I'm pretty mediocre (and happy) in several facets of my life: I have written three unpublished novels, I play piano badly, my paintings are far from professional, my mom skills are questionable, my housecleaning...well...let's just say Merry Maids wouldn't hire me, I'm only an adjunct English teacher (even with a doctorate), and I still look a bit like I'm wrestling pigs in Zumba. But I'm happy. No gold medals, no sign of physical grace or exceptional talent, but I guess that doesn't really matter much to me.

Today, I embrace my mediocrity. And I embrace all of you (though that's really not comfortable through a laptop--oof!), and thank you for sticking around these last one year, four months and 17 days. You help make my life exceptional!

So, how about you? Anything you delight in being mediocre at? (Notice how I used a preposition at the end of that sentence? Cool, huh?)

School Starts Today!

I've been up two hours already this morning... and believe me, 3:30 is not my normal wake-up time, but with my kids going back to school, I've been FREAKING OUT about it!

NOT because I hate being with out them. Sorry, kiddos... love you, but SO happy you are going back to school. I was maybe a week away from running out of the house screaming, but your school began right on time.

NOT because it means they are a year older. I am not nostalgic, and don't pine and weep over the fact that my son no longer says "lello" for "yello" and my daughter is almost as tall as my shoulder. I love that they are growing up (and haven't killed each other yet).

NOT because it means I am 1.5 weeks from starting school myself. I really do LOVE teaching (except the grading--gag!).

I am FREAKING OUT because I fear what my kids will be doing at school. Will my daughter have fallen behind in math and reading, despite what we've worked on this summer? She was giddy last night (meeting her teacher, who seems spectacular), but will her enthusiasm wane when she actually has homework?

I am also FREAKING OUT because of my son's performance last year. He excelled in all academics, and probably already reads at least a grade level above where he is right now, but I was in and out of the principal's office last year (for the reasons why, this example). Should I drive them to school so he's in a good mood? Should I make them ride the bus, and risk his being grumpy when he gets there? Should I make him deal with it and deal with the consequences?

I'm even FREAKING OUT because of the mornings to come. Will they get ready on time, or will the mornings become a nag fest like last year? If that's what they are meant to be, I quit now. Since I don't have to teach for the next week and a half, if one or both of my kids aren't ready on time, I'm going to let them miss the bus (or ride) to school. Hopefully they'll learn fast to get ready.

I have another plan in motion, one that I spent the majority of yesterday on. More details on that tomorrow (or Friday, whenever I get it finished). In the meantime, I am getting an appointment for a massage before the kinks in my back rip my vertebrae apart!

The Sucking Song

My left brain was thinking

(I wish I'd been drinking)

About all my novel-ish stuff.

It woke me this morning

(I should be in mourning!)

To tell me I'd written enough.

No, I wasn't done yet

But still my right mind-set

Was raring to go (so to speak)

It was getting dramatic

Climactic, fantastic

Exciting, the plot at its peak.

But left brain ain't swayed

By the twists that I'd made

It said, in a phrase, "This stuff sucks."

I asked it, "Which part?"

--Oh, the pain in my heart!--

And it said, with a sigh, "Here's the crux:

"The plot is pathetic

The tone apoplectic

Dude, haven't you witnessed the signs?

The prose is too wordy

And Thomas too nerdy

He passes out, like, eighteen times!

"Why don't you step back

Paint a bit, have a snack

Decide where you want this to go.

It'll wait for you here

I'll whisper in your ear

And you'll find your way soon, this I know."

My left brain had won

The damage was done

But I couldn't regret what I'd heard

I know with each letter

The prose will get better

And soon, I will have the last word.

Anyone feeling like your stuff sucks lately? Join the club! It's a bad, bad feeling, but it's also necessary. If you never get to the point where you think your stuff stinks, you can't fix it. Relish in your own suckiness, embrace it--and then fix it.

That's what I'm going to do (after a bit of painting and a snack). Happy writing!

Children's Church

Ever try to ask

38 kids about anything?

One in front raises her hand every time

But is too shy to talk.

Another wiggles with glee,

Announcing to the congregation,

When the microphone meets her,

"I hafta go potty!"

One, obsessed with his own birthday

Yelling,

"September 6th!"

Until the session ends

While three little girls

Hike up skirts to peek

At their own underwear.

Kids fly

In the face of the somber

The peaceful

The serene

Wondering why those big people

Don't just get on with it

And end the boredom.

Like a Jim Carrey comedy

They annoy and

Embarrass us

Even while they make us laugh to tears

And leave us wondering why we came

At all.

Now time for cookies.

("But I don't like cookies," one kid says.)

Amen.

You Don't

Obey.

No.

Don't rock the boat.

Do it this way.

Stop.

You won't make it.

You're doing it wrong.

We've been taught all along

To conform

That if we don't do

What everybody else in the entire world is doing

We'll be ostracized

Left out

Laughed at

Exposed on YouTube in one scathing

FAIL.

So we hide ourselves.

Our "immature" paintings

Gather dust and spiders in the dark garage

Our manuscripts lurk in convoluted files

On our laptop

Never printed off

Unread by any but our own eyes.

We wear big t-shirts to cover up the bulges

At aerobics class.

We worry

What if we suck?

What if we really don't have what it takes?

("What it takes to what?" I ask you.)

What if we hold out our little self-made bouquet

And someone slaps it down?

What if everyone thinks we're lame?

Or weird?

Or stupid?

Better to be weird

Better to be stupid, crazy, ugly, silly, ridiculous

Than bland.

Than forgettable.

Don't hide your paintings behind your dresser

Set them up on the lawn

With spotlights and big signs

Like a garage sale

Embrace yourself in one humongous hug

Wear tight clothing

Wear bright pink leggings

To emphasize the cellulite!

Show off!

Be happy!

Stop apologizing for your manuscript

And send out those queries

Or, better yet

Pass your manuscript out to strangers on the street

Tell them it's you, in paper form

And they'll love it

And if they don't, you just don't care

And smile all the way

Knowing that no matter many reject you

No matter how they judge you

Hate you

Find you annoying--

You don't.

Why Don't We

Why do we care

if the crystal is Cartier

and not plastic?

If the jeans have some

certain type of rivet

to prove their authenticity?

Why do we care

if we get somewhere

precisely on time

and not later than usual

or not at all?

Does anything really happen?

Are we shot dead?

Sent to jail?

Why do we care if some bum

on the corner

uses the few bucks we give him

to buy another bit of meth

to feed a habit?

Can he kick the addiction

without help from those

who don't have it?

Does judging his need

make us feel better about our own

and save us a few bucks?

Why do we care

what official people

in official places

think of us?

Because we need what they are handing out?

Because we don't want to think?

Can we even trust that they know us at all?

Why don't we care

about each other

the real inside

those around us?

Why don't we say hello?

Why don't we look up

from our palm pilot

or texting phone

or newspaper

or steering wheel

or television

and make eye contact

so someone sees

and we see

another person

lives.

Making Progress

I am now to the point in my novel--tentatively titled The Ghost Portal--when ALL of the remaining text (in the original novel) will go into novel #2 in the series... so it's been pasted onto another document, ready for use when I get started on #2.

I am about 120 pages into Thomas novel #1... and the world is wide open for him. I'd blog more, but I need to work on the novel instead... (sorry!).

Happy writing!