I guess the thing with failing is that you're okay as long as you get back on track, right?  So I'm challenging myself to participate in
halseanderson 's WFMAD challenge.  I almost skipped this blog today.  I wrote elsewhere, but this is my metacognitive writing journal.  =)  I want to analyze my thought process and my writing process.  Perhaps this will help me.
I actually haven't been too far off the wagon lately.  My husband took me on a writing retreat to the wonderful Sylvia Beach Hotel for my birthday two months ago, and for some reason, I felt inspired to continue a story I had written in college seven years ago.  I didn't have the story with me for reference (so I had to go back and recheck myself when I did find it), but I launched in on a second chapter.  It was a truly cathartic experience, especially since I was looking back on myself in college, and I felt like the character had grown in my mind over the years.  I showed my second chapter to my writing group in June, to very positive reviews, and then July happened.  For whatever reason, I hadn't been able to take my normal writing day at all.  My favorite coffee shop closed down, the only one in which I truly felt productive, and I'm still searching for the right atmosphere.  But this week, I forced myself (with the help of my husband) to write.  I didn't get very far (the country music at the coffee shop I tried was far too distracting), but I did it.
The book I am slowly working through challenged me to give "no disclaimers" about my writing, and to simply put it out there.  The work itself is what should speak.  This is something I always struggle with, never believing that I'm good enough, worth reading, have anything to say.  But it is something I want to work on, and an idea that I want to present to my writing group.  Most of us feel pressured before letting anyone read our work to apologize for it.  But this is the end--no more apologies!  I have just as much to say as anyone else does, and my experiences give me a unique view of life, as much as I believe the same for everyone.  So, along with my WFMAD challenge, I'm challenging myself to quit apologizing and focus my efforts on writing!

As I ran from the bike I could hear the spokes click-click-clicking away as the wheels spun freely.  I left the motion with the bike, and the kinetic intensity of what I had just witnessed remained there with it.  The reflector caught the diminishing strands of sunlight, spraying diamonds on the building I ran toward, creating a funhouse spiral whose center I was now heading for.  Almost a bulls-eye.  I had to leave the bike, for it drew and even more obvious target on me than the one I now ran for.  It wasn't simply that they had seen me take it.  In this town that was a rather minor offense--punishable, sure, but common.  No, it was what I had seen them doing, or rather, that I had seen them and somehow knew what they were about to do.  They were simply looking for a target.

The still-spinning wheels stopped abruptly, the only sound the pounding of my own steps.  I knew I wouldn't be fast enough, could never be fast enough.  They littered this town, so if you escaped one, another would always set a trap for you.  Knowing that I wouldn't be out of their reach soon enough, I chanced a glance over my shoulder.  The tall one had his foot resting on the now-still wheel, a derisive smile twitching the corners of his mouth.  His dark clothes stood out in contrast to the colorful surroundings, daring the last rays of sunlight to brighten him the way it did the rest of the landscape.  The other one ambled up behind him, confident enough in their success to take things slowly.  They had me right where they wanted me.

"Where're you going in such a hurry, son?" asked the first.  His mustache, so odd and out of style, made his face intimidating.  I didn't answer.  There wasn't anything that I could say that could help me out of this situation.

"We seem to have a quiet one here, Mike," the other stated, in a surprisingly high voice.  It was enough of a shock to hear him that it broke my gaze from the first.  "Could be good for him. . .or bad.  Don't know if he'll tell us what we want to hear."

I wasn't completely sure what they were talking about, but I had heard the stories.  These crooked men wanted us for all sorts of reasons, wanted us under their power to manipulate the community to please them.  And they were willing to do just about anything to get us supple and bound to their plans.  The crunch of the gravel sounded sinister as the two men paced slowly toward me, a fly trapped on flypaper.  

It was then that I heard a whisper close behind me.  Realizing who it was even though I couldn't see around the corner, I made the split-second choice to follow.  Suddenly I was off and running again, skidding in the gravel and around the edge of the building, my pursuers taking a moment to get over the shock of me slipping their trap.  I caught my first glimpse of Brandt as I made it to the side of the building, watching as he disappeared into the overgrown field in back.  The grass had gotten so tall that all I could catch was the sun glinting off of his brown hair.  It was my only chance--Brandt knew every shortcut and quick escape this place had, and with him I could disappear and end up safely back at home.  I tore through the field, the orchard grass slapping at my face and bare arms, stinging as I sliced my path through it.  Pretty soon I couldn't see Brandt anymore, and could only hear the shouts of the men chasing me as they struggled through the overgrown jungle somewhere behind and to the right of me.  I felt a hand grab my arm and pull me down hard, knocking my breath out as I belly-flopped on the ground.   "C'mon, you moron--if you want to get out of here, stay down!" came a rough whisper close to my ear.  I looked to my left and saw Brandt, a big smile on his face, his body covered in the dust that rose from the ground.

            I took the tape off of my incision yesterday.  I sat in the shower and let the water fall over me loosening the adhesive that held the strips of cloth to my body, pulling my skin together.  I had been looking forward to this moment for at least a week now, annoyed with the constant irritation and fear that somehow the sticky mess would get caught and torn off, leaving me raw and open.  The days where I had to watch carefully what I wore to avoid rubbing the wrong places, the nights worrying that I would accidentally tear something in my sleep.  Yet, here I was, four days after my outside limit, apprehensive to remove what I felt was holding me together.  I had grown used to feeling the flaky edges of tape rub my hands when checking my wound.  They had become a sort of safety net, and as I peeled the last strip from my body, I felt somehow naked and vulnerable in a new, unexplainable way.  The warnings about coughing and sneezing now had a new resonance—I partially believed that, now that the tape was gone, my body could tear apart at any moment, the severed muscles and nerves wrenching apart once again.  I examined my pink scar in the mirror when I had finished, amazed at how little there was to show for the disability I felt inside.  The skin that had been protected for two weeks now appeared angry, unused to light and touch.  I dabbed gently with a towel and chose my clothes carefully, covering the recently debilitating injury, pretending there were no lasting effects as long as no one could see them.

I have to start by saying that I adore this book that I'm working through.  Nothing else has inspired me to write the way this book has.  I normally struggle with a lot of guilt, believing that my writing takes too much time away from family and housework to bother with it.  But right now I have bread rising, George Winston playing, and my daughter napping; I'm seizing the moment.

Six months from now:
Six months from now will be fall.  My unborn daughter will be six months, and my older daughter just turning two.  Things will be a little chaotic with two young ones, and I may even be taking a class.  However, I hope that by this time I will be well on my way working on my WIP, for which I am currently doing research.  I am hoping that over the summer I will have a chance to get away on a retreat and simply write; this should help my confidence with writing every day.  I would also like to have something published by this point.  One of my main goals is to carve out some space for myself to write.  This may be difficult, as our house is rather small, but perhaps it means getting a smaller dining table and putting a small writing desk in the kitchen.  Or perhaps making a space for myself in the bedroom where I can retreat and not have to look at a messy house. 

One year from now:
Early next spring, I would like to have published two works, and be well into my WIP.  I really don't think I'll be finished with that work (due to the amount of research), but perhaps I will be able to plan a research trip; I would love to be able to visit the East Coast again and solidify any questions that I can't get from other sources.  I would also like to be at the point where I actually consider myself a writer--disciplined, hardworking, and on a schedule that allows for daily work.

Five years from now:
Wow, it's hard to think that far ahead!  It would be wonderful if I could have my WIP published, or on its way.  Seems like such a lofty goal right now, and I keep questioning whether or not I'm good enough for that, but here it is.  I would also like to have a studio.  As, at this point, I'll be halfway into my master's program (or maybe I'll have finished it--I haven't done the math for the time frame), my life will be a little crazy, and getting time away from other responsibilities will be much more difficult.  We have plenty of space in our back yard, and have talked about creating a dual studio for my husband's photography and my writing.  It would be a small building with white walls, wood flooring, and some furniture conducive to portrait photography.  I don't know what chair I would want (I'm really bad at picking out chairs, for some reason), but my desk would be a simple plank spanning one wall that could be closed off by closet doors.  I will have plenty of space for stacking books (one of my major flaws) all over it, and maybe a cork-board on the wall for notes.  Even though I may be teaching at this point, as well as taking care of my family, I want to make sure I still have that time to write.  Perhaps having a studio will make me feel like I need to justify the building.  =)

Writing from the prompt in Pen On Fire by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett.  First, I am to write a letter to a friend who wants to be a writer, dispelling her fears.  Then, I am to use my new outlook to write a letter to myself about plans and projects for my writing.

I understand the guilty feeling you have of putting your writing first.  Even now, my house is a wreck and I'm taking time away from the little time I have alone with my husband to write.  But it's something you have to do in order to be a healthy person.  If you are a writer, if that's what you really feel led to do, you need to write for yourself.  If you do this, then you will be a better person for your family.  I also understand how it feels to not think you have anything to say, or to think that your talent is simply something that you made up on your own.  For me, that's probably where the greatest amount of guilt comes from.  But you will never know unless you try.  I believe that you are a writer, but writing takes time and practice.  Nothing good comes without putting work into it, and this is probably more true for writing than most things.  It's something that comes from you, that comes from your soul, but you will never be able to truly tap into that reservoir unless you practice consistently.  Not writing will simply dam up the ideas and inspiration and then it will take you longer if you decide to once again take up the craft.  I know this from experience.  The only person you can hurt by not writing is yourself, but by writing, you will be healthier, which helps those around you as well.  Also, don't stress about the big things now.  While your goal may be to one day be published, start small, and don't feel like you have to have the ideas for a great novel immediately.  Once you begin to listen to yourself, then the ideas will come.  It takes practice, and I encourage you to spend just a little time each day writing, deepening your talent.

Dear Me,

Sometimes it is best simply to get ideas out on paper--that's what free-writing is all about.  So why not goals and ideas for writing.  First of all, you need to begin to write every day.  That's what is holding you back.  How can you expect inspiration to come when you can't quiet your world for even fifteen minutes.  I want you to take a step back and make time, quiet time, every day to write.  This doesn't mean writing while the kids are awake, begging for attention.  Instead of cleaning the house, or checking your email for the fiftieth time that day, spend nap-times or evenings writing.  Start with fifteen minutes and see where you go from there. 
You also want to work on that idea for a novel, but are finding it very difficult without having done any research.  Start with the research.  Read a couple of books on the subject, gather information, and then begin the writing.  You already have one of the characters in your head, but you need more knowledge on your subject to solidify anything.  Take some time to find this information, and then return to your idea.  It's a good one, and there is very little out there on the subject, but if you take your time instead of plunging in headlong, you will find that your story is more developed and deeper.
As far as short-term stories, look around you.  Some of what you need is time to develop that inner voice that you used to have when you were in the habit, and some of it is that you need to hone your skills for observation once again.  You used to be great at it, but right now, you have your head down and nose to the grindstone.  Take an opportunity to simply people watch and jot down notes.  Tell their stories, and stories about them.  Look for the story in the everyday happenings.
You've considered returning to that short story--J even suggested looking into the background of your character to see what you can find.  Could this be a character study?  A collection of stories that explores who your character is and what has made her this way?  What is the result?
You also have a group goal of publishing, even if it is in a minor setting.  I want you to take a little time to research possibilities.  You don't have to turn to a journal--maybe a magazine article (I know of one locally, in fact, that would be great), or newspaper.  See what's out there, and explore the possibilities. 
You hereby are given permission to take nap-times for yourself and your writing.  If you can only write for fifteen minutes, that's fine.  Use the rest of the time however you want to (maybe in research?).  But if you can write more, do.  This is not a time to catch up on housework.  Try to organize your life a little better (less time online!!) so that you feel able to handle taking a break.  Though you are not getting paid right now, and may not make any money, this is your job.  You need a brain workout--no more dumbing down and hanging out at the cookie level.  Not only will this help you develop your skill, but you will be a healthier person, and feel as though you have purpose and meaning.

I am feeling highly unmotivated in my writing today, but trying to force myself.  I'm focusing on my WIP, and will do research after I finish my entry, so I thought I'd take this time to explore my character, jumping off from an archived prompt from the usual person.  =)  And I apologize because I have not come up with a name yet--I'm horrible with picking names (or so my husband thinks!).

Fears:
In the time in which she lives, ------- has many of the typical fears: war, death, death of a loved one, being caught in her spying activities.  But more than that, she has a fear of isolation.  Her mother died young, and her father raised her, but being the only woman in the house, she was forced to grow up fast and to take care of her family.  This was a very isolating experience for her, to not grow up with a mother to talk to, or another woman who could understand her on that level.  She is also afraid of childbirth, as this was how her mother died.  -----can remember her death, giving birth to her youngest brother, and the agony of it to her mother and the following effect on her family.  ------has another fear that haunts her, that of being stuck, of not being able or allowed to branch out of where she is.  She has already "mothered" a family while she was growing up, so she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life doing the same thing.  She wants a family, but doesn't want to be stuck in the home.

Hopes:
Her most immediate hopes are to marry her sweetheart, and for the safety of her and her family during the war.  Deeper hopes include the hope to prove herself through the spying she takes on, to herself, her husband, and others.  There is an instinctive fear involved, but she is trying to overcome that and to be much more like what she imagines other spy women should be.  She also hopes to travel.  She sees messengers that leave with her information traveling all over the colonies, and she dreams of seeing these places, as well as Europe, after the war.

Childhood:
The third child in a line of five, ------- is the only girl in her family.  She was five years old when her youngest brother was born, when her mother died in childbirth.  Within a couple of years, she began taking her mother's place in the household.  Her father was gone a lot, traveling for business, but they later bought a coffee house, in which ----- still works (for her family).  She is in no position to own it, however, because she is a woman.

Well, there's some background for me to keep in mind!

So, I got some blood drawn today (that first pregnancy blood draw, where they draw FIVE vials of blood), and I almost passed out right there in the office.  Not only was this embarrassing, but it left me weak for most of the day.  I'm going to be in real trouble if I ever try to give blood--then they would take a whole pint!  So, anyway, I was going to use this weakness as an excuse to be a slacker today, and not work on my one work day.  But then I realized I'd never get anywhere if I slack off on all my baby-free days, so I'm trying to squeeze a little out of the rest of the day.  Today's exercise is about character motivation, a scene in which a man decides to pursue a woman, though I'm supposed to explore a motivation other than lust.

As the lights from the chandelier hit the tray of champagne glasses the server held, it reflected onto the woman's skin, casting an amber glow on her face.  It was the first time Jacob had noticed her, but as he watched the gold tones on her skin that now complimented her brown eyes, he was captivated.  It wasn't just the usual enjoyment he got from observing a beautiful woman; this time it was different.  There was an almost ethereal quality to her that no one else in the room had, a sense of translucence that seemed as impossible as it seemed real.  Jacob knew why she was there.  She needed something, just like so many others before her.  His ability to see her as she truly was, to see everyone as they truly were, had become a curse to him.  What good was it to see into the souls of so many?  What could he do for them?  He had watched time and time again--the homeless man on the street, a coworker in his office, even television personalities--watched them fade, sometimes to nothingness.  He questioned the reasoning for all of this, the reason for his own ability to see, when there was clearly nothing to do.  Now, as he watched this woman, he understood  why he had begun having a difficult time seeing himself in the mirror, why he himself had begun to fade. 

As he approached the woman, she looked up shyly at his polite greeting.  "Hello," she half mumbled into her glass, lowering her eyes.

"Could we talk?" he asked, and after her surprised nod, led her off to a quiet corner of the room.

Okay, okay.  Another resolution.  As my mother-in-law is giving me one day off each week (hooray!!), I will strive to work at least that one day.  Possibly more, but we'll start with bite-sized chunks.  After all, writing and reading my day away is much more tempting than my usual "the baby is gone, I can actually clean the house" mode.  Who wants to spend their day off cleaning?  So today I've decided to write on jbknowles ' prompt (her warm-ups always seem to be my kick start), and to hopefully begin my WIP. So, the prompt is, "Describe what FALL is like in your neck of the woods..."

Fall in Corvallis is my favorite season.  Of course, I'm sure you've heard about how much it rains in Oregon, and this season is usually when we begin to feel the wetness and damp soak back into our skin.  But we wouldn't be Oregonians without our eternal dampness and webbed feet, and some strange, almost obscene, love for the rain.  We all have it, somewhere deep down inside.  It's only that it can be buried much, much deeper in some than others.  For me, I love it passionately.
When I lived in California, I felt dried out and hollow during the summer.  One year that I recall, we had no rain between February and October.  Unfortunately for me, this was not atypical.  When the rains would finally come toward the end of September, I would stay outside and play in it, letting it soak and refresh me, while all of the Californians would scramble indoors, afraid of the damp. 
So the rains in fall are renewing for me, as are the colors.  This year we have not quite hit our cold snap, so the trees are, for the most part, still green.  But there is always a weekend or two in October that are ablaze with color, sun shining, with a chill in the air.  This is my perfect fall day. 
Being a college town, football also plays a large role in the change of the season.  The town is painted in orange and black, balloons and banners everywhere.  After games, the patrons at pubs and restaurants spill out to the sidewalk seating, chatting and laughing, bundled up against the cold. 
Most fall days, however, are much like today.  The weather is unpredictable, and you never know just how to dress, despite what the weather report says.  It starts out sunny, gets cloudy and rainy, and goes in and out between the two opposing systems throughout the day.  The perfect day to be just where I am, sitting in a coffee shop, warming myself from the inside out.  It doesn't get much better than this.

I liked this prompt, especially as our rain and thunderstorms (weird, considering that we had record highs a couple of days ago!) are making it feel like fall.  But that's just fine with me, as fall is my favorite season.  So here is my writing to jbknowles' Monday Morning Warm-Up: "Write to the prompt, 'When I think of fall...' Make it a poem! A list! Something one of your main character's would write. Have fun! Share! :-)"

When I think of fall, I think of coffee shops.
Sitting, reading, sipping cider.
Distracting music and voices that we don't mind,
The flame of a fireplace barely keeping me warm,
A good book that is hard to keep my mind on.

When I think of fall, I think of leaves.
Lining streets, pouring down in a gust of wind
A gold that matches the sunlight, even in the cold,
Going out of my way to hear their crunch under my feet,
The yearning to lay down and let them cover me.

When I think of fall, I think of football.
The corners full of fans in orange, matching the trees' colors,
Packed coffee shops on cold mornings,
The sound of cheering heard blocks away,
The feeling of community that surrounds me.

When I think of fall, I think of apples.
The sweet, tangy, ripe smell as they litter the ground,
Making apple crisp and apple muffins and apple sauce,
Cozy houses warmed by the baking,
The ecstasy of those first few bites.

When I think of fall, I think of harvest.
Fields laid bare of their year of work and growth,
Pumpkins hauled in from the vine to work their charm elsewhere,
The green slowly turning to golden brown,
A new start, a clean slate.

Keep in mind, I am not a poet.  In fact, I am one of those strange English Majors who doesn't really care that much for poetry.  Weird, huh?  But I feel that I have to attempt it sometimes.

Today's exercise is to write a prologue about a treasure being buried under a bridge.  I have never written a prologue--haven't even considered it, in fact--so the whole idea intrigues me.  Here we go!  (the plaque I am working from is for a bridge in Youngstown, Ohio, and this is the bridge that I'm picturing, dating back to the same era.


The night was becoming more and more sinister as Lucy stole into the park, shaded by the canopy of trees above which blocked out all moonlight.  She could feel her weak heart beating quickly, threatening to race to its end while she stood there.  It wasn't as if she was in any danger, she told herself.  Youngstown was such a safe, quiet place, after all.  And who would want to harm an old woman.  At least, without knowing what she carried.  But she couldn't shake the feeling that things had changed--that the workers brought into town to work on this bridge had brought something else with them, some sort of atmospheric change that made the future, what little of it she had left, seem ominous, perhaps even dangerous.  She was unused to the feeling, protected as she had always been by her family, never having to ask for anything.  But all of that was over in the now uncertain future.

Her head snapped up, causing her neck to ache at the sudden reaction to an owl's hoot.  Lucy chuckled to herself, feeling foolish for this whole game.  That's what it was, after all, right?  A game played to protect the precious object she held from the greedy misuse that would surely come if her nephew were to gain its possession.  So she did all she could as a woman to keep it from him: hide it.  Her skirts rustled as she moved slowly toward the work site.  The bridge was to be beautiful, almost lacy with its metal suspensions, nicknamed the "Castle Bridge".  Ironic that none would know that it hid a treasure fit for royalty.

She found a large hole next to the foot of the bridge, where the ground hadn't been filled back in after the stone was placed.  This was it--the perfect spot.  She could lay it here, cover it enough that it wasn't visible, and the workmen and the river would do the rest.  As she gently tossed the green metal box into its resting place, Lucy couldn't help but feel a pang of regret.  A shame that so priceless a treasure would have to be buried for so long.  But she knew its fate otherwise, and this motivated her to quickly fill in enough dirt until she could no longer see the glint of her box.  Then, feeling the necessity of not being caught out this late at night, she hurried back the way she had come, as fast as her frail body could force itself, back to the place where she would open her eyes no more.

Alright, so I'm hoping Iris stays asleep long enough for me to get a few thoughts down.  I've already pushed her nap a long ways, so cross your fingers!  Oh, and the prompt is that the protagonist is about to take a balloon ride, and I'm supposed to develop the first plot point.

One could see little in the predawn hours, though the bright colors of the balloons were the one exception.  Even in the dim light, the glow from the fire below ebbed into the bulbous masses, and from a distance, it looked like several multicolored enormous light bulbs sitting on the ground.  Tricia moved toward them, feeling a tightness of excitement in her stomach.  She had always wanted to take a hot air balloon flight, felt the thrill in her imagination of the weightless skimming over the tops of trees.  Her excitement only rose when Daniel took her hand.  She was unused to this sensation, having gone without for three years.  However, her hand molded to his as if there had been no lapse in time.  There hadn't been others after him; she wasn't sure if it was the excitement of what they had been through together, or if her feelings for him were as strong as they seemed, but no other man had even compared to her memories.  She could hardly breathe now when she realized that all of her hopes that she had even denied existence, were now coming true. 

Daniel spoke in soft tones to the pilot of the balloon, and then helped Tricia aboard.  She looked over the side of the basket as she felt the heat above her increase.  Suddenly the basked was unsteady, swaying back and forth in its slow ascent.  As they rose, Daniel stood beside her and spoke quietly.  "As much as I love to see you again, Tricia, there is actually a reason I contacted you."

Tricia turned to his guilty expression, a little feeling of hurt spilling into her hope and coloring it.  Of course he hadn't simply wanted to see her.  What had she been thinking.  She stiffened a little, waiting for the impact.  "Okay, then what was it?  We said we wouldn't see each other again."

"I know."  His eyes softened, and she could sense that he saw how she was feeling.  "The truth is, I got another assignment, something I think you could help me with."

She hadn't expected this, and it made her doubt what she thought she knew about him.  Another assignment?  That was the only reason he had sent her that letter?  A low feeling of rejection settled into the back of Tricia's mind, realizing that he hadn't also dreamed of this day in the same way she had.  Instead, she was an assistant to him, a means to an end, someone who could be placed in harm's way once again, just like their time before.  However, this time, he was choosing to put her in that position; this was no accidental collaboration.  But she wouldn't back down.  If he could be this objective and unfeeling, then she could as well.  "Okay," she breathed.  "What is it?"

I'm afraid I had to shorten what I was going to do (though I can get a bit descriptive and wordy at times, so maybe that's a good thing), because Iris did, indeed, wake up part way through.  But she was playing with a book when she woke up, so I had to take the opportunity to read to her.  Can't let those chances pass by!

Well, as you can see, I've already dropped the ball on writing every day in August.  So now I'm starting.  Really.  I promise (oops, better not promise--might be dangerous!).  mr_photodude, if you're reading this, please keep me accountable.  Today's exercise is about beginnings, and the task is to write about the character receiving a letter with no return address.

The day was progressing into the series of disasters that it had promised Tricia first thing in the morning.  When you get out of bed only to stub your toe, realize that you own not one scrap of clean clothes, and the hot water is out for your one relief, your morning shower, you know that the rest of the day will follow in a similar succession.  True to form, Tricia's day became progressively worse--not the each incident was more frustrating than the previous one, but each piled on to the other to combine a perfectly horrid and exhausting experience.  Running late, Tricia left her apartment without breakfast, her stomach rumbling as she watched the bus pass her stop.  Her day at the office became torture--deadlines and boring meetings, even an angry manager who blamed her for someone else's mistake.  Tricia was relieved to be heading home through the drizzle that reflected her mood, eager to sit down with a hot coffee and the book she had been trying to read for the past month.  As she passed through the front lobby, she collected her mail from her own little cube in the utilitarian grid of mail boxes, and caught the elevator going up.

She paused at the front door of her apartment, trying to find the key in her disorganized messenger bag, and then clicked the lock and pushed the door open.  She found her way to the couch and sat down with a flop and a sigh, spilling her bag and mail beside her.  Not having the energy to move unless she had to, Tricia gave a sidelong glance at the mail, checking for any credit collector notices.  Luckily, today was safe.  But as she looked, her eyes caught on a letter in a card-sized envelope.  It was so rare to get anything personal in the mail, along with the bills and junk mail, so this card stood out among the long and lean business envelopes, its shape speaking of substance inside.  Tricia picked up the promising piece of mail, but froze when she saw the handwriting.  She would recognize that handwriting anywhere--its association with the darkest chapter of her life made her want to run and hide, to close the windows and lose herself in the dark.  How had he found her?  They had promised each other that when it was all over, they wouldn't contact each other again--it wouldn't be good for either of them.  But here she was, staring at his card, and, despite her fear of what it could mean, she was overcome with longing and curiosity.

Well, there's my 15 minutes (actually, a little over).  Sorry for the teaser, but I'm working on beginnings!  I might actually continue this one in later exercises, as it is becoming interesting to me!  But that would mean that I have to figure out what's going on.  =)

So I truly am carving out my fifteen minutes of writing today, as I keep hearing peeps from a baby who is supposed to be sleeping. My exercise is to write on the same image as yesterday, but a completely different story. I didn't explain yesterday that the image was of a rumpled bed. The challenge is to think outside of the obvious and come up with a story that perhaps others wouldn't. So here's part two.

She walked into the room, face serious, scrutinizing the area with a keen eye. Very little passed her notice these days; she had learned her lesson. It was difficult to hold down a job in Aspen if you weren't thorough. Too many people behind you, lined up to take the position. People with the same need of money to send back home to family. Sure, there were a few other types of jobs available--being a nanny to some rich vacationer's children perhaps--but Ana wouldn't even consider a job such as that. She had been in the United States long enough to have adapted to something of an American lifestyle. She was used to little luxuries that many of her countrymen and -women in the US went without--luxuries such as having time off from work, and leaving it there. That was how she was drawn to her job cleaning the luxury suites of the ornate Aspen ski lodges.

Ana had traveled north when there was less job competition than there now was. In recent months, many more immigrants had discovered that the availability of jobs in LA that didn't require any form of identification was growing slim. Even the mass of farm work available up the western coast was dwindling, even though the work was some of the most difficult available. Thus the numbers of immigrants heading north to resort towns such as Aspen was snowballing, despite the cold and uncomfortable climate.

Ana had discovered the threat of other immigrants to her job when she had made a minor mistake at her previous job. Nothing serious, of course, only a small lapse in judgment. But that was all it took. Immigrants like her had no rights--they were lucky to have a job in the first place. Ana was lucky to be able to secure her present job--it was a case in which she knew the right people, and now she made sure to never make mistakes.

As her eyes jumped from item to item, taking in the sloppiness and obvious signs of overindulgence, she couldn't help but release a sigh, wondering what kind of a life these gringos might lead.

Well, there's the free writing for today! That was a good stretch for my writing muscles. Not trying to critique my own writing exercise here or be too metacognitive, but I have to say that it was interesting to put myself in this character, having little to no experience with any of the things she has gone through. Interesting.

So, as I have completely flubbed on halseanderson's
Write Fifteen Minutes a Day challenge, I've decided to do it for myself
next month. After all, she provided 31 days of prompts, right? So
I've decided to work my way through a book that a friend introduced me
to, A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words by Philip Sexton and
Tricia Bateman. And, as I am not a genius author like those whose
blogs I read daily, I don't have stories of authors I've met,
conferences I've attended, and other such author-y things, I will be
posting my writings here, for your eyes to scrutinize. *gulp* I've
been frustrated lately because I feel as though I have the words for a
story, but no story to write. So today I realized that the only way to
develop ideas is to write, write, write! So, here goes nothing!


The knock comes in the middle of the night, startling me out of sleep. I am absurdly annoyed, as I know that anything coming this late in the night, any sort of news, will of course be serious, perhaps even disastrous. But my sleep-muddled mind can only think of how little rest I have gotten of late, and how dearly I need it. I know that this is simple ungraciousness, given the times in which we live. I've met a few other women in my position--though not many as the more we know, the more dangerous it is for us--but I feel that any fortitude that I might have pales in comparison to theirs. But perhaps we are all the same beneath our polite facades. Perhaps every one of those women feel the same terror that I do walking out into the street every day, certain of exposure, certain betrayal by those few hidden among us and still loyal to the past. Perhaps they just hide behind a lovely veneer, one that's more convincing than I believe my own to be.

My back aches as I move toward the door. I should not make the messenger wait long outside--to be discovered out at this hour would be dangerous. However, my belly makes hurrying difficult. I do not light a candle as I feel my way out of my room and make my way across the house. I have to hold in a screech as I stub my toe on a rogue piece of furniture, and I hobble to the door, even more awkwardly than before. I open the heavy wooden slab to find Robert standing out in the drizzle, poorly protected from the elements. His hat is the only true protection from the wet, and his light cloak indicates the haste in which he left his own home.

"Come inside. You're sopping wet," I tell him. He moves swiftly, taking up most of the doorway as I squeeze aside, making myself as small as possible in my condition. As the door closes, I bustle past and offer him a blanket. I wish I could offer him a hot drink, but it is wiser to keep the fire out at night, not to show any signs of wakefulness.

"I cannot stay, Mary. You cannot stay. They have found you out."

Well, that's it for today. A seed of a story. =)

I have found that being a mother changes one in unexplainable, profound ways.  Okay, yes, I am more emotional, protective, loving, nurturing, patient, and all of those adjectives with which you would characterize a mother (at least, I hope I am).  But more than that, I have found that having a baby changes all of my behaviors, the things I say and do, even the way I think.

One of the most common phrases in our house right now is, “Iris, please stop choking yourself”.  This is due to the fact that my nine-month-old seems to enjoy sticking her fingers as far into her mouth as possible, which results in a lovely gagging noise.  And then she does it again.  And again.  The phrase (asking her to stop) is second only to rousing choruses beginning with, “We’re men, men in tiii-ights.  We roam around the forest looking for fights!”  We have discovered that this is the only song that will, without fail, produce the happy baby we like to see.  Even “Baby Beluga” doesn’t hold a candle to it.  Raffi, make way for Mel Brooks.

Having a baby has induced me to change the way in which I comfort those who are hurting.  I see someone who seems down or depressed, and my first urge is to tickle them.  Luckily, I usually come to my senses before I attempt this.  Except on Josh.  I have actually tickled my husband once or twice in order to cheer him up.  Needless to say, it doesn’t work.  I’ve found that offering crackers is also an unsuccessful attempt at cheering the disheartened.

I find that I do those things that I told myself I never would, such as giving my daughter the car keys in order to keep her quiet in a store, and then trading her for either my wallet or the carmex when I actually need the keys to drive.  Or giving her the phone to play with.  This one has made life rather difficult, as she continues playing with it even when I’m trying to carry on a conversation.  I’m afraid the person on the other end of the line is assaulted with scratching sounds as she claws at the receiver, followed by random beeps as she squeezes her hand between my cheek and the phone in order to press buttons.  It is very much as my husband says, “I sold my soul, but at least the baby’s quiet.”

So other than dancing crazily in the middle of the supermarket to get laughs, “eating” my baby’s fingers, and the aforementioned habits, my life is just the same as it was before I was a mother.  Yeah, right.  The truth is, I am fundamentally changed.  I will never again be ashamed of any quirky habits that I have, because none could ever be worse than many of those I have adopted in order to make my daughter smile.

I know that I should be writing more frequently (I'm failing miserably at halseanderson 's write 15 minutes a day goal). Hmm. . .maybe I can set that goal for myself for August. I also fell short of the seven days of the Hometown challenge, with July 4th coming along and not being home for two days. So, as nothing else is really inspiring me at the moment, and I must have a few minutes when I should be feeding my daughter, but am avoiding it as she seems content to crawl around and is not screaming with hunger, I will continue with my writings about Corvallis, but with pictures that I did not take. It is surprisingly difficult to get out and take random pictures of the town. I'll leave that to my husband, the photographer.
Corvallis is home to Oregon State University, which I wish was my Alma Mater (long story). I did complete three years of my undergrad here before moving to California, and I love this school. My connections go deep--both of my parents attended school here for at least part of their education, I grew up visiting the campus frequently, my mom lived in the same Co-op that I did (the picture below), and I wrote for the school paper for about a year.( Read more... )

It wouldn't be Oregon if there wasn't a forest nearby.  In Corvallis, the forest borders the town on the north side, and is maintained by the forestry students at the University.  Numerous trails connect to the town itself, and Peavy Arboretum, a well-groomed park-like area on the edge of the forest, is just a few minutes outside of the city.

And I can't resist putting up a photo of my husband and daughter, who was only about three weeks old when this photo was taken.

Corvallis is such a beautiful town, especially the downtown area.  When I lived on campus a few years ago (I did three years of my undergrad here at Oregon State University), this was the street I lived on, and the path I would take to the downtown area.  It was such a beautiful day today that I decided to take a walk under the shade of these trees.

This is my favorite tree in town--I call it the Doorway Tree (I know, very imaginative, right?).  If I were to come up with an Anne of Green Gables name, I would call it the Tree of Golden Cascades--every fall, the leaves turn an amazing golden yellow, and its quite a feeling to walk under and through it.

And finally, Corvallis has quite a bike culture.  We actually received one of the highest rankings in the nation (next to Davis, CA) for being bike friendly.  And it's a trend that has become even more pronounced now because of the gas crunch.  I'm even planning to get my bike back in working order this month in order to join the two-wheeled throng.

This is the path that I run twice a week down by the riverfront.  A few years ago, the city redid Waterfront Park, and now it is a beautiful area that's used for farmer's markets and many other events, including the Red, White, and Blues Festival coming up this weekend.
One of the new features of this park is the fountain of dancing water.  On hot days like today, it is full of screaming, laughing children--always a wonderful sight!

Well, I'm trying to catch up on this subject.  I had written one entry, though my computer lost it.  So I will hopefully have several for today.

This is an old abandoned-looking dock that I found while on a run one day.  I like to run along the riverfront, one one day I just stumbled across this in a seldom-visited area.  Corvallis is and old town with lots of history (at least, for the west coast), and one thing I love about it is finding pockets of forgotten history and discovering old photographs of places that still exist today.  Its especially fun to read Linda Crew's YA books about the history of this area, and to gain a fuller understanding of the town I love.