Heptadecagon

"Mommy, I don't want to die," Melina said, her eyes wide with alarm. She walked from the living room into the kitchen and extended her thin little arms for a hug. "Melina, I don't want you to die, either." I crouched low and gathered her into my embrace, pulling her body against mine and whispering into her hair. "But everyone has to die at some point. I hope you have a long life ahead of you." My grip tightened for a moment, as I tried to pour all of my love and peace into Melina all at one time. She pulled back and almost instantaneously ran away, as if the only reason she came over was to extract a hug. Or maybe it was to give one. I'll never know. The topic of death has, unfortunately, been widespread in our house the last few days. Tim's uncle and a friend's great-grandmother both passed away early in the week. Of course any time someone you know dies, even if you don't see them too often, it makes you reflect on death in

"I'm putting my story to the side," I said, letting everyone know that the piece I worked diligently on for many months would be set upon the shelf for a while. Maybe forever. "I'm okay with that concept," I added. And truly, I was. I am. I will be three months from now. That first story of mine captured my heart and basically brought me to where I am today; it served an enormous purpose because it pushed me to sit and write, almost every day, which was good practice. The act has made me a better writer. You might not see the changes in my writing here, on this informal blog, but my manner of telling stories has made an about-face. My dialogue is more authentic. I no longer simply purge myself of exposition, and instead attempt to thread it throughout the story. I'm finding the balance for the techniques I've learned along the way. Writing is still a joy. Knowing that my writing is getting better makes the whole process even more joyful. If I

This one needs to be short. It is the 666th post (I think there are a few, untitled, unpublished ones out there that stand in the files, waiting for life to be breathed into them). And while I am not superstitious, I just can't seem to find anything enjoyable about that number. My husband, I am sure, would be able to. But we know what happens when he posts something here: We get a long and involved treatise on how math comes into some everyday situation, and by the end of the post, we might be more confused than when we entered (Love you, honey!). And his titles? Get to the point, will ya? (Love you honey, again!) So that's all. I'll post more later. I just had to get over that hump.

Melina just watched an episode of the Justice League. I walked into the room and recognized it right away. "Hey Melina!" I said. "That episode is familiar! I watched it when I was a kid!" "You mean that there were movies when you were a kid?" she replied. "Yes, they had this program then. How about that?" I said, really excited about the whole thing. I loved Superheros when I was little. I wondered what her response would be. "Wow," Melina replied. All it takes is a 4 year old to make you feel quite ancient.

Baseball season is about to start (Go Phillies! and Go Mudcats!), and when I took a look at the Phils' roster, I noticed that they have three pitchers who are listed at under six feet tall: Antonio Bastardo, Mauricio Robles, and Raul Valdes.  Curiously, all three are left-handed.  We're defining handedness as the hand with which one throws.  Does anyone really care that Antonio Bastardo bats righty?  I'm sure that's not on Charlie Manuel's mind when he calls Bastardo in from the bullpen. This got me thinking: two easily recognized physical traits that are valued in pitchers are (1) height, and (2) left-handedness.  Well, what's their relative value?  Is left-handedness valued over height, or are they more-or-less the same? If being left-handed is more valuable than being tall, then if I were to look at the shortest pitchers in MLB, I'd expect to find more lefties than a random sample.  So, I made a spreadsheet of all the pitchers on the 2013 40-man roste

I've said before that I hear complete conversations in my head. No, I'm not crazy. I hear my characters conversing with one another, in my mind, at the oddest moments. I usually get to the computer as fast as I can so that I can write the scene down before I forget it. This happens often, much more often than I thought it ever would, but I've heard other writers say the same thing. Well imagine my surprise when I get a phone call from one of my characters! And I'm not kidding. Again, I'm not crazy. It really happened. I can't give you all the details, but let's just say that I spoke with someone today that totally embodied Callum, at least over the phone. Had I not just "met" this person, I would have told him that I had an entire novel sitting at home, with his doppelganger as one of the stars. How crazy is that? Which reminds me that I told him about this blog, using it as an example of my writing. He can see the real me here, whether he

Usually spring around here has started to peek out its little head. We've got a few daffodils popping up, but because of the cold, those flowers halted their progression and due to snow last night, are covered by a good 3 to 4 inches of white stuff. Downy flakes this late in the season are not welcome here, I think. Especially because they cause delays and closings. Like today. The day the kids are supposed to go back to school after AN ENTIRE WEEK OFF. Bitter? No, I'm really not. It wasn't a bad thing to sleep until 6:30 am and not have to get up and get things going. But I do have to wonder about a school district that calls for no school the night before, at 11 pm. Lot of things can happen between 11 pm and 5 am the next day. Let's take a look at three of those scenarios: 1. More snow can fall, justifying the closing of the school. 2. The snow can stop, making the school district look silly the next morning when the kids are all outside enjoying the day that rea

Easy Ways to Clear a Room of Four Children: Yell out Who wants ice cream? Ask if anyone is ready to help fold the clothes. Mention that the dusting needs to be finished. Call out that the cat has vomited, repeatedly, in the room. Suggest that the kids help with said vomit. Mention that the Scooby-Doo DVD they just saw has bloopers that they've never seen.

Spring break is great, right? I'd agree with that statement if you actually go somewhere else . Or, if my break coincided with the kids break. But it doesn't. So this week, while they have been home or when we've been out, all I can think of is how much I need to get done at home. The laundry, the cooking, the lectures, the writing, all of it has suffered this week. I try to tell myself, repeatedly, that we've spent time with friends and time together, which is quality time. Saying that and realizing it is, indeed, true, has healed the wound a bit. But I'm still scrambling today to make sure I'm prepared to teach tomorrow, and I despise that feeling. In the end, I'm definitely broken and ready for this lovely crew to head back to school next week. We've only got 1 quarter left, which means in 9 weeks I'll be doing this again. I think I best prepare myself, don't you?

I had lunch with a group of friends yesterday. We brought our kids together for pizza and snacks at someone's house, and even though there were 9 kids there (1 still had school or we would have had an even 10), the four of us managed to sit at our own table and hold a nice discussion, albeit an often-interrupted one. A good time was had by all. Conversations veered this way and that, and ran the gamut as far as topics went. I won't reveal anything here, in an effort to protect the innocent. When it was time to go home, I shooed the kids out the door and unlocked the minivan for them. And then, I made a mistake. I peeked inside my friend's Yukon XL. I've never been a fan of the SUV. They cost quite a bit and have terrible gas mileage. Heck, they don't fit into most older garages. Those were my feelings until I had 4 kids. Now, I think it would be great to have space for extra passengers and groceries, luggage and pets. I almost fainted when she showed me the ca

Less than a month. 50,551 words and counting. First draft almost done. Just had my very own NaNoWriMo. Woo-hoo!

"Mommy, did girls use to wear dresses all the time?" The question comes as she colors in a picture of a princess, riding on a horse. "Yes, they sure did," I reply. "That's weird, right?" says the girl who wears dresses all the time. Hmm. How's that for irony?

My hormones must be getting the best of me. Why else would I catch myself crying in church over the possible demise of a character in my story? Why else, I ask ? I'm sure that was the reason, and I find it funny that I am already so attached to a character that currently lives mostly in my mind. Call me crazy and I won't correct you. The problem these days is that if I start to tear up over one thing, it then leads to another and another. I keep the tissues handy, and if I had to, I could make the excuse that I am crying over the election of the new pope. Of course, one thinks, the mad woman in the pew is so relieved to have a fine, upstanding and honorable man at the head of the Catholic Church. Those are tears of joy, I'm sure. Uh, not really. Unlike many in my parish, if I shed tears over the pope, it won't be because I am content that the Catholic Church has chosen someone from humble beginnings. They are so thrilled, some say, because he "often ro

I just had to share the news of a new arrival. Not in our family, but in an extended family sort of way. One of my bestest friends in the world just had her second baby, a little boy. Well, he isn't that little considering he weighed in at 10 pounds! He's a cutie though, and the family is doing well. Congratulations to you and yours, Julie!

Fridays are a joy for me. I have between 9 am and 12:30 pm to get my act together. I usually fill the time with book writing, lecture tweaking, and reviewing for class the next day. Yesterday, I planned to do just that, plus meet a friend for a quick cup of coffee at 11 am. At 10:47 am, just as I was ready to head out, there was a knock at my door. I peeked out the window and saw a neighbor of ours. A sixth grader, whose mom and dad were out of town. It didn't look good. Me: Hi J. What's up? Him: Oh Hi. The dogs got out. Both of our dogs got out. Me: I was just getting ready to go out. Hold on. Come in, and let me call my friend and then we'll go look. He came in, I picked up the phone, and couldn't find my friend's cell phone number. I glanced over at the kid, who punched furiously into his phone, possibly texting his mom. Me: You don't even have shoes on. Go ahead back to your house and I'll come get you. I need to let my friend know I won't b

Z and T: Hey Mom! Can you really not fish for whales on Sunday here? Me: I don't know. Why do you ask? T: Mr. V said so. He also told us to look up weird laws for the state. Can we? Me: Okay. Z: Mom, can you come here? Me: I'll be right there. Z and T: What does this mean? [They point to the webpage on the computer monitor.] Me: Oh. Cross-dressing? That's when a boy wears girls clothes and boys wear girls clothes. Z and T: Oh. Well it's banned in that city. Me: Huh. Z and T: And what about this, mom? [They point again at the screen.] Me: Anal intercourse? Hmm....

January marked the start of my 23rd year of running. It seems odd to say that; as in, can I really be that old? But we've had that conversation many times here on the blog and I'd rather not beat a dead horse, as they say. Running is many things to different people, but for me it has been a joy, a comfort, a haven, and a doctor all rolled into one. The other morning, I had coffee with a friend. We'd been trying for a year to get together, and life seemed to always be in the way. We'd plan a time and place and one of our kids would get sick, or a snow day would present itself, keeping us from meeting up. Well, we finally made it to see one another and we had a great time. It was good to chat and catch up on family life as well as talk about what was going on at school. At one point, M mentioned that she used to run, and that she needed to get back to it. Run, you say? Of course, my ears perked up. After this long, it's a reflex. M said she'd been attending a

Melina: Hey Mommy? Can I have my dessert now? Me: Sure. What would you like? Melina: Do we have any ice cream? Me: Yes, we do. Melina: Can I have some of that dirty ice cream? Me: Pardon me? Melina: I'd like some of that dirty vanilla ice cream. Me: Oh, you mean French vanilla. Melina: Yes. Some of that, please.

I try not to be a yeller. I don't have a better term for what I mean, but I am sure you get my drift. I don't think yelling is very effective for dealing with children in the long term. Sure, it gets the job done at the time, but as for helping them learn the lesson and carry it forward, I don't think yelling works; it just makes the kids resentful later on. Yesterday after school, I left Melina with Zoe and Talia so that I could bring Aaron to an appointment. The twins seemed a bit tired after school, but I didn't push anything, because we needed to be somewhere by 3:15 pm. I thanked them for watching Melina, said goodbye and I love yous, and headed out. When Aaron and I returned, I checked on everyone. Progress had been made on homework, and snacks had been eaten. I headed into the kitchen to see what dishes needed to be done, and on the island, an envelope caught my eye. The envelope had not been there when I left. I picked it up, turned it over, and smirked. T

If you've ever picked up what you think is bad literature, I want you to say an Our Father or Hail Mary as penance for ever cursing the person that wrote the book. I know I've read and commented on books hailed as best sellers that I simply didn't enjoy. I often thought, "How could they?" and "Don't I deserve better than this?" But let me tell you this: IT IS VERY DIFFICULT TO WRITE A BOOK. If you don't believe me, go try it, and come back with a full report. I had very little time last week to make progress on either one of my newer stories. Had the inspiration hit, like it did two weeks ago, I'd have made the time to get the details on the paper. But nothing struck me as gold, save for a couple of conversations that were quickly keyed into the word document. And so I'll sit here this week, alternating between a couple of stories and lectures and Facebook and email and hope that I can get back into the groove and move something, any

How's that for the title of a post? That one is, I'm sure, drawing you right in, isn't it? Well, this morning I was tagged in a post by FRN. It was a screen shot for a local news station and it said, "What's Hot: No Red Heads. Sperm Banks Reject Gingers." Clearly, being a female, it doesn't impact me. But my little red head, Aaron, who yes, is male? Well, my first thought was, "How in the heck will he get extra cash during college if they won't take his sperm?"  Just kidding. While I've known several people who did just that, I am seriously hoping that Aaron would choose a more mundane route for making extra cash, i.e. working at the library or the student union. I did a Google search and found that in 2011, the Danish firm Cryos decided to stop taking sperm from Gingers. Apparently infertile couples don't choose to have Gingers. I didn't choose to have 1 red head and 3 blonds, but you don't see me complaining. Do people

Last spring, I took the plunge and signed up for a writing class. All of you know that, and you know it lit the fire under my bum and got me going down this writing road. Since then, I've been looking at free seminars and more classes, but I haven't had the time to do anything about making myself a better writer. Well, I've been writing, which is probably the best thing one can do. But learning more about show versus tell , and how to balance dialogue , and other items they call the "craft of fiction" is something I'd like to do in a classroom setting. From a published author. Fast forward to a few weeks ago. My writing group (wonderful, superb group of ladies that I am so lucky to have fallen together with) decided that we needed to approach the local author we knew and ask if she'd put together a custom class for us. We had a specific list of what we wanted and presented it to her, nicely. And she said yes, she'd love to hold a class just for us, b

I pray. A lot. At least I think I do. I pray when I fold laundry, when I run, when I am doing dishes. It isn't a constant stream of prayer, but if I think of something that I need to tell God, I do. It doesn't matter where I am, although if I am conversing with group of people, I try not to say my prayer aloud, as it would swing the direction of the conversation and confuse people. I figure since God and I speak so often (And yes, I admit that a long time ago, God spoke to me ...I saw writing on the wall: God's way of speaking in words without using his voice.), that someday I'll be able to sit down and actually ask some questions of the good Lord. I mean, don't we all have things we'd like to know about everything, and the answers just aren't there? I'd like to know: What is God's favorite color? Speaking of favorites, every parent says they don't really have a favorite child, but who is His favorite child (person) of all time? And why?

The forecast called for snow, somewhere between 4 and 8 inches, depending on where you are in our little region. As most of you readers know, even an inch or two of snow can send schools and businesses into delays around here, so I braced myself for a closing. But the girls were home sick yesterday, so a closing wouldn't actually be that bad today. Did I do anything about it? Certainly not, as I have no control over the weather. My children think differently. Talia: Hey Zoe, we need to go turn our pajamas around. Zoe: Oh yeah. Let's go. If you aren't in the loop on this one, the story goes like this: wear your pajamas inside out and backwards at night, and you'll have a snow day the next day. Apparently even the fifth grade teachers told the kids to wear them on Tuesday night. Maybe they all need a vacation, but you know, spring break is around the corner. The girls didn't stop there, though. I went upstairs to see if they were in bed yet, and I lightly kn

Do you know what that sound is, highness? Those are the shrieking eels. They -- Wait a minute. It's not the sound of shrieking eels, it's the sound of screeching brakes. The brakes that have put a halt to my manic writing. I checked my dissertation yesterday, a fine (ha-ha, that's funny) specimen of writing that I wrote in 8 weeks, with plenty of revising. It is 115 pages long, and could have been longer, I suppose, but I had twins at home and places to be. And where do I stand with my current piece? 107 pages. In 12 days. The story has a long way to go to even be called a first draft, but it's already way more interesting than the hardcover bound black book sitting on my bookshelf. I think I'll give myself a break, not berate myself for being unable to keep up a pace of approximately 2300 words per day. The only things is, if I could manage that pace, I'd be done with a pre-first draft within the month. I can't tell you how tempting it is to tell Ti

This is one of those posts that will probably divide my sisters and me, at least that is what I expect. My older sister will side with me, and my younger sister will be against me. Come to think of it, my older sister might not even know what I am talking about. I don't mean that to be offensive. I just mean that she doesn't have a propensity toward popular music, at least I don't think she does. (And she's probably a better person for it.) So a while back, I heard this announcement that Jay Z and Justin Timberlake had a new song. Oh goody, I thought. (Remember when I said I don't always tell the whole truth when I recount tales? Yeah, this is one of those times.) I'd never been a fan of either, but I'm willing to give most things a shot. I stuck with the radio station and awaited the release of the new song. I have to say, I liked the title (Suit & Tie). Unfortunately, that is where my happiness ended. I can't possibly explain or describe how gr

Sometimes what I write is true. Sometimes it is complete fiction. And other times, the plot might be fictitious but it is rooted in the truth. Sometimes what I think is actually fiction turns out to be somewhat truthful. Case in point? One of the stories I am working on right now falls into the last category. I had something happen, I used it as a jumping point, and I'm working on it from there. I have a vague idea of where I'd like it to go, but the in between places still have yet to be determined. Had you asked me two days ago, I'd say that aside from that initial interaction that sparked the story idea, my inspiration was coming only from my mind. That all of the things I had planned for my characters stemmed from some pit within me. But separate conversations with my sisters, and a good long run (always a mind cleansing and truth revealing action for me) made me realize that two of my most recent characters are beginning to look very much like my sisters! I won

Note to Readers: There are many times when I kid around and say things just to be funny. Sometimes they work, sometimes, they don't. Please be advised that most of these times, I realize that the topic of which I speak is serious. Also, I don't always tell the truth when I retell a story. These days, I find myself with a stalker. Yes, a stalker. I know, how could a little A & P instructor who mostly stays at home and do nothing but volunteer, teach, and write, have a stalker? I can if she's my sister. Yes, you heard me right. My sister is stalking me. Let me paint the picture. Early this week, I sent her an email asking her to read a little piece for me. "Is this readable?" I wanted to know. What I should have thought to myself before sending anything to her was, "Am I sending this to the right person?" Had I asked myself that question, I would have come up with the answer that no, FRN is not the right person. Not because she's not a freq

Since Melina isn't five yet, surprising conversations still result when the two of us talk. Sometimes, she tells me about why we should write about Daphne from Scooby-Doo and how Daphne really wants a piece of chocolate. Where's the tension? The motivation? Or maybe Melina is just that smart and she's actually telling me that she wants a piece of chocolate. I like to think that is it, of course. Yesterday, we had another surprising conversation: Melina: Mommy, someone at my Sunday school once said they were jealous of my eyes. Me: What? What did she say? Melina: She said she was jealous of my eyes. Me: Oh. Really? Melina: Yes, she said it was because they were pretty. Well all right then. I guess the girl wanted to tell Melina her eyes are pretty. They are, but the other little girls also have very pretty eyes. But here's the thing. Her Sunday school is for four year olds. Some kids might be a little older, but still...four. Are we starting the use of this wo