Heptadecagon

She never laughed so much as when she lounged with her three sisters, around the oval Formica table in the 1950s kitchen of her parents' house. Or on the cushions of the decrepit porch swing, covered with scratchy vinyl flowers, that rested against the back wall of the garage. It stood there for eons, imitating the same stance her father did in his recliner. No matter how frustrating a sister can be-- and believe me I should know-- there's a palpable feeling of being alive when your sisters are physically with you, close enough to touch, to hug, to tease. Bright smiles, loud snorts, rays of fervent, positive energy filled the scene, already redolent with scents of baking and summer rain. Vibrant, pulsating, waves of joy pummeled against anyone who dared enter into that kitchen. Usually, we walked right back out.  It would seem, I think now, in those thunderous moments with her sisters, and in the tranqui

Seventeen episodes of Kitty Cuteness, oh my! I can't believe it's been so long since I posted some pictures of my favorite felines, but it has been. Mea culpa. Today, I have pictures the girls took. They are much better photographers than I am and somehow, seem to capture more of the cats' characteristics than I do. Benedict is an odd cat. He could be looking at someone right now, or, he could be contemplating life. Arnold sits in front of our window, looking at what? There's nothing but an expanse of carpet below him. Here Benedict contemplates the charger and ear buds. I'm surprised he's not batting them around. I think this is Heathcliff... This IS Heathcliff, in all his majestic glory.

I love description. In fact, authors who use description in the proper way allow me, the reader, to see the scene, to immerse myself in the writing, and to be present in the story. That's the beauty of choosing the right details to include in your story. But more always means better , right? Not so fast. The other day I received a piece via email and sat down to edit it. Within the first paragraph, the author had plans to take me on a journey down a river. I was excited! I couldn't wait to see if the banks of the river were made of sand, silt, mud, or grasses. I wanted to know what the foliage looked like and whether or not the fauna and insects seemed familiar to me. But by sentence number two, I found myself mentally tripping over the multitude of words and having to go back to the beginning to read what was written. The similes and metaphors tried too hard, and the adjectives and adverbs were far too many. Exhibit A: Majestic gray Barnacle geese with thin, spo

These days, when I get up in front of a class and try to tell the students something and what I want to say doesn't quickly come to mind, I think to myself, "What do I know? Do I really know anything? And even if I know anything, how do I not know that Alzheimer's isn't already rearing it's ugly face." And I go back to thinking about all these things that I know. I write better when my computer sits on the dining room table and I'm facing west. I don't know exactly why that is the case, but I suspect that it has to do with the way the light comes into the room. One of my writing group friends had a breakthrough moment last night, and I hope that her last day of spring break is filled with a multitude of words. The Simpsons' writers are nothing short of geniuses. Really. Certain people are meant to exist in your life only for a short time. It is okay to dispose of them when the relationship is no longer meaningful to you. I like Superman

My children love to create objects: with paint, pencils, clay, play dough. You name it, they will use it. Yesterday morning, Aaron and Melina decided to manipulate some clay into a few objects they wanted to play with. I can't remember the name of this guy, but Aaron made him look exactly the way he should look. Melina wanted a snail. She attempted the task once and turned to me. I found a YouTube video and made this. "And now, can we bake them?" Aaron asked. "I don't think this is oven-bake clay," I replied. "It is," he assured me. "Really?" I had my doubts. But I went ahead and placed these two creatures, along with a bowl that Talia had made for Melina, into the oven. As I suspected. The clay was NOT safe for the oven. Only the white hardened in the heat. Another good lesson learned here: always listen to your mother--she's probably right.

The last Lyric Lover post was dedicated to all the people who needed a pick me up. Sadly, I'm now in that camp. I'm not entirely sure why, but I think it has to do with the following: we've been sick as of late, I haven't run as much as I would have liked, and I'm tired of my job. Yes, that's right. I want a new job and I'm actually looking for a brand new one. (So, if you know of any places of employment that want a person who loves to edit and write and who might not have that much experience but does have a passion for editing and writing, send them my way. Please.) Anyway, I have found that anytime this song comes on the radio, I'm dancing in my seat. And any song that can get me smiling and moving is a pretty good song in my opinion. Plus, I do love the lyrics.

Marissa sat, cemented to the seat of her car, trying to decide whether or not to go into her parents' house. She'd always hated that house--the muddy siding and dark rooms never welcomed her in--and she'd much rather sit in the warmth of the summer sun than walk into whatever waited for her inside. Although she couldn't be completely certain, she was pretty sure the two scenarios she envisioned were both something she really could live without. And what did she envision? An irate husband, one who had convinced himself she'd been unfaithful last winter, even though she hadn't, and a mother who couldn't acknowledge that times had changed, that she needed help. She imagined them sitting at the mahogany dining table, fingers wrapped around condensation-laced glasses of lemonade, whispers of the television in the background. Both of them with legs crossed and eyebrows furrowed, waiting for the moment Marissa opened the sliding door. Yeah, I could use a

You can find this all over the internet. Choose the one you want and just go!

Last Friday, I subbed for a seventh grade math teacher. I've subbed for her before, and she knows I enjoy teaching seventh grade math. So when she needs to take a day off, she leaves me with a lesson plan, one that requires me to actually teach . I love days like that because I have trouble sitting still and as much as I love to read a book, babysitting a classroom isn't all that much fun. Mrs. T's day is full of regular seventh grade math with a one period of pre-algebra. These are the kids who get math pretty quickly and do well at it, and will be ready to take algebra in eighth grade. But despite their innate ability to catch onto the concepts, they still have trouble thinking for themselves. Exhibit A: Unable to answer the questions; unable to show the work. Me: How do you do this problem? Would you like to tell me? Her: Well, I know the answer, but I didn't write down the answer. Me: How did you do the problem then? Her: I did it in my head. Me: Can you t

Around these parts, the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition is a big deal. Erma lived in the Dayton region and wrote for several Dayton area papers for years (her column eventually went into national syndication). Every two years, a writing workshop is held in her name. The workshop is so popular it sells out in hours. But you can win the competition and get the chance to go, too. In past years, I haven't entered the writing contest. First off, I'm not funny. Secondly, I don't write shorts (under 450 words). This year, however, an event happened one day and I thought to myself, "Yes. Let's write that up and submit it." As you can probably tell from the title of this post, I didn't win the contest. And truthfully, I didn't expect to. (You can see who won here .) But I received an email from one of the coordinators yesterday which read: I am writing to tell you that your essay “Be Careful What You Wish For” advanced to the final round of the Erm

This month, my book club chose to read Purple Hibiscus , by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I knew nothing of the book, nor of the author, besides her name. The novel tells the story of Kambili and Jaja, two teenagers being raised in contemporary Nigeria by a dictatorial father and a traditional mother. But the story is more complicated than that. This coming-of-age novel is rooted both in the Nigerian culture and as well as the political dissonance at the time. In the end, I enjoyed the novel and I found myself, as I always do, highlighting passages that spoke to me. One passage in particular stood out. It was what Aunty Ifeoma did to my cousins, I realized then, setting higher and higher jumps for them in the way she talked to them, in what she expected of them. She did it all the time, believing they would scale the rod. And they did. It was different for Jaja and me. we did not scale the rod because we believed we could, we scaled it because we were terrified that we couldn't. (p

Sometimes, the fewer words the better. Let's ruminate on that thought for this weekend.

Marissa wasn't worried. Even though she'd been telling her Dad for two years to get his mole checked, she knew it probably wasn't metastatic melanoma. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she just did. But if it she was wrong, well, he was over 80 years old and had lived a good life. Not that she wanted to be callous about the situation, but in her line of work, she'd seen sadder stories than her father's. "What else do you know, Dad?" "Not much. They didn't tell me anything." "Well did you ask for the pathology report?" Marissa shuffled some items on her desk, searching for Trevor's itinerary. He was due in from the airport this afternoon, and she didn't want to make him wait for a ride. If she wasn't mistaken, she'd need to leave soon, and therefore, she needed to quickly end this conversation with her father. "No, I didn't ask for the pathology report." "Why not?" "I just

My household is harboring germs right now. Some of those germs actually cause Influenza A (yep, she tested positive) and other germs, well...I'm not sure what they cause. But whatever it is, it ain't pretty. Aaron stayed home one day last week and now is home again. Zoe was out one day, and Tim has taken two and a half days off due to whatever crud is lingering inside his body. And now, I have something. What is it? Not sure. But my head is beating like a drum, even though a drum cannot beat itself, right? You can see where I am. My similes are so bad, I should quit writing. So I will. Instead, I'll post a few funny flu/cold memes. That last one? I'm about to that point. We've been lucky this school year, but when we get hit, we get hit. And now, I'm going back to bed.

I woke up to find that it's International Women's Day . And while I have so many words I could use to write something eloquent about this day and what it means to me, life has been a bit crazy here lately, and I simply don't have the time to do so. But I stumbled across this picture a friend had posted, and realized that the sentiment it holds can go along with Google's campaign to share #OneDayIWill moments in celebration of today. Google's doodle today links to a YouTube video that shares many #OneDayIWill ideas from across the globe. The answers span everything from playing in the Major Leagues to becoming an astronaut to traveling the world. My biggest #OneDayIWill dream is, of course, to publish my novels. What's yours?

I love Talking Heads, at least when I'm speaking about music. If you're not sure who Talking Heads are--yeah, I'm looking at all you young ones out there--then take some time to listen to their classic song, Psycho Killer: But of course, I digress. The talking heads I don't like are not the musical group but characters in a story, engrossed in dialogue, and the only things the author has given to me are the words of the conversation. No setting. No gestures. Nothing that grounds me, as the reader, in the scene. I'd love to give you an example from one of the books I read recently, but if I did that, I'd out the writer and I don't really feel like doing that at the moment. So here's what I will do. I'll pull out a conversation from the novel closest to me right now, and take out anything from the scene except the dialogue. (Here's hoping that the book I choose is well-written, right?) Just to quench your curiosity, I'm taking a

Many times I post a recipe here because I want to save that recipe. That's what I'm doing today. I looked up "Easy Banana Muffins" because I really didn't want to use my same old muffin recipe and I had, as usual, a ton of bananas. Well the recipe I found was a hit with the kids. And anyone who has kids knows that if a recipe is deemed more than acceptable, you stick with it. So I'll be putting this recipe into the "what to do with old bananas" rotation. (If you want to see the original recipe, you can find it here .) Ingredients: 3 large bananas 1/2 cup white sugar 1 egg (slightly beaten) 1/2 cup melted butter 1 teaspoon vanilla 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 1/2 cups flour 1/2 teaspoon salt (optional, but I used it) 1 cup milk chocolate chips What to do: Mash the bananas and add the sugar and the egg. Stir in the melted butter and vanilla. Stir in the dry ingredients. Stir in the chocolate chips. Spoon

He sat at the head of the table, telling me his story, as if he knew I would write down all the little details of what he had to say.  Maybe, he said, this--all these words-- will mean something to you. He arched his eyebrows and sipped his steaming coffee.  He shook his head and spoke.  I was so cold, he said. I used to sit, shivering in my chair, both sets of legs trembling. I'd watch my fingernails turn from soft pink to vibrant blue, but still, she wouldn't budge. The money, she'd say, think of the money we're saving. And I'd think to myself,  what about my sanity? Isn't my sanity important to you?  Good point, I interjected.  She couldn't see it that way, at least not at first, he replied. And so each night, after work, I trudged to the library, where I'd spend many a warm hour. Unfurling my fingers. Breathing in warm air. Living . And at that moment, he said,

He calls only when he needs something. An explanation. A favor. She finds herself cringing when the caller ID shows his number. Can I not take this call? She tosses the thought around in her head. Her husband knows what she is contemplating and tells her to ignore the call. "I can't," she says and  shakes her head. "I just can't." Visibly wincing as she says hello, she wonders what it will be this time. Do they need a place to stay for the night? Does he have a question about some medicine that he's been prescribed? "Hey, do you have a minute?" he asks. "Sure," she says and sits back against the recliner. "I need you to do something for me." I knew it, she thinks and looks over to her husband, who flashes a quick smile. He can't hear the conversation, but again, he knows. He's been through this with her for the last several years. "What do you need?" "I went to lunch with Mr. Dotson the o

A few people I know could use a pick-me-up this morning. Yesterday, I thought about how I could provide such a pick-me-up. Seeing as these people are scattered across the globe, I knew this blog would need to be my forum. As I tinkered in the kitchen making banana muffins just before noon, a song by George Ezra came on the radio. Well, I really like George Ezra's music (you may have heard of his single Budapest or Blame It On Me ), but I'd never heard this particular song. Let's just say that I fell in love with both the melody and the lyrics and realized Ezra's song could serve as the vehicle to deliver my message. I'm linking to the video because then you can hear the song. I dare you not to smile.