Shhhh! A secret…

So this is how my dear friend J began our conversation the other day.

“Okay, now my mom told me not to tell you, but–”

Egad!  That is a scary start.  I sat ramrod stiff and waiting for the scoop.  A little part of me wanted to squeak, “well, if she didn’t want you to…maybe you shouldn’t?” but most of me was already paralyzed with fear.

So since I was already in squeak mode, I did.  “What? What? Tell me!”

(Which you will note was not my original intention.)

“She wants to know if you’re going to finish this book before she dies.”

Ah.  “I trust she is in good health?” I ask.

“Just step on it,” J answers.  (I paraphrase.  Well, perhaps she was loads kinder and more understanding, and perhaps she also stressed that she and her mom are merely anticipatory and supportive.  But, hey, as the writer *cough*, I do get to fictionalize.  Right?)

Now, my dear friend J’s mom–who is dear in her own right, and a right comedienne and all-round smart and dear sort–is not the first person in recent days to basically wonder when I’m going to finish this book.

I think the time has come to set a deadline on myself.  At least for the completed first draft.  I’ve gotten a bit lazy; many evenings I have been reading rather than writing or taking notes.  I’ve gotten to the point where I have so many notes in my journal that aren’t yet in the book that just transferring the sketches/notes is a serious bigtime job.  And moreover, you know, the book’s long…not for a book, per se, but in comparison with anything else I’ve ever written before (I think my thesis was 60 pages, and that was over a decade ago) and I’m realizing how much editing will be in store once I finish the story.

My point is–there’s a lot of work left and a lot of imagination and creation before I finish my first draft.  And my approach has been “slow and steady” but I’m thinking it’s time to push. 

That’s my plan.  Shall I add a timeline?  A challenge to self? 

Very well.  I shall finish this draft —  wow, you don’t know this but I just took about 5 minutes of angst-filled staring and backward math — by December 15.

I know, I know!  I should say “this summer.”  I should.  How about I am to finish the draft by the end of summer, but we all realize I am lying through my teeth, which are, by the way, dropping out in fear.

No, no–second thoughts.  I should pick a meaningful date.  Hm. 

Deadline Goal shall be August 12, a date which makes me think of lions and basketball and growing up.

Deadline No-Matter-What shall be December 27, which of course means that on my birthday I will be done and can sleep the sleep of the damned.  I mean the exhausted.  Or I can be like the little piggy and scream all the way home.

  I think I’ve terrified myself to shreds.  I have to go, friends and cohorts.  I have a book to write. 

GAH!

Let's just say this photo was not taken on one of my smarter days.

Despite being taken on the 100% scariest day of my life (July 4, 2008, in case you’re wondering), this shot reminds me that what doesn’t kill me is photographed and perched atop my armoire to remind me how great life is.

Err, no.  What doesn’t kill me is, well, fortunate for that reason, at the very least.  

Was it Eleanor Roosevelt who said you should do one thing that scares you each day?  Well, count me among the terrified.  Gotta dash, grab little piggy and go write!

Detail Disoriented; a tale of woe and–nope, that’s another post. Oops

I don’t lie on my resume anymore.  Not since my mid-20s.

Let me rephrase.  By lie, I mean use those ridiculously self-serving phrases career counselors encourage when you enter the workforce. Such that every twenty-something’s resume is littered with obsequious and patently false declarations that they are detail-oriented yet see the big picture, and are team players yet work well independently, are tactful yet cutting edge, etc, etc.

Oh no, not I.  I know myself now.  And I refuse to lie.  I, dear reader, do not love details at all.  Heck, I see a detail, I cross the street.  At a run.  Scattering pregnant women and strollers in my wake.

But there are some details I do live for.  For instance, do you know:

1.  The origin of the word ‘pummel.’

It’s from the olde English word, ‘pommel.’  Which referred to the hilt of a dagger.  To pommel someone was to hit them with the hilt rather than the blade.  Analogous, as someone remarked today, to pistol-whipping.

2.  The origin of the name ‘Istanbul.’

Ooh, this one is simply fab.  It goes back to days of yore, or more specifically: the lead up to the Fall of Constantinople in 1453.

The Turks had their hearts set on taking this city, the great metropolis of its time, rivaling every other bastion of history.  It had wealth, strategic location straddling two continents, and was just plain HAWT.  Ottoman spies were sent to ferret out the city’s weaknesses to plan a winning attack.  They would chat up Greek merchants on their way to trade in the city.

“Where are you going,” the spies would ask, by way of innocent greeting, I suppose.

“To the city,” the merchants would respond.

Not ‘to Constantinople.’  To the city.  Just like folks living in Northern Virginia will refer to DC as “the city” or “the district,” or like folks living in Brooklyn or Jersey will refer to Manhattan simply as “the city.”

And what is the Greek for “to the city?”  Is tan polin.

Magic……

Work details just don’t cut it at that same level, do they?  Not often, anyway.

(Did I just use this post as an excuse to post a Turkey photo????  Naw, I’m not that kinda gal.)

Istanbul, Turkey

No Pain, No New Plan to Circumnavigate Pain

It was 3:30pm and my legs were killing me.  I was famished, hadn’t eaten a bite all day and had been on my feet without respite, starting at exercise boot camp and then at work afterwards for 6.5 hours.

“I have to go,” I told him.  ”My feet are like the truth:  they hurt.”

“The truth shall set you free,” he answered.

Oy, I staggered out of work and made my way to the train.  Of course it was the 1, which is like, the slowest train since the advent of forward motion.  I step in.  It’s full.  WHY, oh why, was it full at 3:30 in the afternoon?  I cursed the other part-timers.  I cursed children.  I cursed the dregs of society.  I cursed society at large, just to get that out of the way, too.  Then I focused on balancing.

When I got home, I about fell into a burger.  I’d poured wine, too, but forgot about it until I looked up from the remains.  Gulped that down and put my aching feet up.  Didn’t write a jot.  I feel so angry about it…

I don’t begrudge the time working.  But then on the side I’ve got to look for permanent full-time work that can really keep me afloat, and I have to write, which I hate putting on the side like this, and then I so crucially need to take care of my life–my friends, my family.  I hate shortchanging them; it shortchanges me too.  How to balance it all????

I’m thinking my wake-up time’s gotta shift from 5:02 to maybe 4:37.  Only I have a strong aversion to any time that starts with a 4 in the hour slot.  But I’ll have to get over it.  Then, after work, I simply must find a way to write, immediately, without any stops to gasp at sore feet or empty tummies or whatnot.  That way I can also relegate Sundays to hanging out with friends, and maybe one other weekday evening…  Is that a plan?

I’ll try it starting today.  Tomorrow is a lie.  Always has been.

Definitely feeling very overwhelmed with time right now.  That’s the truth.  Will it set me free?

Time, on NYC's Broadway

It’s Not What You Know. It’s What I Don’t.

I’m working in a wine shop for the present.  And I find myself noticing something that’s been pointed out to me for years.

I can speak English, Russian and Hebrew to varying degrees of fluency.
I can read basic Turkish, Ukrainian, Georgian and Serbian/Bosnian/Croatian.
I can recognize many Armenian and Arabic letters.
I have shabby Azeri, Polish and Afrikaans comprehension.
I know the difference in pronunciation of “sz” in Hungarian vis-a-vis Polish, and can read a variety of permutations on the basic Latin alphabets used by Turkic and Slavic dialects.

But I know not a whit of Italian, French, Spanish or Portuguese.  The only languages really useful in a wine store.  And I can’t even fake French.

So I now concur with all and sundry.  I apparently am only attracted to zany languages.  *sigh*  :)

** Photo below of another zany place.  Click on it for zany information.  The only kind I gather about me.

Remaining Husk of a Church in Ani, the Ancient Armenian Capital Currently Located in Turkey