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For the Birds

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Iowa is great for bird watching!

In fact, though I’ve always loved birds (especially ducks — they’re my all-time favorite animal), I had no idea how much I loved them until we moved here.

Birds are amazing. I love to watch them fly and land, peck, hop, run and more than anything I love to listen to them sing. It’s so beautiful waking up to their joyful song amidst the morning breeze and rustling of the trees.

My husband and I have really embraced our new aviary friends and even purchased a bird feeder (then another soon after) so that we can appreciate the birds even more. Now we get to watch them from our front window! And since spring has sprung, it seems we have become a bird haven. It’s awesome.

I even started appreciating some more than others. I love this one particular red bird best who visits us. Jason says it’s a cardinal. I don’t really care what he is; I just know I love him. He’s a brilliant reddish orange. And I adore this group of small black birds who fly by every day and land in the field across the street. They’re not just black; they look like they’re wearing black, red and yellow striped tuxedo jackets — so stylish! And when they extend their wings, it’s majestic. I also love these cute little bright yellow finches. They are so cute and happy. Jason really likes these cool looking blue ones, though I forget what he called them. And orioles… we’ve seen a lot of those and he and I both like those, too.

Anyway, we’ve been getting curious about which birds have been visiting us most and in learning more about them. So we started researching. In doing so, we’ve learned a lot of neat local bird factoids.

But of everything I’ve learned on the topic, the names have to be my favorite. Some seem pretty standard and I’ve certainly heard, if not seen, most of them before. But others… well, others are FAR more interesting. And by “interesting” I mean hilarious.

Seriously, whoever came up with these names was either high at the time, had their minds in the gutter or simply had a sick sense of humor.

Either way, I appreciate the outcome.

Here’s a list of my favorite funny bird names, some new and others newly appreciated now that I’m thinking about it:

  • Dickcissel
  • Tufted Titmouse
  • Swallow
  • Chickadee
  • Killdeer
  • Ruddy Duck
  • Loon
  • Hairy Woodpecker
  • Coot
  • Magpie
  • Wood Thrush
  • Red Faced Booby
  • Grosbeak
  • Zitting Cisticola
  • Scrub Jay
  • Clark’s Nutcracker
  • Northern Screamer
  • Brown Trembler
  • Fluffy Backed Tit Babbler
  • Cuckoo
  • Shag
  • Thicknees
  • Agile Tit-tyrant
  • Morepork
  • Wild Turkey
  • Turdus
  • Cock-of-the-rock
  • Penduline Tits
  • Wrentit

Seriously. Who comes up with this stuff?!?!

“Facts” by Philip Levine (Poem Analysis)

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When I first read this poem, it seemed so simple and straightforward. It’s just a bunch of random facts, right? Instinctually, I felt there was more to it. So I tried my best to break it down…

In each stanza of this poem, Levine uses the first two lines to state what seems like a random fact and then he uses the last two lines to add a sort of sarcastic, snarky or even just funny or interesting attitude or note about the fact previously stated. Most of the words he selects are either one or two syllables. This makes it feel simple as if he wants us to think these are just simple, separate facts and yet when read together they don’t seem so simple. I felt like I had been fed a bunch of facts and, yet, I was missing the point. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he wants us to question the facts.

I enjoyed the rhythm. It felt like he was rambling on (much like I’m doing now) and reminded me of all the times I’ve gotten stuck sitting beside a seemingly crazy person on an airplane. But as I continued reading, he seemed less crazy and more interesting much like most of my experiences with inflight insanity. Similarly, just when the poem started making sense, the plane landed. I found this both frustrating and addictive.

The way Levine switches back and forth between past, present and future tense struck me as pleasant somehow. It felt so natural and conversational and not at all stuffy or formal. He also shifts between first, second and third person. Depending on whether he started a line or thought with “I” or “We” or “You” or an ambiguous he/she/it felt important. When he separated “—if you’re scared—” from everything else using dashes, it felt like he was talking to me specifically and I found myself paying closer attention, wanting to prove I wasn’t scared to tackle this.

Levine uses inflection and rhythm masterfully. He repeats certain words and phrases for emphasis, like Cleveland and Rolls Royce for examples, bringing attention to their importance. He states facts about places and things and by repeating them or by illuminating their rhythms through alliteration or consonance (“perfect grill for a Rolls Royce” or “the coldest I’ve ever been is in Cleveland” or “the citizens of Cleveland passed me sullenly”) they start to feel connected like memories along a journey. The Rolls Royce might signify the car industry which could connect all the other places he mentions back to Detroit, his home town and first spot on his journey. He also mentions several types of transportation (Rolls, Dinky, bus, train, walking) and that along with the cities is making me think all of it is symbolic of this journey being a major theme.

The poem is made up of eleven stanzas, each with four lines. Fact about me: eleven and four are my lucky numbers—I was born 11/11 and my brother was born 4/4. But just like the facts in this poem, I don’t think this matters to you as much as it matters to me. Similarly, I think the facts in this poem mattered to Levine because they belong to him. But he shares them in such a beautiful, unique and rhythmic way that we can’t help but feel connected. The way he separates his thoughts makes each fact seem separate but of equal importance. This, along with his rhythmic choices, makes it feel so fluid when Levine draws our attention to something or when he refers back and forth between stanzas (i.e., “there are two lies in the previous stanza”) like he’s trying to get us to see the bigger picture.

I keep thinking that if I figure out how to connect the dots, I will eventually have a complete story but doing so “strikes me as an exercise in futility” much like Levine describes living “in Cleveland” or “saving your pennies to buy a Rolls Royce.”

This poem started to drive me crazy. I’ve read it over and over again, and still haven’t figured it out. I went so far as to Google Levine to learn more about him and one thing I found interesting was this quote by him during an NPR interview: “The real challenge is when language, instincts, technique and practice come together. You have to follow where the poem leads. And it will surprise you. It will say things you didn’t expect it to say. And you look at the poem and you realize, ‘That is truly what I felt.’ That is truly what I saw.”

I admit I’m no poet (at least not yet) but I was surprised by how strongly I felt about this poem. In trying to dissect it, I found myself getting more and more confused by the facts while my emotional connection to them became stronger and crisper. I fell in love with this one.

Flea Diddy

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The other night I had a dream in which my husband, Jason, brought home a dog and we named him Flea Diddy. I told him about the dream when I woke up and we both laughed. I thought it was so randomly funny that I told a few friends in conversation and I even posted it on Facebook and a friend replied, “You dream in humor, nice.”

It was rather nice. Not all of them are. I have my fair share of nightmares but usually I’m quite fond of my dreams. They are such a wonderful part of life. Don’t you agree? In a completely relaxed state, we get to visualize ourselves being and doing and achieving all sorts of magnificent things.

Sometimes, my dreams are funny.  This time, yes. I laughed a long time over Flea Diddy. Awake, I even came up with a name for his kitty sidekick: Fluff Daddy.

But, like I said, I have a variety of different types of dreams…

Happy. Sad. Occasionally scary (especially if I eat pepperoni). Hyper.Playful. Exciting. Romantic. Sexy. Sexier. Pornographic. Weird. Supernatural. Fun. Futuristic. Adventurous. Childish. Black and white and/or color, depending on the genre. Just me or featuring friends, family, strangers—sometimes with feet and sometimes without. Vivid. Interesting. Musical. Informative. Inexplicable. Random. Not so random. Memories. De ja vue. Even predictive.

I believe dreams are a connection to our subconscious. At times, my subconscious can be pretty intense. It would have to be with so much fact and fiction being simultaneously digested in there. Awake, I can tell the difference between reality and one of my novels but I’m not sure my dreams can separate the two. So whether it’s real or make believe, if it’s floating round in my brain somewhere, chances are I have or I’m going to eventually dream about it.

I’ve even learned to use my dreams to help my writing. When I get writer’s block, I’ll often opt to take a nap to break through it. Usually this works. I have had numerous literary revelations while zonked out and slobbering on my pillow. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up in the middle of the night ready to write with enough detailed inspiration that I was able to do so for hours. I have instantaneously gone from a sound sleep in the dead of night to wide awake and was still typing away while watching the sun rise.

One bad part is that I talk in my sleep so even if I don’t remember a particular dream when I wake up, chances are my husband will. He can tell you stories! He has a few favorites—one about a “cantaloupe juggling machine,” for example. I have some pretty interesting, and at times crazy, dreams. Don’t we all? This has been going on for as long as I can remember. My college roommate has a few choice selections of her own that she would be happy to share. I’m sure my mom probably does, too.

Since I usually remember my dreams even without assistance, I try to get the most out of them as possible. I definitely refer to ideas from dreams in my writing and even in everyday conversation. I love talking about dreams, mine and yours, and especially the really juicy ones!  I’ve made it a point to write mine down whenever possible or jot notes here and there so that I don’t forget the really good ones.

Over time, my dreams have become clearer and crisper and, to me, more interesting and useful. I’ve even subscribed to a few dream sequels and a dream series or two. To get myself to continue a really good dream, I just focus on whatever it is I want to dream about while in bed and when I start to drift away, I visualize and try to control the topic. It’s like sleepy time meditation or setting my dream DVR.

While I can’t always control my dreams or my inspiration for my dreams, I can control what I do with them. I believe dreams are a special gift we all have been given to use however we wish. We can use them to dive deeper into our own minds and learn more about ourselves or we can use them for entertainment purposes only. Personally, I like to do a little of both.

I’m not sure if Flea Diddy, the dog of my dreams, will work his way into one of my stories. But it was certainly nice dreaming about him and analyzing what he and the rest of my dreams mean to me.

“L” is for Lyla

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Every time we pass a big yellow school bus on the street, my 2-yr-old daughter, Lyla, gets thrilled and says, “Mommy, look a schoo bus!” Sometimes she even waves to it and says “hi, schoo bus!” or “bye, schoo bus!” She leaves off the “L” at the end and, to me, that makes it even cuter.

Lyla is my inspiration for going back to school to get my MFA in Creative Writing.

I want her to believe me when I tell her again and again that she can do whatever she sets her mind to and she can become anything she wants to be. That’s what my mom used to tell me. In fact, she still tells me that and I still have no reason to doubt her. So I will teach Lyla the same. I want her to be confident and proud of herself and of her talents, skills and achievements. I want her to understand that no challenge is too big when commitment and hard work are involved. I will tell her that when all else fails, it’s OK to try harder or to try something else. But never stop trying! And most importantly, never stop believing in yourself. We are only limited by our desire to dream and our willingness to believe in ourselves.

She is looking forward to someday being big enough to ride together with the other kids on the schoo bus to the big kids’ schoo where I’m sure she’ll probably learn all about that missing “L.” I’ve been warned that I might cry when that day comes. Maybe so but for now, I plan to simply cherish my time with her as I try my best to teach her whatever I can and help her learn and grow and believe in herself.

To do that effectively, I must continue to learn and grow and believe in myself, too.

So I’m back in schoo.

And even though I don’t get to ride the wondrous yellow bus, I couldn’t be more excited about the journey. So far I’m absolutely loving every second of it.

From time to time, I plan to post some of my projects here on the blog. That way we can share the experience and you can let me know your thoughts on how I’m doing! You can even grade me if you like. Now doesn’t that sound fun?

xoxo

Boom Boom Boom

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My mom says I’ve never been the type to let grass grow under my feet, meaning when I get an idea in my head I go for it.

That made me laugh considering how much planting and gardening my husband and I have been doing this week. And, of course, then I applied for graduate school the other day and later that same night I was accepted. Since then, I’ve already scheduled my courses, handled financial aid and bought books. For something I’ve put off for so long, it’s all happening so fast.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

With no time to catch my breath or change my mind (not that I would), I’m holding on tight and embracing the process.

My first class is early next month. I’m anxious and excited and nervous… like a school girl (sorry, couldn’t resist it). I don’t know what to expect really, but I am sincerely looking forward to the whole experience and whatever the future holds. I have a good feeling and that’s good enough for me… for now.

By this time next year, I’ll be well on my way to my MFA in Creative Writing, something that’s been on my 30s Bucket List for a while now. (If you’re good) maybe I’ll share that list with you at some point and you can help me keep track of all the crazy things I continuously add to it.

We’ll see…

In the meantime, I hope you’re enjoying this lovely spring weather, finding time to recover from the darker days of winter, relaxing a little and planting some seeds of your own. It’ll be summer before we know it!

xo

Planting Trees…

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In addition to the real trees I’ve been planting with my husband in our yard, I’ve also been planting some metaphorical trees of my own.

I’ve officially applied to graduate school and if all goes as planned, next month I’ll be on my way to earning my MFA in Creative Writing.

This is something I’ve wanted to do for a while but all the moving around we’ve been doing has made getting started a bit challenging.

Well, I’ve found an online program that sounds absolutely perfect for me. It will give me the opportunity to expand my knowledge and skill set while taking my writing to the next level. I will continue focusing on my novels and I might even add a screenplay or two to the mix. Oh and my husband promised to call me “master” when I graduate. That’s a kinky incentive if I ever needed one!

This is simply another seed I’m planting in my garden. But this is one that I can take with me wherever I go. It’s time to grow. And the sky’s the limit!

I am SO excited to take this next step toward reaching my dreams.

Wish me luck!

Monty

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My husband and I planted our first tree today in our backyard.

In fairness, my husband did most of (read: all) the hard work of lugging and digging and scooping and planting while I played with our daughter and took pictures.

What a wonderful feeling to have planted our own tree. Another first for us. And certainly a first for me. Growing up in the city, I never had the pleasure of doing something so naturistic (is that a word?) until now.

I feel so lucky to have such a wonderful husband and child. We love each other so much and that love grows stronger each day. Isn’t that what life is all about? We are building such a beautiful life here together in Iowa in our new home. Everyday life has its ups and downs and we do our best to savor the highs while working together to get through the lows. Things aren’t always easy and breezy and, like you, we have our challenges. Some days are harder than others but having each other makes it all worthwhile.

Today is a good day.

We planted a tree.

He’s a Montmorency Cherry tree but since that’s a mouthful, we’ve decided to name him Monty. I’m looking forward to watching him grow and perhaps planting more. He will make a nice addition to our family and our home.

My (Other) First Born

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In addition to several other projects I’m simultaneously working on at the moment, I’ve also been overhauling my first novel… again.

Let’s just say the third time wasn’t so charming but it’s getting there.

It’s a work in progress and while the progress keeps progressing, it also somehow keeps starting over at page one. I’m getting dizzy.

Still, I tell myself that every edit, revision, chopped sentence and tossed page brings me and my manuscript(s) closer to the ultimate goal but the process is challenging. I’m learning and growing so much and I know that that’s evident in my writing. It’s also evident that I’ve been working my ass off.

In the past month alone, I’ve cut over 30,000 words in this particular novel. Gone but not forgotten but buh-bye. I’ve replaced those words with 30,000 different words (there may have been a few repeats). Compared to the first draft (the one I finished writing, or thought I’d finished writing, four years ago), it’s a totally different story. My other novels have been changing, too, as have I.

I’ve killed characters, created new ones, changed the plot, the themes, the pace and the point. The term chop-chop means something entirely different to me these days. A close friend of mine who is also a writer recently asked me if all the chopping hurts. “Isn’t it painful?” she said. Nope, not any more. If it’s not right, then it’s not right. Every change brings me  another step closer. If I truly believe that, then time spent wallowing over chopped words is wasted time.

I’m so close… I can taste it.

And, yet, I’m only about halfway there… give or take a few thousand words.

At times, it has seemed like I’m in a foreign country, climbing a huge mountain without a guide. Will I ever get to appreciate the view from the top? I hope so but I won’t know for sure until I get there… if/when I get there. But one thing that I know for sure is that I can’t stop now. This is what I’m supposed to be doing. I can feel it in every aspect of my being. This is my mountain to climb.

While I’ve never considered giving up, I’d be lying if I said there haven’t been moments when I’ve found myself procrastinating and making excuses to do anything else…

I’m a full time mom and writer. Believe me; I have plenty of other things to do and other projects to work on. But everything else leads me back.

I eat, sleep, breathe my writing and this one project in particular owns me… for now. It’s an all-consuming, mind altering, life changing, soul destroying beast that I love with all my heart. I have other manuscripts, both completed and in progress, but this one was/is my first. You know how that goes.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what drug addicts feel like.

People often compare writing a novel to giving birth. Having done both, I can certainly feel the correlation. So, going with the same analogy, the process of overhauling a novel must be like raising that child… over and over again…

Like I said, this is my fourth overhaul of my first manuscript. This time around has been the hardest but also the most rewarding.

Even though I’m in the heart of it now, I’m certain it’s my best writing thus far. The beginning and the end changed organically. All of it just flowed out of me, no epidural needed. But now I’m writing the middle and the middle has been like a toddler having a never-ending tantrum in a supermarket… the spine chilling, stomach curdling kind that tends to get passively blamed on the terrible twos when the culprit is far more likely three sixes and a pound of sugar.

I’m trying to juggle ideas and character nuances while keeping the story and timeline straight. I’m fighting the confusion, even though I’m easily on my fourth (or is it my fifth?) beginning and ending and the middle, well, this must be at least my tenth middle my now.

The word count goes up and down while my manuscript continues to transform and my brain vomits sentences into a pile of paragraphs which somehow manifest themselves into consecutive pages.

There are times when this feels like it’s taking forever and other times when I lament that my (other) first born is growing so fast. Where has the time gone?

I promise to hang in there and keep giving it my all but God help me if this one takes 18 years to move out of the house.

Check that. God help my husband.

Mommy Confession: Clipping Toenails

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I enjoy clipping my daughter’s toenails.

There I said it. It’s weird, I know.

But when she was an infant, she and I were both afraid of the activity. And by afraid, I mean totally freaked out beyond belief to the point of paralysis. I absolutely dreaded having to clip her fingernails and toenails. I was convinced I’d accidentally clip off an imperative appendage or at the very least make her bleed. I pictured a slasher film with blood spurting and spewing everywhere. I got lightheaded at the thought of it. Come to think of it, I’m feeling a bit queasy now. She didn’t seem thrilled either… maybe she was reading my mind.

Back then, to get through it, I’d do all necessary clipping during nap time. She was relaxed. I was (almost) relaxed. We got through it together. At times, I’d skip the clipping altogether and use an emery board to file her nails instead. Once in a while, my husband would offer to do it for me but the thought of him doing it scared me even more. I’m a weirdo… I totally get that.

But even weirder? When Lyla turned 2, she started asking me to clip her nails. I was like, “Huh? You want me to do it?” She’d reply, “Please, Mommy, please!”

How could I turn her down?

There was a time in my life, a long time ago, when even the thought of someone else’s feet grossed me out. I certainly didn’t want to touch them. Ew. In fact, it took me an even longer time to let anyone touch mine. I did eventually develop a taste (for lack of a better word) for pedicures… most women eventually do, I imagine. There’s just something about being primped and pampered without having to move a muscle. It’s wonderful.

But one day, when I was pregnant and unable to reach my own toes, a spa technician cut me during a pedicure and that completely killed the relaxation… possibly forever. I still shutter and flinch at the thought of it.

So when Lyla asked me to clip her toenails, it freaked me out. What a little weirdo! But she’s my little weirdo so; somehow, I worked up the nerve and clipped away. I started out taking baby steps, no pun intended, by clipping just a teensy bit here and there. But the brave little thrill-seeker pushed me to clip more and more until her nails were actually, well, well-manicured.

I thought that was a once in a lifetime moment. No way would she make the same request again. Right? But then, a few days later, she asked again. And I obliged. And, since that first time, she now comes to me (at least) once a week and asks for her toddler mani/pedi from Mommy. And I’ve started to look forward to this, perhaps oddly untraditional, bonding time with her.

She points to a toe or a finger and says, “Clip this one!” Then she giggles as I clip and then she selects another. I’ve even learned to relax with it and, while I’m still very careful and meticulous with clipper in-hand, I’m no longer irrationally fearful of sneezing and accidentally cutting her arms and legs off. I even throw in a free foot massage, at no extra cost. She loves those, too.

These days, not only does she request her manis and pedis on a regular basis, but she also picks out her own lotions for her massages and she even lets me paint her nails, too. She’s turning into a bit of a diva while I’m turning into a self-proclaimed skillful nail technician.

So I confess…

I’ve developed a bit of a foot and hand fetish. But only with Lyla. I enjoy clipping, filing, massaging and painting her little fingers and toes. I cherish all of our special moments together and I look forward to someday taking her to a real spa and having “Mommy & Me” manis, pedis and massages together.

I love my little girl.

Loser!

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This blog goes out to all the non-winners and the people who’ve judged them…

I recently entered a writing contest and lost. No big deal. That happens… a lot. I don’t feel bad about it, considering the majority of people who enter contests lose and I’m sure I’m in good, if not great, company.

The thing is I wasn’t expecting to win. Although winning would have been awesome, that’s actually not why I entered. I entered because contests are a great way to share work and get nonbiased feedback, constructive criticism and helpful comments. For the most part, I’ve found contests to be a useful tool in improving my writing. That is my primary goal.

But recently I entered a contest and one judge in particular was pretty nasty.

It was a simple 3-page contest. How nasty can someone be judging just three pages? Well, this judge’s comments read like a lecture, were written in red and all caps and were longer than my submission. I won’t bore you with all the gory details but it included comments like, “Your main character is an idiot” and, my personal favorite, “Reading this ruined my day.”

Rejection is one thing. Believe me when I tell you that I can take it. I have 4 years into this journey toward getting my novels traditionally published. The path hasn’t been paved with fairy dust or lined with daisies and giggling teddy bears. No. It may be hard to believe but there have been zero unicorns along this uphill battle either. I keep going, despite that because I’m not in this for the fairy dust or the unicorns. I’m in it because I know I have it in me to do it.

I try to take rejection and negativity with a grain of salt. Even when it seems impossible, I try to extract something positive from it, whenever and however I can. I usually pay no mind to the haters, grumpy naysayers and know-it-alls.

I submitted my three pages and asked to be judged, not because I’m particularly masochistic. I wasn’t looking for empty accolades but I certainly wasn’t hoping or expecting to be insulted or mocked either. While I didn’t expect to win, I also didn’t expect to be spoken down to or treated like a loser. That’s far from constructive. And whether it was intentional or not, this one anonymous judge used this contest as a venue to do just that.

I doubt I was the only one scorned. Perhaps she was having a bad day or was simply PMSing. Or maybe it’s part of some strange anger management course. Or perhaps that’s simply her style and she, somehow, thinks she’s being helpful. Or maybe she’s one of those folks who haze because she was hazed. I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know much about her at all, not even a name. The only credential she listed was that she was a published author. But for someone who claims to have walked a mile or more in my shoes, she was particularly harsh.

If my skin hadn’t already been toughened by this uphill battle, I would have been hurt. I might’ve even shed a tear (or 200). If I was just starting out and less confident in my creative craft, I might have been weakened by this judge’s poor choice of words, even enough to consider giving up. Probably not though since I want this so badly. Maybe this judge somehow forgot what that feels like.

I’d like to think this judge didn’t start out this way. I want to believe she signed up to judge contests with the intention of helping other writers but somehow strayed from that mission and got carried away with the red pen. She must’ve forgotten what it feels like to be vulnerable. Or maybe she hasn’t figured out that it’s possible to be constructively critical without being a complete asshole.

Whatever you’re passionate about, don’t let anyone’s opinion kill that passion. Do whatever it takes to get better. And when people are mean to you, use that energy to grow and get stronger. For me that means writing every spare second of every day. It includes work shopping and researching and getting feedback and keeping an open mind. It means being rejected time and time again while continuing to believe in myself. And, yes, it includes entering contests, while knowing my chances of winning are slim to none.

As writers, we know the power of words. Hell! As people, we know that words can sometimes hurt. It’s OK to be critical, even to err on the side of “tough love.” But negativity breeds more negativity and an epidemic of negativity is the last thing anyone needs.

Above all else, please remember that you are dealing with real people with real emotions and real dreams.

The next time you find yourself judging someone’s work, remember that you are also judging his or her soul. Please don’t destroy it.