Skipping two weeks has its price: over compensation. So instead of writing one long post, I end up with three short ones (EDIT: a short one, and two longer ones). However, there is a theme. Therefore, reading all of them should be rewarding.
TL/DR: I skipped two blog posts, despite writing enough on Facebook to make up for them. I tried to build a new writing habit: I failed. Then I went on vacation, and read a book that was out of my comfort zone. It made me envious, but not jealous (I wrote about this before, but I do not have the energy to link to it now). It inspired me (the book, not the link). But not in the way that you think (you will have to read on to find out how). I am still daydreaming (and I share a few with you). But I am trying to write them down (blogging does not count--actually, it kind of does). Oh, also, I really want to learn how to draw better. That way I could produce my own images for my blog posts instead of finding them on the internet (among other reasons for drawing).
(Some day I will finally edit and proofread my blog post before clicking "Publish", I promise...)
I went on vacation this past week, and spent the week before getting ready for it. That is why I missed the preceding two Sunday blog postings. Well, sort of. Because I care so much for dedicated readers, and almost all of them arrive here via my Facebook posts about this blog, I keep them updated, even when I do not blog. These past two Sundays, I wrote some rather in-depth texts--for Facebook at least--worthy of being labeled a blog post. Someone said as much in the comments.
Why did I not just post them here? Not sure. No, really, looking back now, I have no clue as to why I did not copy and paste them into Blogger. In fact, with the first Sunday, I considered it the very next morning. Mostly because in that post I "pledged" that the first task I would do after waking up each day, would be to sit down and write. No minimum limit. Just establish the habit of merely sitting down at my computer, first thing in the morning, and type. So, I figured I could make updates on Blogger about my progress.
Sigh. I managed two mornings, and an afternoon, of writing for about ten minutes each time. That momentum carried me through Wednesday. Thursday, the day before a six hour drive to Virginia, and the beginning of my vacation, was the end of my streak.
And since I was vacationing, I decided not to blog that next Sunday. In addition, I found journaling-- a habit which I formed early on in the Pandemic--difficult. I skipped at least four days in a row, and only did one entry, instead of two daily, on the other days. In fact, my journaling has been sporadic since early June.
That is why I am making sure I complete a blog post tonight. Maintaining at least one writing habit (blogging), will keep my drive and skills afloat long enough to reawaken my second one (journaling), and perhaps inspire the third one (writing daily, first thing in the morning).
(Hopefully I will have an update on that third habit by next Sunday...)
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I am embarrassed to say that a bit of envy (which is not the same as jealously) kickstarted most thoughts behind this entire post. Right before vacation, I decided to expand my literary experience by reading a book that most would consider light summer reading. As of late, I have been immersing myself in non-fiction: books about women poisoned by radiation, on how to listen better, and atomic bombs. In fact, I have always included a non-fiction work in my vacation reading. In addition, I usually throw in a past favorite read (mostly fantasy, like Tolkien and C.S. Lewis). Whatever new fiction I have read in the past few years has consisted of science-fiction and post-apocalyptic novels. Once or twice it has been historical fiction. All of them tend to be deep, complex, heavy reads.
That is, until about two weeks ago. At the moment, I am not writing with the aim to publish (though that has not stopped me from daydreaming about being a famous author). For now, I want to get my ideas out of my head. However, being the curious person that I am, I want to understand what makes a book popular. Through several podcasts, articles, and social media posts, I have learned a lot about the publishing world. I find it intriguing how a book gets chosen. How an author becomes popular. And how some writers manage to publish so many books. So, I decided to read a book written by a prolific author in the genre of general realistic fiction. A book that would be considered a light summer read.
Well, fortunately for me, my library maintains thematic display stacks. It just so happens that during my customary pre-vacation visit to the library, the staff was kind of enough to focus on new releases of fiction. As I passed by one of these stacks, a title caught my eye: Redhead by the Side of the Road. Yes, the title is missing an article. No, there is no redhead in the book. SPOILER ALERT: it refers to a fire hydrant that the protagonist mistakes, on three separate occasions, for a redheaded woman. If it is a metaphor, I do not "see" it (now, I am the clever one). It caught my eye, because I have a friend who is a ginger, and I thought she would find it funny. Not sure if she did or not--I have trouble deciphering emotions when it comes to texting.
Anyway, the book caught my eye, and stayed on my mind, even though I left it on the display. As I sat around, after getting hold of a book about statistics and waiting for my daughters to gather their own reading choices, I kept thinking about the book. And about my need to expand my literary experiences. Also, I confess, there was a desire to compare my writing and ideas to that of someone who has successfully published multiple books. On a whim, I returned to the stack and grabbed the book. Opening it up, I discovered that the author, Ann Tyler, has published twenty-three novels. Perfect. Plus, the print was large and there were only about one-hundred-seventy-eight pages. Therefore, I was not committing myself to a huge time sink. No need to drown myself in this new experience.
After spending about five hours across three days, I finished the book.
My review? Meh. Basically, within the first twenty-five pages, I found out what the title referenced. That was disappointing. I spent the next one-hundred-and-fifty-three pages hoping the fire-hydrant mix-up was a complex metaphor. If it was anywhere in the last two dozens pages, I missed it, mostly because at that point I began skipping random paragraphs in order to reach the end.
It was not a boring book, nor a poorly written one. A few sections were entertaining. But it failed to invite any profound or worthwhile thoughts. Except for the fire hydrant, none of the imagery was memorable. And not once did it evoke laughter or tears. It was meh.
Yet, because unsatisfying is not always uninspiring, the experiment was still rewarding.
For me, it was realizing that the author has published twenty-three books. That meant, on twenty-three separate occasions, starting back in 1964, a publishing company decided her writing was good enough to risk printing. And each time her book hit the market, enough people considered her stories entertaining enough to purchase it. The number also reveals that she had the discipline to sit down and write enough words to fill twenty-three novels.
In contrast, I have not published a single story. Outside of this blog, my journal entries, and some high school English assignments, I have not written very much. Furthermore, because I started to focus on writing at the age of forty-three, and the market is highly competitive, I will be lucky to publish a single book, let alone achieve a quarter of her success.
But I will be damned if I could not write a more interesting story to go with the title Redhead by the Side of the Road.
Seriously. A fire-hydrant?
(Hey, it may sound petty, but if it motivates me to start writing daily...)
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I daydream. A lot. It has helped me to analyze the complexities of this universe, and escape from my struggles with it. Whenever I come across a disturbing story, or an outrageous political meme, I imagine myself as a participant and their suffering, or a pundit engaging my opponents. Or, when an uncertain situation involving an unfamiliar experience, like calling up a new business in order to set up an appointment, I daydream my way through possible scenarios and their outcomes. Most of the time I turn to daydreaming as a distraction, while I am sitting alone in my car under a summer sun waiting for a dance class to end, standing at the sink after making a big meal washing dishes, or in my pool at dusk floating aimlessly about.
From those analytical daydreams, I could have written tomes filled with my profound questions, intellectual inquiries, extensive research, and possible solutions. Like, if we know that each child's pace of learning and response to a teacher is fluid and unique, how do we develop an effective model for maximizing educational outcomes with limited resources and unlimited scenarios?
And from those fantastical ones, I could have authored at least a dozen novels and short story collections, pages of an illustrated book and comic strip, or an animated series. An entire historical fiction series covering the colonial period of our nation up until the Civil War. At least one book, with each chapter containing a story inspired by the countless songs that I have found myself listening to repeatedly over the years. A graphic novel of a college freshman who struggles socially and academically during the day, and barely manages to ward off the hordes of ghoulish Canadian geese that stalk the campus at night. An animated movie, involving the ocean, a quirky bed and breakfast and its staff, a retired lighthouse and its single occupant, a coastal village and its residents, and the strange back country that harbors its own secrets.
There are dozens more. New ones crop up, and some of the old ones return. Just this past month, I began reading a history of a forgotten campaign by the British, French, and Americans against the Boleshiviks in the frozen forests of northern Russia at the end of World War I. That led to a rabbit hole of Googling. That is how I learned about the stories of Russian women who had affairs with British officers during World War II, and were punished for their relationships by the Soviet authorities. Throw into a recent trek through my old writings, and the unearthing of an assignment that had me writing about Cossacks. From all of this arose an idea for a novel set against the backdrop of a lost war in an inhospitable corner of the world.
Unfortunately, because I lack ambition certain habits, and specific skills, daydreaming has become an obstacle rather than a source of inspiration. I have not translated these daydreams into anything worthwhile: not articles, illustrations, or stories. Worse, I have not even bothered to jot these things down for future reference.
Okay, I am being a little hard on myself. A little. My weekly blogging habit continues with only a half dozen misses. Although my journaling has slackened a bit, especially these past two months, I still return to it regularly. Finally, that early morning writing is something I just started (and stopped). But nothing is keeping me from attempting it tomorrow morning.
There is still hope for me yet.
(Drawing, however, is another story...)
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