Dark days in America and a pinprick of light

I don't want to write about the dark days, how even in this month of limited news and no social media, I know all of the details of the impeachment trial, how it's all been a foregone conclusion anyway--that some people get to do whatever they want in this country and get away with it.

Because this is too dark to contemplate. 

Instead, what I want to write about is the party I went to a few nights ago. It was a party thrown by strangers, at a place where I suspected I would know no one, except for the person who sent me the invitation (and she wasn't the host). I got lost on the way there. It was dark and the people throwing the party lived in a loopy-maze-like subdivision. Several times on the drive over, I considered going home,

because it was a week night and I'd worked all day, and I didn't know these people! Also, I forgot to mention that the party wasn't really a party party, but more of a Meet the New Candidate for District 16 in the Ohio Statehouse Senate Race kind of party. And that night, lost in the dark-loopy-maze, a party like that didn't sound like any party I wanted to attend.

Also, I had just realized that because of my recent move (a mere ten minutes away from my old house), I no longer live in District 16.

Still, I had rsvp-ed and there was the house, at last, the lights on, the people, through the windows, chattering away about a candidate that I would never be able to vote for.

I took a breath, decided I'd stay for a few minutes, write a small check, and creep back out of there and, hopefully, find my way home without getting lost again.

The first person I met in the doorway was the candidate herself. (I didn't know this and just chatted with her--she seemed nice!-- and then noticed her nametag.) I told her I wished I could vote for her and joked that I hoped I could still donate money. I could! she said. And then it was off to see if this shindig had any wine.

They did not. But they did have water in plastic cups and a nice spread of food and shuffling around the table, strangely enough, were quite a few familiar faces. The resistance in central Ohio tends to show up in the same places, I've noticed. But also, there were several regular patrons I know from my job at the library and we blinked at each other, awkwardly, in the same way my high school students and I used to when we bumped into each other at Kroger.

I ran into the woman who'd invited me and she introduced me to her friends, telling them (and reminding me) that the first time she and I met was in the office of our congressman when she cried to his aide about how her nephew was going to lose healthcare if our congressman voted against the Affordable Care Act, and the aide told us that the congressman believed that healthcare was not a right but a privilege.

What an asshole, I said, and the woman looked stricken and I realized I don't really know her so maybe I shouldn't be swearing in her face. 

Maybe this was my time to write my small check and get the hell out of here. But as I headed into the living room, I was trapped by the group of party-goers, now all settling in to listen to the candidate speak.

Her name is Crystal Lett, in case you happen to live in Ohio Statehouse Senate District 16, and she talked about how her first child was born with special needs and she had to quit her job to care for him, and part of caring for him was to spend time with insurance companies and it had worn her out but luckily there was the CHIP program (the Children's Health Insurance Program--part of Medicaid) but the president and his cronies had put it on the chopping block, so for months her child's fate and the fate of several hundred thousand other Ohio children was up in the air.

She had started speaking up about that and our Democratic senator Sherrod Brown invited her to speak in Washington and after a long battle, CHIP was restored. Crystal Lett said it was the most grueling and gratifying thing she had ever done in her life, so when Sherrod Brown asked her if she'd ever thought about running for office, she paused and then considered...

And here she was now, running in what is probably the only competitive district in the state of Ohio but energized and ready to fight for all people in our state. And then her campaign manager, who Crystal had mentioned was 23 years old, stood up and gave an impassioned speech too and by then I was sort of wishing I still lived in District 16 just so I could vote for Crystal Lett.

It occurred to me as I was writing my check in the kitchen and talking to the interns on Crystal's campaign staff that all of them were college age or just barely out and all of the people at this party were old (I count myself in the old category) but here we were all together-- the young people energized and excited to work on a campaign and the old people providing the water in plastic cups and the checks, our names on Crystal's email list and ready to be called for service in the fall, to knock on doors and write postcards and make calls.

On my way out the door I thanked Crystal for her inspiring speech and wished her luck, said goodbye to the interns and the library patrons and the new people I'd met and headed out into the dark night.

I put my home address into my gps and didn't get lost once.

Crystal Lett needs your vote in Senate District 16

Battling through Writer's Block

I hate to use the word battle. 

I want to be the kind of writer who takes joy in the process and approaches the day's writing as Play. The Julia Cameron Artist's Way writer who pampers my Artist-Child Within by taking myself on solo dates to museums and collecting pretty stones and making collages of exotic travel destinations and  setting up altars to my Dreams and decorating my work space with objects that bring me happiness.

(For the record I have done all of those things.)

And it makes sense on some level that treating your work as play can quiet the editorial voice in your head and counteract your innate perfectionism, 

the perfectionism that ends with you writing and rewriting the same sentence over and over, treading water in the same scene for weeks, unable to move on because it's not RIGHT and what if you can't finish this revision and what if you can't write anymore period and who cares anyway, and

what is the point of this story again? 

But all of this nonsense was leading me into the same dead end place that it's always led me. Exhaustion. Crankiness. Self-pity. Plus, it's boring. 

So, after a while, I realize again what I always realize, which is that I write because that is what I do and sometimes thinking about it as Play (and palm tree collages and glossy stones and coconut scented candles in the office) is just not going to cut it. 

No. Some days it is a battle. It is a War of Art.  It is you sitting down for your day's work. No excuses. No whining. No fiddling or procrastinating. No striving toward perfection. 

And not getting up until the work is done. 

(For the record: I have reworked 20 pages of my manuscript this week. And today I will rework 5 more.) 

I don't have writer's block I don't have writer's block I don't have writer's block I don't have

writer's block.

I write these words in tiny script so as not to give them more power.

writer's block

I know what I am supposed to do:

Write.

Put my butt in the chair each day, regardless of whether or not I am feeling inspired, and write. Let the story go where it wants to go without forcing it. Set down some words. Any words. Don't put pressure on myself to make it perfect. It's about quantity not quality, or so says Julia Cameron in The Artist's Way.

And I want to believe Julia. (I do!) But still, no matter how hard I fight it, sometimes my critical inner editor, my demanding annoying former English teacher/perfectionist self takes over and I am floundering once again in Writer's Block land

Writers' guides are filled with helpful advice on how to tackle writer's block. 

Elizabeth Gilbert in Big Magic speaks soothingly to writers, cooing in our ears to be gentle with ourselves. Frustration is part of the process, she whispers. Creativity is wonderfully difficult and you're doing the best you can. There, there, sweetie.

Steven Pressfield in War of Art takes the opposite approach, shouting like a drill sergeant at us to fight Resistance with everything we've got. Quit whining about how tough it is, soldier! Park your lazy ass at your desk and get to work, damn it!

Daily, sometimes hourly, I pinball between the two opposite poles of Liz and Steve. I show up at my desk with the best of intentions. Set a word count goal. Set a timer. Pound out my words with a sledge hammer. Punish myself when I slow down. That's it! No more bathroom breaks until you hit 1000 words, you amateur!

I sprawl out on my bed and doodle with colored pencils in a notebook. Who needs a word count? Why stress myself out with a timer? I know, I'll do a character sketch! No, I'll build a stage set of this pesky scene out of papermache! Forget that. Let's pause to sing Kumbaya.

And then it's back to my desk and a new word count goal, a frenzy of tapping on my keyboard.

I don't have writer's block. I don't have writer's block. I don't have writer's block. I don't have writer's block. I don't have writer's block. I don't have writer's block. I don't have-- 

Why I March in the Women's March

I am going to the Women's March in DC this Saturday

because this election and the upcoming administration feels like an assault on everything I believe.

I wanted to make a protest sign to articulate all of my thoughts, all of my reasons for protesting.

I say

No-- to a man who boasts about grabbing women and girls by their private parts, who views women and girls as objects to rate and denigrate, who thinks it's disgusting when women breastfeed or have to go to the bathroom, who jokes about dating his own daughter, who calls women he doesn't like pigs, who parades into dressing rooms of underage girls and thinks that's funny and his right because he was born wealthy

No-- to a man who mocks people who have disabilities

No-- to a man who disparages people of color and people who are Muslim and people from other countries and people who are refugees and immigrants

No-- to a man who encourages his supporters to look at others with suspicion, to harm others, to bully others

No-- to a man who calls veterans losers and insults the parents of war heroes who gave their lives for this country and shows disdain for soldiers who suffer from PTSD

No-- to a man who threatens journalists, who wants to silence his critics

No-- to a man who shows contempt for Science, who doesn't believe in Climate Change

No-- to a man who tweets insults and bullies citizens who disagree with him

No-- to a man who surrounds himself with white supremacists, who takes advice from billionaires and Oligarchs and Russian leaders

No-- to a man who mocks the poor

No-- to a man who misleads his supporters, who makes promises he can't possibly keep, who wants to make America great again but can't explain what that means or WHEN that means and refuses to level with his supporters that it is impossible to go back to a mythical time when everything was "great" because everything WASN'T great for everyone.

No-- to a narcissist who can't empathize with anyone but himself, who has done real damage to most of the people he has come in contact with-- black people who he denied apartments to, women he sexually assaulted, workers he refused to pay, students he misled in his fake university, and all of us he has lied to-- about his status as a billionaire, about who he owes money to, about his multiple bankruptcies, about his many scams, about his entanglements with Russia--

But, all of that wouldn't fit on my sign.

So I just wrote this:

When I return from the March, the real work begins. That is when I will say Yes to actively working against him and every monstrous thing he stands for.

How a Fearless Possibly Insane Dog Taught Me to Face and Conquer My Own Demons

Every day two battles are fought and won in my house.

Battle # 1 is fierce and loud and stressful and contains lots of slobber and flying hair.

Battle #2 is fought by my dog.

First, a bit about Battle # 2.

So if you have been following my blog for a while, you may recall that after my son went off to college I became a reluctant and later a ridiculously adoring dog owner. My Zooey is the perfect writing companion. She naps by my side for two to three hours at a time, and then she demands a walk, usually at the moment when my eyeballs are burning out of my skull from staring at my computer screen. Zooey is the reason I change out of my pajamas each day. She also has saved me from becoming a sad, partial empty-nester. (I suspect that without Zooey, I would sob every time I walk past my son's empty bedroom.) She has without a doubt saved my daughter from my helicopter mom tendencies. Now those helicopter blades are hovering around Zooey.

How do we keep Zooey from jumping on visitors? How do we teach her not to dig a giant *&^ hole in the center of the backyard? What can we do to keep her from eating sponges and kleenexes and computer mouses/mice? How can we help Zooey and the crochety yet beloved old cat get along better?

And the big one: how do we stop Zooey from losing her freaking mind every single day when the mailman comes to the door?

My son on break from college figured out the answer to this one.

The Zooey vs the Mailman War has been going on for about a year and a half now.

The battle begins when the truck first putters down the street. Zooey is fast asleep, curled beside me.

She recognizes the truck sound--which is somehow different from any other vehicle sounds--and she is UP and ready for battle.

There's five minute tense growly period between when the mailman steps out of the truck and takes his sweet time walking up the street toward our home.

The moments when the guy places his foot on our front porch and passes by the picture window are the heat of the battle, with Zooey in full-blown attack mode, splattering spittle and barking like a wild beast. Time slows. The mail box clicks open. Zooey races to the front door and throws herself against it. The mail box snaps shut. Zooey licks herself furiously, does a victory lap around the house, and jumps back onto the couch to continue her nap.

My son watched this battle take place every day when he was home on break and we'd marvel at the intensity and lunacy of it. On his last day home, we watched the battle unfold again and my son announced that he'd figured it all out.

Zooey is the type of dog who will bark when anyone comes to the door, but as soon as that person steps inside, she sees that the person is a welcome friend and taking a cue from us, she greets them (by jumping on them--I know, not a good dog trait. We're working on it)

But, the mailman is NEVER INVITED INSIDE THE HOUSE.

In Zooey's mind he truly is the enemy. Every day, however, the man has the audacity to drive down our street and waltz right up to our door. Zooey's barking, her brave counterattack against the window, is the only thing that keeps the enemy from gaining entry.

And it works! She wins the battle every single day. The mailman retreats. Zooey has completed her mission. The only solution, my son said, is to invite the mailman inside. (He may be right, but at this point, I don't know if I want to risk the mailman's life to test this hypothesis.)

Okay, you may be wondering at this point what Battle # 1 is.

If you have been following this blog for a while or even for the past month, you may have noticed that it's a daily struggle for me to sit down each day, open my computer file, and get to work. I've written about my struggle here and here and here, in case you want a recap. Apparently I have to learn over and over again that the only solution is to write. It never gets any easier. Regardless of how long I have been writing, despite the fact that I have learned the lesson, that I know LOGICALLY that each day is difficult, somehow my hesitance to get to work still surprises me.

Writing, many days, feels like a battle. A battle against self doubt. A battle against laziness. Steven Pressfield does a much better job than I talking about this in his brilliant little book The War of Art. (This is a must read for any writer struggling to do the work, by which I mean EVERY writer.) Pressfield calls it the battle against Resistance.

Each day I am surprised by the intensity of Resistance. Each day I am Zooey snoozing along happily and shocked at the sound of the mailman's truck turning down my street. That bastard is here again? But I just fought him yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that! Who the heck does this guy think he is?

But like Zooey I fight my battle every day. I spring onto the back of my couch and hurl myself against the plate glass window, drool and hair flying. And at the end of the day, I snap my laptop shut, secure in the fact that I have chased that demon off.

For today.

For the record, this day I have successfully beaten back Resistance 18 days in a row. I sign off now to fight the battle of DAY NUMBER 19.

Wish me luck.