I want to be British and say things like "bloke" "straight away" and "alright mate" ... just a random aside. For a little dose of cool Brit talk and an awesome interview with Jamie Oliver of "Naked Chef" fame on his thoughts on fatherhood check out Brian's blog.
In other news - Chapter 5 is finished! Woohoo. Also, Sam seems to be days away from walking.
First and last part of Chapter 1 - introducing Isabella
You are probably wondering what is The Big Move? It’s the reason we, the Edwards family, are having breakfast in what I think is called a “diner.” We are at this restaurant called Maggie’s Place because we have no kitchen, no food and no one to cook it for us. I can honestly tell you I have never eaten in a place like this. There are kitchen gadgets from the olden days hanging from the ceiling. Like, all over. Maybe they weren’t even called gadgets back then; it’s things like egg beaters, whisks, and other things I’ve never seen my mother use. Also there are signs for businesses that probably closed before I was born decorating the walls. They may, or may not, have been dusted since they hung in their original buildings. I love it. I am not sure if it is the restaurant I love so much or the fact that my mom and sisters look totally sicked out. My dad, as usual, is trying to make us look on the bright side. It is very obvious he feels guilty for making us move out here. This is how I know I will get dessert if I ask for it.
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As Camille and Dad took turns reading parts of the new reporter lady’s letter out loud, I felt sorry for her. It is hard to be new. But at least she is an adult and doesn’t have to worry about making friends and stuff. It is a lot easier for adults than kids to move to a new place. Well, adults besides my mom. I am a little worried about her. I love her but she is not like the other adults. As far as I can tell, most adults know how to take care of themselves. I’m not so sure my mom does. And that is why I’m not sure about her having to take care of all of us. Luckily, I ordered a big breakfast so I won’t get hungry again for awhile.
First and last parts of Chapter 2 - introducing Emma
Good thing I’d already gotten the job because the interview was a disaster. It’s fair to say I didn’t know exactly what I was getting into when I took this internship and rented an apartment site unseen in Vineyard, Oregon, population 832. It’s so small they can confirm at city hall that it is in fact 832 people because even though Albert and Ellen Murphy passed away in the spring, a new family in town balanced things out. This is good news, I am told, because it takes a long time to get the signage corrected.
All I knew was that I had to get out of town and on with my life stat. I didn’t have time to shop around for the perfect internship like my roommates, one of whom ended up staying in our apartment and working at the Herald actually earning a paycheck or my other one who scored a cush job working for a public relations office in downtown Seattle for the Experience Music Project. Free concerts every weekend, mandatory engagements at swanky restaurants and fancy bars for networking where just a part of a day’s work for Talia these days.
Then there’s me. Instead of beautiful Bellingham Bay or lively downtown Seattle, my, uh, pad overlooks the alley between my currently-under-construction apartment building and the grocery/deli/video store. I can’t complain about this to anyone because it would beg the obvious question: what the hell were you thinking?
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Frankie mocking me, just made the assignment more stressful. I’d prefer writing an actual article about anything over this damn “Meet the Intern” letter. Roman wanted me to write all about why I chose Vineyard. But I didn’t think the truth would make a very good first impression. Plus, it’s private. I’m here to report other people’s secrets, not my own.
First and last parts of Chapter 3 - introducing Nicholas
My clothes are still in boxes and my business cards aren’t back from the printers but I’ve already had my first face-off with the crotchetiest of Vineyard City councilors. Who do these yokels think they are anyway? I’m proposing something that will put money in their pockets and breathe some life in to this hicky little town. Instead of being grateful they act like I’m offending them for suggesting the town could use the revenue for things like sidewalks, an updated water treatment plant and maybe even pay for some police officers. Not that the volunteers don’t do a fine job, but come on. The one officer on duty gets called to deal with everything from the classic cat in tree scenario to—this is no lie—goat roping.
True story. Our first week in town I was walking around Main Street with Isabella, my youngest, scoping out the pool and park when I saw a uniformed officer chasing a goat around the park with a rope dangling desperately from his right hand. Kids looked on calling out instructions between cannon balls . Some of them, I’m sure, were expert calf ropers. In fact, it was one of the teenaged lifeguards who finally roped the goat, wrestled it to the ground and tied its legs together as my daughter and I looked on in astonishment.
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I left the meeting feeling confident things would eventually go my way. They almost always did. To tell you the truth, it was rare for me to have setbacks in my professional life. My personal life however, is a completely different story.
On the surface everything looks fine, I suppose. We are the kind of happy you see in the pictures that come with purchased picture frames. Oh, we’ve had our good times. Plenty of them. Just not recently. And by recently I mean in the last, say, decade. The crazy part was I didn’t even realize anything was wrong. I didn’t ever stop to think about the state of our marriage. It just was. I counted on Vanessa to do what she always did, just as she counted on me to do the same. And then ten years happened. We had money, a bigger house and older kids. And the sex life of nuns. I don’t think either one of us was truly satisfied with how things turned out but what was there to complain about? We were healthy, financially secure, and had all the reason in the world to be happy. But we weren’t. Worse than that, we just kind of accepted it without talking about it.
We might’ve gone along like that forever were it not for a business deal that took me across the country to Oregon’s Willamette Valley. I wouldn’t describe myself as a very spiritual person, but when I drove through Eola Hills, I felt like I was home. I was more myself that weekend in Oregon than I’d ever been before. Except for one major mistake. I cringe to remember it but can’t bring myself to feel actual regret because it was the catalyst for everything that followed.
It’s hard to explain what happened exactly. Even to myself. And especially to Vanessa. I’ve tried over and over again. I told her about the shock of seeing my pale, haggard face in the tiny American Airlines bathroom mirror. I was like the slow unraveling of my sanity finally came to a head and it was clear what I had to do. Crazy as it was.
So here we are, across the country and moved out of our old life on the threshold of our new one. I’m not necessarily proud of how it all came to be, but I can honestly say that as I look around the farm and watch my girls exploring a new part of the country, a new way of life, I’ve never been happier.
First & Last part of Chapter 4 - introducing Vanessa
I’ve had enough meltdowns to know one was coming. It was getting harder to take a deep breath and too early in the day to start taking the edge off. My stomach growled. I was starving but I’d gotten out of cooking breakfast by faking a headache so I couldn’t very well join the kids and my husband at the table. I surveyed the chaos around me: half-opened boxes, crumpled up newspapers and piles of bubble wrap. How in the hell am I going to figure out how to put this home together? The panicky feeling rose in my chest. I grabbed my purse off the counter as I came through the kitchen and announced I was headed into town for some groceries to make dinner. Nicholas did that thing with his eyebrows that lets me know he’s not quite sure if he should believe me. I flashed him my best prom queen smile and bailed.
I swear to god if the kids ask me one more time “where does this go?” I’m going to slap them. A real leave-fingerprints-on-cheek kind of slap. These flashes of rage come more and more lately. They scare me but I’m not sure what to do about them besides try to get away from whatever causes them. Which, unfortunately, seems to be the girls. And my husband.
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“Well it ain’t me, babe. Cook your own damn dinner, you know what I mean?” I couldn’t tell if he was irritated or amused. He looked me up and down, pausing for a moment before summing me up, butcher style: “Let me guess. You don’t do raw meat. Never touched it before in your life, right? So what brings you to my booth? Your chef quit?” I fingered the edge of my thumbnail. What is the matter with me? Instead of telling him off I felt myself welling up. I turned to leave.
“Never mind, then. Thanks for your time.”
“Wait. Wait. Wait,” he rose. “Are you… are you crying?” He was around the booth with his arm on my shoulder before I could get away. I shook my head and tried to hide my face.
“Bullshit, you are too. Oh, hell. Here.” He held up the edge of his white apron. “Don’t worry it’s clean.” Before I could stop myself, to my horror—and probably his—I spilled my guts to the butcher. An hour later I came home feeling slightly embarrassed but pleased to initiate phase one of the secret cooking class Mac agreed to. It was a compromise from my original plan but will do for now. All I have to do is use the tongs Mac loaned me—until I unpack the ones I pretended to have—to put the steaks in plastic bags with the sauce he gave me. This is called marinating. Then, I put the bags in the fridge and tell Nicholas barbequing is his deal. The girls, I figure, are old enough to start doing some kitchen chores and should be able to manage to turn the vegetables I bought into a nice salad. There. Dinner’s done. I am going to have to figure out a better system soon, though, because the thought of going through this three times a day for the rest of my life makes me want to make my cocktail a double.
After working on the format and outlines for Pants on Fire for what feels like forever, I think I am maybe starting to hit a rhythm. Daily, steady progress seems to be the key for me. My new goal makes me laugh but it's at least 1,000 words a day. Or 300. Every day until I type The End.
Isn't every day a little excessive?
Well, no Oprah. Actually, I found that stepping away from the project for more than a full day screwed up my momentum. As did waiting until I had big pockets of time to work.
And why the jump between 1,00 and 300 words as a goal?
I'm glad you asked, Oprah. Same thing. I'm motivated by goals that challenge me but are still "doable." Ideally I'll have more 1,000 + word days but frankly, for me, some days 300 words on top of brushing my teeth and starting a load of laundry is a huge. I mean in addition to keeping the kid alive.
So this morning I hit my goal: 1,200 words. I'm finished with the first two chapters and most of chapters 3 & 4. Each one is written from a different character's perspective. Initially I had Isabella and Emma in first person and Nicholas and Vanessa in third. Which was weird. I was nervous about writing a male character in first person and I thought it was really weird to have only one POV in third person. So the last couple weeks I've been working at revising Vanessa and Nicholas' introductory chapters. I think I finally got it and can keep plotting along.
Matt doesn't read my blog but I told him I was hoping for comments on this and he says: Oh, I don't have to read your blog to have comments. What's the question and I'll give you comments. He surprised me with the following super-detailed pseudo psychological profiles on my characters.
July's Baby on Board column ran today. I was nervous about it because when I submitted it I felt like it wasn't everything I wanted it to be. By the time I submit an assignment I am usually pretty satisfied with the end result. Sometimes I'm even sick of it from correcting and tweaking it so much.
"Sometimes things look better in column inches than Word," Matt assured me. I was holding my breath when I opened the paper and happily exhaled as I realized it read just fine. Matt was right, all the worry was for nothing.
This picture is of my parents and Sam enjoying a cross-continental breakfast/highball.
It occurred to me yesterday that life doesn't have to be hard. There are things that suck and funks to go through but that's okay. I mean, you don't have to try to change that fact about life. And somehow knowing that, remembering it, leaves you open to more joy.
I'm not sure if I was in some kind of delayed post-partum deal or what but I'm feeling more balanced and more like me. It helps that I'm sleeping more- thank you God, Sam and Dr.K - and also that I'm back to working on my book again. I need to figure out how to keep working on it while on deadline for other projects.
Last week when Sam's sleep shenanigans came to head I was totally out of my mind. Matt asked me when I last worked on my book. While his timing is suspect, he nailed it. Creative writing is more than a hobby for me. It's like right up there with sleep and oxygen
I'm thinking it's time to change some of my writing habits. I used to work really well on "deadline mode." In fact, the pressure of a deadline used to be more motivating than stressful.
But that was back when I could literally check out and ignore everything and everyone until I was officially done. Now that there's this unpredictable little human being counting on me to keep him alive. While Matt is fully capable of fending for himself, Sam? Not so much. I was so cranky trying to meet my column deadline I could hardly stand myself. I'm surprised Sam didn't sleep more just to avoid listening to me read him another draft in a sing-song voice.
In order to not have Sam equate working mommy with mean mommy, I'm going to tweak this waiting till the last minute habit so I'm not frantic when things go sideways.
I have a little down time before gearing up for the next project to catch up on chores, sleep and blogging. Do you guys have a zillion half-written posts in your drafts box, too?
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