Random tidbits

I cannot keep up with anything this week, so you get the headlines overview (and perhaps a brief editorial).

JULIANNA IS CRAWLING! Not by herself, but definitely she is driven to move. I can tell that she's going to be a holy pain in Alex's you-know-what once she gets moving. She wants to pull his hair and lick him. He loves it. But then, he can still run away. Or sit on her.

ALEX IS WRITING LETTERS! Not well, and not by himself, and his A begins as an H and then he draws a line across the top. But jeez, he's three!

BASI'S ORGANIZE NEIGHBORHOOD TO OPPOSE TRAIL. We all bought for the gorgeous privacy of a woods and a creek in between our streets, and then we found out that our green space was on the city's list to put a trail through. Part of my last few weeks has been running all over the neighborhood going door to door collecting signatures, sending emails, and writing a letter. And today I hand-delivered it to the city council offices and the project manager. I can't help feeling bad for him. He's a very nice guy. We just don't want this trail in here, and we think we should have been told before we paid...well, a lot of money for our houses.

SALES!!!!!!!!! I have clips in hand now--a personal essay for Family Foundations from CCL, and an article for AIM (World Library, who also publishes my octavos). And I received an email last night asking me to write an article for another magazine. I couldn't get to sleep last night. Plus, in the last two weeks I have found out about two people locally and one on the East Coast who bought my flute collection. So I am very excited.

THE GRASS IS GROWING! Which is good, b/c I'm getting very tired of replanting the patches, and trying to figure out what makes it grow in one spot and not in the one right next to it, which is by all indications completely identical.

Speaking of conditions that change without apparent rhyme or reason...can anyone out there explain to me why I 70, which is a mile south of us, sounds like it's right on the other side of the creek sometimes, and other days we can't hear it at all? I thought it was wind direction, or temperature, or humidity, but after living here almost a year I cannot figure out why I hear it sometimes and not others.

Well, I have a wakey baby. Time to go.

Breakthrough!

You may recall that several weeks ago I had a story rejected by the Magazine of Sci Fi/Fantasy. Well, I overcame my self-loathing and sent it out again, and last night I opened my email to find an acceptance! This is my first short story acceptance, so I’m pretty tickled.

Here is my testimony to all aspiring writers. If your story gets rejected, there may not be anything wrong with it at all. When you think you’re done with it, when you’ve taken into account the differing perspectives of your critique partners, sifted out what is useful from what is not, and incorporated them…then it’s time to have faith in yourself, and in the story you have to tell to the world.

Is this writer's block, or just procrastination?

I’m finding myself in a strange position the last few days. Strange for me, at least.

I don’t want to write. Or, more accurately: I do want to write, but I’m terrified of the project I’m working on.

As a mother, flute/voice teacher, liturgical musician, choir director, NFP teacher, composer and writer who has a new house to landscape this spring, I am very smug about never getting writer’s block. It’s a luxury that I can’t afford. In fact, I told a reporter last week that I spend all day thinking about what I’m going to work on, so when I get the time to sit down, there’s no fumbling about-—I just plunge right in.

About a month ago, I made a list of all my projects. Not the ones I want to work on (like the novel ideas or the children’s books). Just the ones I already have in process. The count was:

Nonfiction—4
Short stories—5
Novels—1
Music projects—6

Maybe this isn’t much, for a full-time writer. But with my splintered schedule, I decided that I needed to clear the plate a bit. I can’t focus on major revisions to my novel when I have fifteen other projects demanding my attention. So for the past several weeks, I’ve been a busy little bee. I’ve finished two stories, one nonfiction essay, and one piece for my “Walking in the Woods” flute & piano collection. (And submitted the prose pieces. Very important. Very time consuming.)

And now it’s time to face The Novel.

I know what I have to do to the novel, at least in general terms. The trouble is, the list is overwhelming. At least three times this week, I have pulled out the binder and begun physically trembling. So I push it away, bury it under some papers, pretend it isn’t there, and work on something else that I can still call “writing,” but which really boils down to procrastination.

At last I decided enough is enough! So I sat down on my deck, put a sticky note on the binder and began breaking the job down into small tasks. First: merge all the comments from critique partners into one MS. (Whew! Start with something fairly brainless.) Second: title the chapters. (Oh yes, this is procrastination.) Third, figure out what to do with those pesky in-laws who aren’t important to the story, but should be. Fourth: resolve the hero’s brother subplot…

And now I have a list of eleven jobs, relatively small, all of them involving brainstorming rather than typing. As a bonus, I got a whirlwind tour of my novel, re-familiarizing myself with the characters and events. The cogs have begun turning again, slowly but surely. Today when I sat down to begin, I still got a little trembly, but now at least, I have a list. And I can cross things off, darn it. One at a time!

Submissions and baby development (not related)

The last week has been a real zoo…stomach virus, Triduum, no sleep for three nights out of four…so I haven’t done much writing in the last week. Today, however, I managed to put together two short story submissions.

It never ceases to amaze me how long it takes to get a submission ready—music, fiction or nonfiction. Even a query letter, for Heavens sake. First, get it written. (Weeks. Months.) Second: market research. (At least two full mornings. If you count the internet research, call it two full days.) Third: rewrite based on what you decide on market. (One day, usually.) Fourth: format submission (two days in and of itself, so far. Maybe that will shorten up as I get more experienced.)

Tomorrow’s task: the Post Office.

But tonight, I intended to write about Julianna’s development. In my kids’ scrapbooks, I do a series of 6 pages on their development through the first twelve months. There are 2-4 pictures per page and a lot of cramped writing, in which I detail ad nauseum every new skill.

However, Julianna’s first year ended before she did an awful lot of things that I am desperate to chronicle. So I think I’ll torture you all (however many or few of you there are) with them instead.

For instance, in the last couple of weeks, Julianna has become much harder to keep entertained. For a child with Down’s, she has always been interested in the world, but lately she demands to be entertained, her perspective changed; she demands interaction much more often and for longer periods of time. This afternoon, I had her on my hip as I was trying to do household tasks. I had forgotten doing that with Alex. He found it all incredibly interesting, when he was 8 months to…well, he still does; it’s just that now he can go pull a chair over and see what I’m doing for himself.

Today, Julianna lunged forward, wrapping both hands around the lip of the washing machine and resting her chin on them, as I added detergent to the washer and started the diapers. (Imagine having your head in *that* smell. Whew!) Tonight I sat down to read her one or two books—she sits with me all the time while I read to Alex, but those books are way over her head. So tonight I wanted to do it just for her. She shrieked when I set her down—she thought I was getting ready to leave her again. But when she saw the book, she settled down immediately. She lunged right and reached with her left hand to turn the pages of “I Am A Bunny” by Ole Risom/Richard Scarry. And then she was so mesmerized by “Brown Bear” that I had to keep reading. We went through 7 books before we quit.

I keep getting complacent, and forgetting that Julianna is moving beyond what Christian calls the “blob” stage. She’s so slow to move that I just forget, even though I know better.

And now it’s 9:08 p.m., and Christian and I have a date to practice flute and piano together, so I must quit without revising, or waxing eloquent anymore. Your loss. ;)

Blogger Blather

They say that if you’re going to have a successful blog—one that has a devoted following—you need to post at least twice a week, and every day is better.

But I’d like to know who has time to read that much blogging? Let’s take a poll. Raise your hand if you delete every single forward you find in your inbox. Be honest now. And I’m sure you all check out every single link you get, too. And all the related links.

What I’d really like to know is how do you get people to read your blog faithfully in the first place?

If I blogged twice a week (much less every day), I’d never get any other writing done.

But then again, if that’s the case, what the heck am I doing writing a blog entry today?

It’s time to get to work, Kate!

Random musings

You wouldn't know I have "so much to say" based on the frequency of my blog posts, would you?

The trouble with a blog is that many of the things on my mind I can't talk about in public. Or, at least, it would be a bad idea to talk about in public. People I'd like to rake over the coals for things they've done...the details of other people's private lives, which I have no business spreading...you know, things like that.

That's the kind of stuff on my mind lately. But since I'm bored at the moment, why not wander a bit?

My weight is up. I had returned to my prepregnancy weight on the 20th of December, when we had Shakespeare's pizza with friends from Ohio, and after that night I've never recovered.

I say that because I'm hungry right now, at 3:30 p.m.

I've been having intermittent trouble sleeping again lately. I finally decided that there is no shame in taking something to help you sleep, as long as you don't get dependent on it. So I'll allow myself a sleep aid a maximum of every other day.

That's on my mind because we rearranged our bedroom last night and I had trouble sleeping, facing a different direction. Oddly enough I don't feel too tired today, though.

We spent the entire month of December painting our living room red. Then we ran out of money, and we still don't have curtains.

I say that because from my chair at the computer, I'm staring at a very bare window. I hate Venetian blinds. Who the heck came up with those things, anyway? They're cheap, they break, they're impossible to clean, they don't block the light... I just don't get it. Christian said to me once, "Well, I grew up with wood blinds. How do you feel about wood?"

"You still have to clean them!" I told him.

I tried cleaning them a while back. I got all ambitious. It lasted through two windows. (Our house has 9.)

Then there's writing stuff on my mind. My flute collection is already available at www.giamusic.com, and they told me it's going to be featured (I think that's what they said, anyway) in the catalog which should be arriving very soon. "Go In Peace," which is a song for congregation and contemporary ensemble, is at the printer's. WLP will be sending that out in some mailing soon, too. And also with WLP I'm in the editing process with my second song, "I Rejoice."

All three of these, by the way, were accepted for publication before Alex was six months old. Now he's nearly three, and I have another child, almost a year old. It boggled my mind to think the publishing process was so long--but now I know what to expect!

I think I'm headed for music writing for a while. It goes in spurts. I do prose for a while, then I get excited about music for a while, sometimes I juggle both...but I don't have that much time. And as much as I want to be writing, it has to take third place in my priorities--#s 1 and 2 are permanently occupied by husband and kids. (Well, for the next 20 years, anyway. After that writing may move up a notch.)

I'm going through this discontent with my new novel, which seems suddenly unimportant and boring to me. I had a great idea for a new novel, which occupied all my spare waking thought and then some for about a week. But once I got it hashed out on computer file, and I discovered what researching I have to do to figure out the gaps...well, let's just say that hours of research are hard to come by. I can write in 1-hour pockets. Research is more a whole day at the library, which I don't have anymore. So until the docket clears a little bit--till I get a few other projects out of the way--I think it's going to have to sit and simmer. The novel is still quite undeveloped, anyway. I think it could benefit from several months' stewing.

And oh yes, there's the Cardinal coming to celebrate school Mass with us at Columbia Catholic. I've done Masses with the Bishop before, but a Cardinal...well, that's a new one. I won't pretend that I'm not a little uncomfortable. You can imagine the kind of chaos we're undergoing at work, trying to have ourselves ready for that. :)

And it wouldn't be right not to mention Christian's Uncle Bob, who passed away last night. Uncle Bob went by "Rock." Take a moment and construct an image of a man who geos by "Rock." Now, throw your assumptions out the window. His demeanor was as opposite that as it could be. Well, almost as opposite. He was a little man, really, thin and quiet and gentle, very emotional, at least, that was my limited experience of him. He sent turkey joints to the Basi family every Christmas. Turkey Joints are a staple of Christmas tradition in my husband's family--so much so that they forget how weird it is to say, "Here, have a turkey joint!" Then people recoil and say, "WHAT????"

I do it now, too, despite having had the normal "What the...." reaction my first time. It took me 2 or 3 years to try one, but now I enjoy them. To those who don't know turkey joints, just Google it.

Uncle Bob, Christian's godfather, sent wonderfully sentimental cards in which he underlined every single word, and the important ones two or three times. What a good guy. He will be missed.

The Memory Keeper’s Daughter

At the National Down Syndrome Congress convention in Kansas City at the beginning of August, we had the opportunity to hear Kim Edwards speak about and read from her book, The Memory Keeper’s Daughter. Afterward, she signed books, and we bought a copy and had her inscribe it to Julianna.

Christian read the book the week following the convention, while he was on vacation. “This book is really depressing,” he said at least three times a day. And yet he devoured it. He read at every moment—an hour at a time, lounged across the couch, sitting at the table, bringing it with him wherever we went.

At the end of the week, Christian was a new man. Relaxed, settled, back to his old self—he hadn’t been himself in so long, I had ceased to notice it. And he knew it, too. He was the one who pointed it out to me. During that week, he began laughing at Julianna, playing with her, calling her “cute” for the first time—he’s not a baby person; it took him months to admit that Alex was cute, too. He has been a wonderful father to our daughter, but that week, he bonded with her.

Probably it is coincidental that he happened to be reading that book at the same time.

But now I’m reading it. And from the moment Phoebe was born, with her black hair and her delicate skin, in my mind she had Julianna’s face. Phoebe is Julianna. The shock of discovering that your newborn child has Down Syndrome, the terror, the revulsion you don’t want to feel at the idea that it could be true— I recognized all of it. But when the father told his wife that their daughter was dead, my psyche reared up in a white-hot blaze of grief, of outrage, even though I knew it was coming.

I ran to my daughter, swept her up, hugged her as close as I could, and I said, “Oh, my darling, beautiful baby girl, how could anyone give you up?” And then I started crying.

Forgive me if I ramble a bit today. I try to stay brief in my blog, but I haven’t reflected on our experience as parents of a child with DS in a while, and I finished my first draft of my new novel yesterday, so I think I have earned a little diversion.

Sunday on the way to the band concert, Christian told me to expect that lots of people he worked with would want to see the kids, particularly Julianna, who hasn’t been shown off around campus as much as her brother was when he was born. (For several reasons—hospital and doctor visits, plus the general unwieldiness of having two kids along, the move, etc.) People keep asking his boss, “Is Christian really doing OK?”

I found these questions confusing. Then I realized that people have been asking me, too. And I realized, too, that they’re asking because they don’t realize that we have settled into normal life. I think that for a lot of people, the idea that life could ever go on as usual seems impossible. I remember one exchange in particular, with a wonderful woman I know, who spoke of a family member with DS—a family member who is now deceased. I came away from that conversation with the knowledge that many people are deeply, deeply uncomfortable around people with disabilities, conditions. I say that completely without malice because I was (and remain, to a certain extent) one of those people. It’s a long-standing shame of mine that I lived my life unable to look past a person’s disability.

Because of that, I am supremely grateful to have been given the opportunity to love–passionately, fiercely, and in awe–a little girl named Julianna Margaret. A baby who insists upon rolling onto her tummy, even when she knows perfectly well she hates being on her tummy. A little girl with the goofiest smile I have ever seen, and a sparkle of mischief in her eye. A beautiful, drop-dead gorgeous, baby girl with a heart-shaped face, long eyelashes, a rosebud mouth, and long dark brown hair that gets into impossible rats five times a day. Who won’t go to sleep during the day, and rivals her big brother for loud vocalizations. A baby so determined not to miss a single one of life’s experiences that her little thumb migrates to her mouth even while she’s nursing, and then gives me the innocent look that says, “Hey, what’s up with this? Why isn’t it working?”

Yes, we’ve been in crisis mode this year, hopping from one hospital to the next—four hospital stays! Heart surgery! A new house! Selling an old house! Toilet training! But Christian and I toss the baby back and forth across the dinner table when one person needs both hands. We dissolve into laughter when she sticks her feet up in the air. We make complete bumbling fools of ourselves, mimicking her silly baby noises. We live for making her smile, and keep a sense of humor when she’s overtired and fights going to sleep.

In other words, we have a baby. And that, in essence, is the point that I believe Kim Edwards was trying to communicate in this book. And the writing truly is spectacular. I’m only 90 pages in, and I have a feeling that I, like my husband, will be changed by the reading.

In praise of a good pen

These days, I do a lot of my writing longhand.

Yes, like all the rest of you, I prefer to write on the computer. But with a 2 year old and a 6 month old (who goes to the doctor a lot), computer time is at a premium. So I have broken out the 3-ring binders, the college-rule notebook paper and the pens.

And I have discovered that Anne Shirley was right: the pen makes a difference in what you are able to write. It's really hard to concentrate on a good story when the pen grates along the page, bumping and vibrating the hand.

A good pen warms the creative juices and helps the words to flow. A good pen makes the writing experience enjoyable. It keeps your hand relaxed and lets you write longer. It doesn't give you something to say, but it removes one of the barriers to getting what you have to say out of your head and into the greater world.

And it's really not any slower to write longhand than it is to type one-handed with a crying baby on your shoulder!

(Which, incidentally, is a far more formidable barrier to creativity than lack of a laptop, or a bad pen!)

Apropos of nothing

For all you medical types out there, can you tell me why you need the words “intubate” and “extubate”? How much harder is it to say “Remove the tube”?

Julianna and I left the Pediatric ICU yesterday. In the last nine days I have learned a lot of new terms. Sats. Leads. PEEP. Pressure control. Room air. Correlating. Nobody should know as much about their child’s respiratory rates, heart rates, oxygen saturation and chest X rays as I have learned.

On the plus side, however, I now can write about hospital stays with some authority. I know that’s going to come in handy.

It really stinks in here. Stinks, I mean, like sewage. I thought it was diapers at first. But no, it’s not. I think we have a plumbing problem in the building.

I’ve spent this time doing what may be the last edits on my novel, The Beggars’ Queen. (It’s up to my editor.) My husband rolls his eyes when I tell him I’m “done,” because he knows better by now. This novel began as a pretty silly fantasy written in high school. I always called it a “story,” and I was very self-conscious about it. I still am, truth be told. But over the years it has grown into a very involved, complex plot with many subplots. And now that someone else has deemed it worthy of reading, I’m growing more confident.

I started a new book a couple of months ago, and after 5 chapters I ground unceremoniously to a halt. It took a couple of weeks before I realized why. I hit a scene involving a character I don’t like. With The Beggars’ Queen, I finally learned to understand all my characters—even the villains—and that allowed me to enjoy writing about them as well as my protagonists. With this new work, I don’t know the secondary characters yet.

Since I no longer have the luxury of spending 15 years writing a book, I have to do some character study before I get back to writing. But then, I’m a little preoccupied at present.

So...

All of the leads on all of my daughter’s monitors—heart, respiration and oxygen saturation—have ceased to function in the last hour. An hour, mind you. And the nurse hasn’t come in yet. Now I would like to know…why do we bother having the blasted cords hanging off her if the staff doesn’t care when they stop functioning?