crazedparent

365 Day 5: Little writer...

Seven is a writer at heart. He loves putting pencil to paper (and now, tapping away on mom's laptop) to jot down ideas, poems (his latest craft, the haiku), stories, and now letters. We have a little poet's desk from Crate & Barrel that has become his workspace. The drawers are filled with pencils, erasers, crayons, a stapler, notepads, envelopes and stamps, among other things to make this space his space.

I watched him pen(cil) two letters tonight: one to his grandparents and one to his Tia (my sister). It made my writerly heart swell.

And if you need more children's writer inspiration, check out this wonderful post oer at The Write Start.

Smooth lines...

I learned cursive writing with a Shaeffer fountain pen. Instead of using the standard blue ink, I favored peacock blue because it made binder paper less boring. And it made writing fun. The knobby callus on the middle finger of my right hand was always a shade of turquoise, the result of ink splatters from homework and my own creative writing endeavors.

Earlier this year, an old high school boyfriend emailed me to let me know he'd found a stash of old love letters from when we dated during sophomore year. In his email, one detail stood out: he noted the color of the ink I wrote in. That same distinct peacock blue. While my class notes were always in ballpoint, love letters required a special writing instrument.

Fountain pens didn't really work as a young journalist in training. Companies aren't apt to stock their office supply cabinets with fancy ink refills or disposable fountain pens. I can't even remember when I stopped using those pens. They just left my bag.

A few weeks ago I was in an old-school stationary store looking for school supplies for a tv appearance. Along with my weakness for beautiful journals and paper, I'm always searching for pens. As I browsed the shelves with hundreds of ballpoint pens, a silver tip caught my eye. I couldn't believe I'd found a fountain pen. Then again, I'd stopped looking.

The simple pleasure of writing with a fountain pen is inspiring. The paper is crisp and its smoothness enhanced as the silver tip of the pen glides over each page, ink visibly flowing with each letter. At some point, it's as if the pen is moving on its own.

I'm making an effort to write every day, fountain pen to paper. To use that new pen (in, yes, peacock blue) and recapture the craft of writing. 

What kind of writing do you do?

I was on a flight down to Los Angeles last Thursday night for my segment on the KTLA-Channel 5 morning show, chatting with a guy sitting next to me. (To be accurate, he had the window seat, I had the aisle seat, and empty seat between us). After we discussed our jobs, he turned and asked me, "So what kind of writing do you like to do?"

"I write about parenting," I answered and before I could continue, he stopped me mid-sentence.

"No no. You're not answering the question. I asked you what kind of writing you like to do, not what you write about."

I smiled because he caught me. I was being safe and talking about work. He was talking about life.

"I'm an essayist. I like to write about snippets of my world."

Just like that.

What kind of writing do you do?

10-Minute Writers: A Summer Day

Here's my 10-minute writers exercise for this week on the topic of A Summer Day. Thanks to all who've already posted their links at this post. Keep 'em coming! You've got until Friday to add your link.

***

Summer makes me impulsive. I get an idea and in an instant, I act on it. I was five when I decided I wanted to have a make-shift garage sale of my old toys and books. On an typical sunny but cold San Francisco day, I perched myself on our front stairs -- cigar box in hand with loose change -- sat there waiting, waiting, waiting, from someone to buy one of my spectacular items. Forget that I was barely visible on the stairs with the massive concrete borders hiding me. Forget that no kids lived on my street. And forget that it was summer, which meant that even the kids who went to the school down the street from my house wouldn't be passing by. But I sat and waited, perhaps for 10 minutes, which must have seemed like an hour to me. I packed up my belongings, trudged up the stairs and went inside the house. I then decided to create my own newspaper and sell it to my neighbors. I wrote out five copies by hand -- mostly comic strips -- rolled them up, and went to each of the neighbors that we were friendly with to ask if they wanted to subscribe to my paper. I think it lasted three issues, and then I moved on to another idea.

Impulsive summers. Last July, I woke up one morning and decided I was taking the boys -- then 4 year and 15 months -- on a road trip. By myself. Enough of this hanging around the house business. I'm an adult. I can take them away for 24 hours on my own. No. I need to take them away on a road trip. I need to prove it to myself that I CAN DO IT. And so in thirty minutes time, I had booked a hotel, packed up bags for the three of us, loaded the car, fed them so they would sleep on the two-plus hour drive, and let my husband know we were on our way.  To a state fair. To see Rick Springfield. One of those "it's so bad it's good" moments. We arrived at the hotel and within 15 minutes found ourselves walking into the path of the man himself. I was shy, we pretended we didn't notice. But a mere two hours later at the concert, I stood with Q. in a sling and Nol at my side, standing on a chair singing at the top of his lungs. Q., however, was in a deep sleep. I couldn't stop staring at my beautiful baby, eyes closed, breathing peacefully. At a rock concert. The contrast of these two images still sits in my mind, along with the image of Mr. Springfield playing peek-a-boo with him after the show.

Nol still talks about that trip. He remembers the minuscule details. The jumping on the hotel bed. The pizza for dinner. The photos after the concert. The bass player who made him laugh. He wants to know when when Mommy is going to take him and Q. on another fun field trip.

Tomorrow could be his lucky day.

 

There's always room for more goodness...

Several years ago, after being unhappy with my corporate working mom life, I decided  I needed to make some big changes. I put together a plan to kick-start my writing career. It was a slow process, where I basically worked two jobs for two years. In the daytime, I would talk about high-end switches and routers, online security, mobility and all things high-tech. At night, I would write until my fingers bled, freelancing for the San Francisco Chronicle.

Talk to any published writer and you'll find that no matter how many times you see your work in print, there's always something else that will make you weak at the knees. Like a book deal. Or a positive review of your work.

My weak at the knees moment came yesterday when I received something special in the mail. It was my first national magazine contract. I won't say for who or what the article will about because I'm the Latin superstitious type. I have the contract, but I still have to get the story published. I will only hint that it's one of my favorite magazines ever.

And for once, I can honestly tell my sons that being persistent and patient really does pay off. That's a pretty cool thing.

He was in shorts today...

He always wears a silver, vinyl-looking running suit. The kind that you used to see on infomercials touting incredible weight-loss in 3 days if you wear the super suit because it makes you sweat like a post-partum mom dealing with hot flashes.

I see him every day at the same time, as I walk Five to school. Man in silver is underneath the monkey bars doing pull ups almost obsessively. He's working out. The playground is his personal gym.

He lives in a pale blue beat up VW stationwagon. From the 70's. It's filled with his life. So much so that nothing is descerinable. The car is always parked in the lot when he's doing his pull ups on the monkey bars.

I've never seen him up close. It's always at a distance of at least 75 feet. He wears a black beanie, a "robber's cap." His hands are sometimes taped. He has black high-top work boots on his feet. His hair looks as if it's graying, shiny, like his running suit.  I imagine he's in his fifties, perhaps older. From a distance, his skin looks weathered and old from the sun.

I walked Five to school today. I saw him over by the jungle gym getting ready to go across the monkey bars.  I almost didn't recognize him. He was in black shorts and a white t-shirt. His hair peeked out under the black skull cap. And he still wore the black boots. I dropped Five off and walked back home. I slowed as I passed the playground and watched him from the corner of my eye. Where did his silver running suit go? I've seen him wear it in 90 degree weather. On the chilliest of winter days with a black coat over it. What's so different about today?

I walked and I watched.  He began shadowboxing on the wooden mulch. He turned and I caught a glimpse of his face. He looked so youthful. He looked different. Perhaps Spring brought him a fresh start.

Perhaps not. The life-filled, pale blue VW station wagon sits parked in the lot.

On James & Kati Kim...

The story of the Kim Family and the loss of James Kim has consumed me this week. I've written about learning lessons about selflessness at the Maya's Mom corporate blog, where I contribute stories once a week. Details on Maya's Mom and other news in the coming days when I've had a chance to mellow out.

In the meantime, keep sending positive thoughts and vibes to Kati, Penelope and Sabine Kim, as well as the rest of James Kim's family and friends.

May next week be one filled with good things.

On giving thanks...

(photo by charlene prince birkeland)

Thanksgiving Day is my favorite holiday. It's the one day where you gather with family and friends and simply enjoy each other's company. The great eats are undeniable. And this sense of gratitude is omnipresent. No presents, no toys, no wrapping paper strewn about. No who's-getting-what-for-whom. Everyone seems so reflective, and yes, thankful, for the good in life. My question is why is this only a one day a year occurence?

We were at the park this morning - our turkey day tradition with the sole purpose of wearing the boys out so we get a nice afternoon nap. I was watching this enormous dog as it leaped into the air to catch a pink Frisbee in the adjacent dog park. I spotted this lone leaf that had managed to wedge itself into the wire fence. It screamed for a photo and I was happy to oblige.

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

The sweetest sorrow...

My latest "Keeping House" piece ran in today's San Francisco Chronicle Home/Garden section. The topic? How hard it is for me to part with baby clothes my boys have outgrown. I filed the story before Q.'s first birthday so the reference to that is dated.

"My mom still has my prom dresses hanging in her closet. 'In case you ever have a little girl,' she tells me. But I'm no pack rat."

Read the rest of "Parting with baby clothes is a mother's sweet sorrow."

And do tell, how difficult is it for you to get rid of baby clothes you know you'll no longer need? What item(s) did you allow yourself to keep for memory's sake?

Damn you, Carlos Pena...

Karen Walrond of Blogging Baby wrote a post at her blog, Chookooloonks, about becoming a writer. I left some comments from the trenches. One tidbit I forgot to add is that even published writers get their fair share of rejection letters from editors, magazines, you name it. And I can appreciate the turning down of article ideas or manuscripts. It only strengthens my resolve to get into that particular outlet.

But there's another challenge you face as a writer: you complete a story based on a public figure and he or she unexpectedly does something that forces you to change your strategy. It's happened to me once in my writing career. That once is today.

I recently completed a short story, "Baseball and the Expectant Mom," about professional baseball player Carlos Pena and how he was diggin' on me when I was about six-months pregnant with Nol. The shorter version is that Pena was in the minors and couldn't tell I was, er, with child. I'm pleased with how the story turned out.

There were rumors two weeks ago that Carlos Pena would be traded from his team, the Detroit Tigers. Once the trade deadline passed about a week ago, I started chatting it up with some papers to get my story published.

Only an unexpected event occurred. Carlos, mi amor, lo siento...but why'd you get released from the Tigers? Because you were probably spending too much time at spring training checking out the muchachas near first base to actually focus on the game? No, that's just bitter me talking because now I have to wait until you get signed by someone else so I can rework my story.

Someone recently commented that writing is for masochists. I'm starting to agree. But I still love it with a fervent passion.

As a side but related note...I heard the news about Carlos Pena from my husband as I went to get my morning glass of orange juice. "Char...big news." The last time I heard that phrase was when the Giant's dimwittidely didn't resign JT Snow, so I knew this wasn't good. Dr. Drake went on to tell me about Carlos, and all I could offer up after the "Damn," was..."But he's so cuuute." I guess cute doesn't make up for batting .160 with one home run in 50 at-bats.