This isn't working

I wanted to write today. I did write because, as you can see there is a previous post. I also wrote a word file that I didn't post. It's another snippet of my life, but written in the third person. I thought that I might like writing that way better. It didn't work though. I feel that I don't know what to write, unless I'm just journalling like this. But who would want to read this? I don't even want to read it when I look back at it a few days later. It's just not that interesting.

I can tell you what I'm thinking. Do you care? Does anybody read this? If a writer writes on a blog that nobody reads, does she make a sound? Are my written, unread words profound?

I've made two entries in a writing contest. I made no impression on anybody. I think that entering contests isn't for me. I'm too easily discouraged at this point. The contests are for short stories, too. I'm not a big fan of short stories. I like stories that are long enough that I get to know and like the characters. In fact, that's one of the reasons I started thinking about writing. I read and loved JK Rowling's books so much and missed her characters so much. I kept looking and looking for another series that would be as interesting and satisfying as hers and couldn't find one. I would sit and read and mentally edit the books i was reading, thinking if they had only done it this way or that way, then it would be so much better. I suppose I could take one of those disappointing books and rewrite it the way I like books to be written. But that would be stealing. I want to use my own ideas. If only I had one.

So, I've been reading a book called "The Right to Write". The author sys that good writing is honest writing. I'm being honest here. I'm frustrated, because I thought that writing might be something I could do and still be a decent mother - the way I want to be a mother. But, no ideas. Just dribble.

I think part of my problem is that I want the whole story to sort of appear before my eyes, my mind's eye. Maybe it doesn't work that way. Maybe if I could just imagine a character that I'd like to write about. I could create a friend for myself - a friend to occupy my mind.

Were I to create a friend, what would she be like? an amalgamation of all of my previous friends. Smart like - ah see. Here I hesitate. I don't want to insult anyone. I guess writers insult a lot of people. If they write about you, you can get insulted. If they don't, then you feel slighted because they left you out.

Interesting that I started with smart, isn't it?

So, smart like Karen, is what I was thinking. Mischievous like Laura. Outspoken like Claire. Sophisticated like Odile. Sincere like Pauline. These are all friends I haven't spent much time with in the last 20 years. What do they have in common? They know me quite well. They are not shy. They are all intelligent. They all work and most have children.

What would I like them to do? I don't know.

Leaving Home

When the time came to pick a college, I didn't approach it like most people. In fact, my approach was ludicrous, but very indicative of my point of view. My guidance counselor advised me to major in chemistry, because I was good at it. (I wanted to major in English Lit) Did I look for a college with a strong chemistry department? Nope. Never occurred to me. I got a compass and a map, set the compass point on H-ville, and drew a circle that was at about a fie hour drive from home. Then, I looked for colleges near the edge of the circle! I figured that five hours would be far enough away that my parents wouldn't drop in unexpectedly and close enough that I could drive home for Christmas break. St. Lawrence University was on teh circle. It was also almost in Canada.

So, off I went to learn and be free. It was so exciting to be away from home. I have lots of memories of sitting in class, studying, eating too much, drinking too much, reading piles of novels (I minored in English Lit) and thinking that I had never gone so long without a hug before. I missed home, but I loved being away.

Senior year came and it was time to figure out what to do next. My expectation had been that I'd have a boyfriend and be thinking about getting married by that time. Things hadn't exactly turned out that way. No boyfriend, no marriage, no motherhood. So, I guess I had to get a job. I remember having just one interview on campus. It was with some chemical company and I asked the interviewer about their environmental policies. The interview ended pretty quickly after that.

Growing up in H-ville

That small village, tucked away in the foothills of the Catskills, is where my clan lives. I say clan, because there are a lot of them and they interact a lot. There are alway birthday parties, anniversaries, lots of reasons to get together. Seeing each other so often keeps the bonds pretty strong. It was like growing up in a cocoon. I was nurtured, protected, loved. If you have never spent much time in a place like that, I guess you should imagine one of the old television shows from the 60s where the family is the strong unit. When I say family, I mean children, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, all intertwined and woven together. It seemed like everyone I met was either related or a friend of the family. Family, church, fire department, school, local businesses, friends and relatives were my whole world.

One of the reasons I have to take you back this far, besides making it clear that I'm a country girl at heart, is to explain about motherhood, careers and my future plans - the plans I had back then, I mean. I was taught, directly and indirectly, that the best job you could ever have was to be a mother. The person doing the teaching was my mother. She loved being a mother and appreciated the importance of making it your first priority, because her mother hadn't done such a great job. I didn't understand all of the motivations and reasons at the time, I just new that when I grew up I would be a Mom.

I was a good student and was also taught, by Mom, that I should go to college. Why should you go to college if you're not training for a career, you might ask? You should go for the experience, to see the outside world and learn. There was never much of a discussion about that topic, because I was happy to go. I loved school. I loved learning.

By the time I was old enough to go to college, I was more than ready to leave H-ville. I had been a very good daughter. I hadn't gotten into any trouble. I had obeyed the rules, not like a nun, but like a pretty well-behaved teenager. I was involved in lots of activities: Girl Scouts, band, chorus, the school plays. I remember that I was dating a boy when I was in 9th grade and it was play practice time. His cousin was one of my best friends, and she was dating my boyfriend's best friend, so the four of us used to hang around together. We were all in the play and after play practice, we would go out parking for 30 or 40 minutes. I think this was the first time I deceived my parents.

I don't think I've let on yet, but I'm overly analytical. During those necking sessions, my brain was very busy. I was thinking about how his lips felt, whether I wanted his tongue in my mouth or not and a long list of other things. Why did he want to touch me? Didn't I feel like any other girl? What was the big deal? It was all very educational.

When I was seventeen, I was allowed to go out to the local bars with certain boys that my parents trusted. The drinking age was eighteen in New York and they figured I should learn to handle alcohol while I was still under their wing. One of the trusted boys was David. David always said that the best thing about going to Catholic school was that the moms trusted him! We'd go out to the various taverns around the area. They were few and far between, so it meant a bit of driving, and that was before the "designated driver" idea really caught on. We're all lucky to still be alive.

I remember one night we had driven over to the next town "over the hill". It might have been New Years Eve and I might have already been in college. I forget the exact timing. We had a great time and decided to head home around 2 am or so. When we got outside, we discovered that it was snowing. The roads were covered, so we knew it would be a bit of a tough drive home. We had driven separately, because it wasn't really a date. I followed Dave out of the parking lot and was driving along, doing fine. The road out of town followed the brook and was nice and flat. Then, sort of on autopilot, I turned right to take the road over the hill. Dave went straight ahead. As soon as I started up the hill, my brain kicked in.

"Uh oh. It's pretty slippery," said my brain.

"Oh my gosh. What an idiot I am," I replied. "I never should have gone over the hill."

It was a steep hill. I slipped and slid and fish-tailed for a while and over-compensated right into a ditch. My first thought was "My parents are gonna kill me." I sat in the car, wondering what I should do. It was late and I was pretty tipsy.

I finally got out of the car. I had to do something. Everything was covered in snow. It was dark and peaceful. Lucky for me, I had gotten stuck right in front of somebody's house. It was embarrassing, but at least I wasn't stranded miles from everything.

I walked over to the front door and knocked. A man came to the door in his bathrobe. "I'm sorry to bother you," I said. "Could I use your phone? I'm stuck."

He looked around me and said "You sure are. What are you doing out at this time of night by yourself?" Then, he paused and squinted at me. "Aren't you Dave Buddenhagen's daughter?" he asked.

"Yeah, I am. You know my dad?"

"Of course I do. Come on in. We'll call and see if we can wake him up."

So, we called. We woke him up. He drove over in his big pickup truck. He rescued me.

"Why on earth would you take the road over the hill in this weather?" he asked. "And where's David?"

"I guess I just wasn't thinkin" I said. "Dave went around by the brook."

"Why didn't you go the same way? I can't believe he just let you drive off. I'll have to have a talk with him."

"I was behind him. I should've followed him. I guess I had a little too much to drink. I'm sorry Dad."

"Well, yes, I guess so." he said.

He drove me home. I don't remember anything else. I was embarrassed and relieved. That's how it was in H-ville. I always knew I was safe, protected, and known. Everybody knew me. Everybody knew my parents. I never felt anonymous. It was a great place to grow up, but I couldn't wait to leave.

Think Too Much - While You Still Can!

I know that it is probably unwise by most standards to publish something online that you wish you could someday really publish, but I think I write better with an audience. I'm an extrovert after all! So, here's the first draft of my next (suppressed laughter) book!

This is a story about a woman, well a girl at first, who tried very hard to follow the rules for a long time, got sick and tired of following the rules, broke quite a few, and then ended up pretty much the way her mother hoped she would. If you think that you might like to read a story like that, read on. It’s really about me. I thought about trying to pretend that it was about someone else who I “know really well” or somebody I invented, but the person I know really well is me/myself. So, I’ll tell you my story. I hope you like it. I like telling stories and spend a lot more time by myself these days, so this sort of allows me to talk and tell stories. (It beats talking out loud to myself, don’t you think?) If it gets kind of boring, I'll throw in something racy and rebellious to keep your interest. (That's just me covering myself, so you won't know what's truth and what's fiction.) You should also remember, especially if you know me really well, that I realize that this is just my version of the truth. My husband always says, "There's three sides to every story: my side, your side and the truth." So, this is my side.

Where should I start? Well, every story has to be formed within a context. The context within which my story unfolds is a small town, a village, in New York State. It's a beautiful place. I think it was a wonderful place to grow up. I grew up in H-ville in the 60s and 70s. It has hardly changed since then.

I hope you don’t mind, but I have to start way back at the beginning.

The Enchanted Wood

There was once an enchanted wood in a far away place. It was surrounded by rolling hills and clear streams. Soon, people came, as they always do. They settled the nearby land and started building houses. As the village grew, it spread and approached the enchanted wood. The magical creatures in the forest became very worried.

“They will come and cut down the trees if we don’t do something,” said a Griffin. His fierce eagle’s face and muscular lion’s body were tense and ready to fight.
“We must scare them away!” bellowed a minotaur.
“They will not scare easily,” replied a timid satyr. “If we show ourselves, they might kill us.”
“If we fight, they will fight back,” agreed a wood nymph.
Their voices rose into a loud clamor and rolled through the wood long into the night.

As exhaustion and despair crept over them, a brown elf spoke. “We must go into the wood,” he said.
“We have already talked about that,” they grumbled. “They will just keep coming and drive us further, until there is no forest left.”
“No, you misunderstand. We must go into the wood, inside the trees,” the brownie explained.
“What? Are you crazy? Easy for you to say! You can fit in a burrow in a tree. We are much larger.” They were all arguing and talking at once.
“Are we magical creatures or not?” he calmly asked.
“Yes. Of course we are,” they mumbled, nodding their heads and looking around at one another.
“Then, we must become one with the trees. We can join with the trees and go wherever the trees go,” said the brownie.
There was silence.
“But what will we do, once they take the trees?” a small mouse asked.
They continued to talk and plan until all was settled. Then, they waited.

Before long, all of the enchanted trees were cut down. The wood was so beautiful, with such a fine grain and glorious smell that the King claimed it for his castle. It was used for the vast banquet table, for the floors and ceilings, for all manner of practical and decorative objects until there was not a stick left. The castle was rich with the golden luster and earthy aroma of the wood.

During the day, the courtiers, servants and visiting dignitaries admired the wood and its interesting whorls and varying shades of brown and gold. In the evenings, the Queen would often lie in bed with her children telling stories. Sometimes, they would look up at the ceiling and point out the faces made by the knots and grain of the wood.
“Look, Mother. Doesn’t that look like a fairy? See her wings and curly hair?” said the princess.
“Mother, look over here. It’s a big bear! See his nose and fierce eyes?” said the prince.
“Yes, children! It looks like there are creatures in the wood. Amazing!” came her reply.
The creatures listened and came out at night. All was well, for a time.

One day, a foreign aggressor laid siege on the land. He had heard of the marvelous wood and wanted the castle for himself. The King called his men at arms. As they surged forward to meet the enemy, the magical creatures emerged from the wood to join them in battle, taking non-magical forms. The Griffins appeared as eagles and the centaurs as horses.

The aggressors were losing as the battle wore on. In desperation, they prepared the fiery catapults. The magical creatures gasped when they saw the flames. They must keep the fire away from the wood! They attacked with renewed vigor, swarming around the catapults. Before they could prevent it, one fiery ball was launched. They paused, gazing up helplessly as it flew toward the castle. How could they stop it without revealing themselves?

An enormous eagle rose into the air, caught the flaming ball in its claws and dropped it in the moat. The Griffin had saved the day. The enemy was defeated and the castle protected.

As the King’s men celebrated, darkness fell. The magical creatures slipped among the young saplings bordering the streams. Deep in the night, they returned to the castle. “Soon, the trees will call us home,” they whispered.

February Grays

It is an overcast day with very little wind. I took a walk and decided to go into the woods, rather than walk along the muddy road. There's nearly a foot of snow, but it's heavy and wet and packed down. You can almost walk on top of it, sinking down just a few inches. There's a path through our woods. It goes down and around one side of the pond. As soon as I left the yard and entered the woods there were paths crisscrossing each other in every direction. Many more tracks than I'd expected. The yard is covered in tracks form our dogs, a beagle and an Airedale. But we have an invisible fence, so they can't go into the woods.

Many of the tracks, I realized were made by turkeys. I had seen them this morning when I got home from taking the kids to a dentist's appointment. The turkeys had been in the road and turned into the woods as I crested the hill. They had headed down toward the pond, wandering here and there, sometimes moving parallel to one another, other times crisscrossing back and forth, like young children playing soccer.

In among the turkey tracks was another set of tracks. It looked like the tracks made by our dogs. Had a dog passed through? Maybe it was a fox or a coyote. There are both in these woods. The canine tracks went down toward the pond as well. In fact, they continued right across the pond, which is frozen and snow-covered. The turkeys went around, but the dog went straight across. I didn't test the ice to see how strong it was. It's been incredibly cold, way below normal in the single digits and negative some mornings.

As I got closer to the pond, I noticed long tufts of grass sticking up through the blanket of snow. They're golden with a hint of red or ochre at the base of each leaf. The leaves droop down and each forms a spiral, like the curls on my daughters head. Curls that I adore and she detests. I wanted to save the stalks of grass and bring them back to the house, but thought they would loose their beauty inside, away from the pure white background of snow and the stark trees.

Except for those tufts of grass, the world is in black and white with shades of gray. The sky is gray and overcast, almost silver in places. Tracks in the snow are the gray of shadow. The trees a darker brownish gray, bare and spidery. Behind the trees and off in the distant are the blue-gray hills, rolling on an on. When you concentrate on the color of the hills, the trees seem more brown, with a hint of red that I hope will soon turn to buds.

It's quiet. There's more wind at the end of the pond, where it opens into a field. As I turn back toward the house, I hear a bird. What is it? A chickadee, I think. Ah, yes and there's another. A single shrill note. No idea what that one is. Before I can locate its silhouette in the trees, I hear teh demanding barks of our dogs. Woof. Woof. Why did you leave us? Why didn't you take us with you? Woof. What are you doing down there?

I turn right and head up the hill toward our log house. The hill is steep and I pant a bit. It feels good to breath hard and push through the snow. The dogs jump and prance, weaving back and forth , tryin got rbe the first to reach me. They are held back by the invisible fence. They don't want to get anywhere near it. I wonder if their collars are ticking out the warning sound.

"Stay back," says the collar. "Don't go into the woods."
"Woof Woof. Hurry up, Mom! We're waiting for you," say the dogs.

"Alright, here I am." I say. "Good boys. Come on. Let's go."

I look down to check their paw prints. The terrier's look too big. I think the ones I saw in the woods are the size as the beagle's. He's pretty small. I'm surprised the prints are this big. So, I suppose, well, I guess I still have no idea what made those tracks. But, something was wandering through.

~ My assignment is complete. Another writing exercise finished.

Fame

The streets were quiet and snow-covered in the pale morning light. The effect was beautiful and Julie took it all in as she made her way to the loading dock. This entrance was the fastest way to the lab.

She unlocked the door, stomped her feet to knock off the snow and jogged up the stairs. The hall was empty, not surprising since it was only 7:30 am. Most of the professors and students showed up around 9:00, but Julie liked to get in early. She'd always been a morning person and knew she was more productive when there were fewer people around to distract her. She put down her backpack and steered clear of the computer. Checking her email would definitely slow her down, way down.

She wanted to finish her morning tasks quickly so she could get back to reading. Her project was moving along pretty well, but she was sure that she had missed something. She went to the walk-in refrigerator, took out some samples, put them on the lab bench so they could warm up and headed to the incubator.

“This experiment is such a waste of time,” she thought. She was so sure she knew what would happen that it seemed pointless to even do it. Oh, well, it was important to be thorough, but it wasn’t very exciting.

As she rounded the corner, her mentor, Dr. Peter Saxon, came out of his office.

“What are you doing here so early?” she asked.

“Grant due Monday. Been writing at home and needed to catch up on some administrative nonsense,” he said. “No time to talk.”

She turned and started walking when he stopped her.

“Hey, Julie. Quick question. I just got a strange email. Any idea why Steve Barton would want my old mutants?” he asked.

“Steve Barton? Who’s he?”

"You’re kidding, right? The guy’s famous. He works on the CTD. He’s at MIT.”

“Sorry, Pete,” she said. “No idea.”

They turned and walked in opposite directions: Pete off to deal with nonsense; Julie plodding through routine lab work. As soon as Julie had checked the incubator, she sat down at her computer.

“What did he say that guy’s name was? Steve Barlow?” she mumbled. She opened the search engine, typed ‘Steve Barlow CTD’ and clicked search.

“Nothin’, darn it. Maybe it was Barton,” she thought as she typed.

There it was. She opened a recent research paper and started to read. Half-way through the first page, she gasped.

“Oh my God,” she said and jumped up from her chair. She rushed out of the office and raced down the hall. Pete was just coming around the corner.

“Pete,” she yelled. “ I know why they want your mutants. The CTD is a target! I’d bet money on it. It has all of the right characteristics!”

He walked toward her shaking his head and motioning with his hand for her to quiet down. “Pipe down,” he said. “You’re making a scene.”

She looked around and realized that there were people walking down the hall giving her sideways glances. Oh, so what. Let them stare. This was just SO exciting!

“Steve Barton,” she said taking a deep breath. “He wants to see if our protein binds the CTD. It looks just like the other binding sites we’ve identified.”

“Doubtful,” Pete said. “The binding site isn’t that well-defined. Even if you’re right, we can’t compete with Steve Barton. He has a huge lab. He’s probably got 50 people working for him and all I’ve got is you and a technician.”

“I don’t care,” she argued. “You have to look at the CTD sequence. You’ll believe me once you see it.”

“I know what it looks like,” he said. “I actually did a couple of experiments with it as a grad student. The solutions are probably still in the freezer.” He crossed his arms and looked over her shoulder. She waited, holding her breath.

“OK, look. It’s a bit of a fishing expedition,” he said, “but since I already have the solutions, it would probably only take you three or four days to set up the experiment and get the results."

Three days later she was running down the hall, waving bright blue plates, shouting, “We’re gonna be famous!”