Layers and Layers

Today I started a new project. I envisioned a book of short stories something like Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon monologues, with the same characters appearing throughout. So I sat down this morning and pounded out 1309 words and sent the story to everyone I know, practically.
I thought about reading or(or rereading for the umpteenth time) one of the Lake Wobegon stories, but I resisted the temptation and plunged right in. An hour and a half later I was done. I read it, and it looked pretty good. I knew I had a writers' group meeting tomorrow, so I posted it on our site with a note -- this is very short,if there is time after other people read what they brought. I proofread the paper, but didn't edit it. I like to let a piece of writing sit and jell for at least twenty-four hours before I start picking at it. But this one, I thought, was an amazing first draft.
Then I wondered how many words were in a Lake Wobegon story. The only way to find out was to type one of the stories out and then use the Word Count tool on the computer. Before I had read past the first paragraph, I knew Garrison Keillor's story was waay out of my league -- a stratospheric distance, in fact.
His story had 2,190 words - about twice as long as mine. But while my little story had six characters mentioned, his had fifteen. The number of characters was less important than the number of stories within the story -- all woven together.
It is something to shoot for, I guess, but it is discouraging to realize you are still building with wooden blocks while they big guys are raising skyscrapers.

Save Me from the Chickens

A couple of weeks ago the gardening column in the Thursday Post was about the joys of having chickens in one's back yard.
Then he said the laws in Montgomery County were so restrictive that one couldn't raise chickens within the county limits.
My response: Keep the laws as they are.
But, he would say, "That is guv'ment in ma business, interferin' with my rights!"
Government protects me from people like you. It is not your right to have chickens in your yard if they interfere with my right to the urban life I chose.
I am paying for a chicken-free neighborhood. I grew up with chickens, rabbits, and a goat next door, but my parents paid MUCH lower taxes than I do. If Russellville had any zoning laws, I don't know about it. I choose to live in Montgomery County and pay higher taxes so I won't have to live next to a farm.
If this guy is so sure the majority of us want to live next to chickens, let him call his county councilperson. When the bill to restrict chicken laws is discussed, I will be there with all my friends who LIKE urban living - who don't want roosters crowing at three a.m. -- who don't want hawks and coyotes coming to my neighborhood to see what's on the menu for lunch. (And it's not just chicken that's on their menu -- it's small dogs and cats.)
If you want to live without zoning laws, move - move AWAY from me - and have all the chickens or llamas or ostriches or water buffalo you want.

The Good Old Days Were Awful

If you read my post yesterday, you know children from 5 years old and up worked just like adults in 1851. We don't have that in the U.S. any more, though, sadly, it still exists.
But today I'm thinking of something we have gained -- the internet. I love it.
I love Facebook - found a friend yesterday I thought I'd lost forever. I joined a writers' group. I've found recipes. I've found out how to keep the dog out of the refrigerator (at least most of the time). I've ordered lots of cool stuff. I've learned a lot. I'm blogging.
The internet is like anything else. It has some disgusting sites - because some people do disgusting things. But it has much, much more good than bad -- just like people, I believe, are more good than bad.

I love it.

Glimpses into History

I am a nerd. Or I'm like the Elephant's Child - full of "satiable curiostity"

I just finished reading Florence Nightingale's Notes on Nursing
.
Fact: (The year Nightingale is referring to is not mentioned, but I am guessing 1851.) "A curious fact will be shown by Table A, viz.,that 18,122 out of 39,139, or nearly one-half of the nurses, in domestic service, are between 5 and 20 years of age."

Imagine hiring a five year old.
Imagine a five year old as a nurse, in charge of a sick person.
Imagine sending your five year old to a stranger's house to work.


On a lighter note, she condemns crinolines, which were then fashionable. I think crinolines are hoop skirts. Nightingale deplores nurses wearing crinolines because it is hard for the nurse to move about the room without knocking something over and disturbing the patient, or the skirts could brush against a flame and catch fire.

She continues:
"I wish, too, that people could see the indecency of their own dress as other people see it. A respectable elderly woman stepping forward, invested in crinoline, exposes as much of her own person to the patient lying in the room as any opera dancer does on the stage. But no one will ever tell her this unpleasant truth."

In other words, ladies, when you bend over wearing hoops, the hoops turn up and reveal your backsides to the world, and most of you don't wear underwear.

Not a pretty sight.
"

So Much for Family Values

The partisan bickering isn't going to end any time soon. When Pat Robertson (who thinks the Haitians are to blame for the earthquake because they made a pact with the devil) has a seat of honor at the Virginia governor's swearing in, (as a graduate of Pat Roberts's "university," what would you expect the governor to do?) and the party that claims "family values," elects a male nude model, when the de facto head of this party is Rush, when the vice-presidential candidate of this party doesn't know why there is both a NORTH and a SOUTH Korea...

Why would this former Republican return to the fold? Where are the middle of the road GOP members, and why aren't they screaming?

Lincoln is spinning in his grave. Bring back the party of Lincoln.

Who knew?

I've been cleaning my house -- really cleaning my house. This is significant for me because it results from a profound life change. For a very long time I was teaching. And I was profoundly clinically depressed. I didn't clean my house. Now I am as sane as I'll ever get, I suppose. I feel much better, anyway (thanks to ECT), so I've been tackling the accumulated dirt.
That's how I discovered my plastic wood-look window blinds are really sort of translucent. I discovered this because I cleaned them. With the layer of dust, they appeared opaque.
This is hardly the discovery of the ages. I suppose it pleases me so much because it shows how far I've come. I feel better. Much better.

I'm not Neat, OK?

This morning I have been playing with paper: specifically, crepe paper. I like to play with paper. Go on, admit it. I bet you like to play with paper too.

I said I LIKE to play with paper. My paper creations? They're usually as good as the next person's, if the next person happened to have ten thumbs. I can't seem to do neat. I couldn't do neat in second grade, when my lowest grade was in handwriting, and I couldn't do neat in sixth grade, when I was supposed to make a science notebook: my drawings of amoebas and cells and such were accurate, but they were messy. I erased a lot.

But you don't have to be good with something to enjoy it, do you?
I was stuffing crepe paper into gift bags this morning. Each bag contained a small token for the founding church members who are still alive. (Our church was founded in 1955.) In each bag was a little token for each of the founding members of our church: those good souls who have been members since 1955. The crepe paper was so pretty: red, a dark forest green, and a glowing royal blue. With gift bags, you can be a messy person and still be okay.

When I was in second grade, we had a "debate." The question: "Is neatness a necessity?" We all knew which side would win, of course. Would a group of elementary teachers actually consider the possibility that neatness was nice,that neat papers are easier to grade, but neat is not the same as correct.

I'd rather have correct.

I can't write twenty pages! Are you crazy?

Once writers start writing regularly, they need to do it. Yes, I said need. It’s sort of like coffee. The first few days you really miss that morning jolt of caffeine, but then coffee isn’t vital to your well-being.
I’m not sure why I need to write, but I do. While I was in Alabama during Christmas, I really missed my computer. Sometimes I’m on a plane, say, and I just have to write, so I look around for any paper. I wrote on the back of the barf bag once.
This writing is not brilliant prose. I just need to see my thoughts on the page.
I can always write, but I can’t always write a particular manuscript.

I have been trying to write twenty to forty pages (!) to submit as an application to Sewanee writers’ conference. Some people write long. Not me. I write short. I’ve got short bits about the 1830 Chickasaw Indian removal, the Civil War, finding a skeleton, getting a divorce, going to high school, being a janitor, belonging to a garden club, Confederate monuments, Volkswagen keys... But none of them are expandable. They are not expandable because I am sick of all of them. I have yet to create a character that really fascinates me and keeps my interest. If there are any characters wandering around loose out there, come on over.