A Different Reading

And so this is Christmas, for old and for young. Another year over. A new year just begun. And so happy Christmas, I hope you have fun.

In the background, as you may have guessed, is John Lennon's And So This Is Christmas, a song from the CD that my wife bought me for Christmas. (Yes, Virginia, there are CDs.) Another reason for celebrating this Christmas is because I have finally reinstalled the Internet to the computer, which is now part of the makeshift office/nursery. We have set up the house in preparation not exactly for the Christ child, but for the two little girls who are coming to join us.

When? That's not exactly for us to know, just yet. Suffice it to say, it could be any day now. It could be today. It could be almost three weeks from now. But it won't be any longer than that. Alas, these children will be born within a Bush presidency, but at least they will never truly know it.

But unto us shall be born quite soon two children, who shall know love and joy and music and words — such beautiful words have not yet been spoken.

This morning, as I sat at Christmas mass (during the boring priest's homily) I read the readings that I'd missed because I was late. And in one was a line I'd not remembered; I think it was from the Old Testament. It was about a city not forsaken. I've forgotten much of what was said already (it was 7:30 mass and I was tired), but I suspect that line was not talking about my children. Yet, that's how I took it.

I intend to not say much about my children on this blog. It is too unprivate. Too exposed. Those who I wish to share thoughts with of that nature know where to find me. But on this Christmas day, when all things are possible — even peace on earth — I can't help myself.

These children provide me with a modicum of hope. I long to meet them, to share with them, to feed and nourish them as they will nourish me. I long to feel their hair, to smell their skin, to clean and pamper them. (And Pamper them ... or whatever brand name we end up with.) They find me unforsaken. Brimming with hope. Happy.

Merry Christmas, everyone. May peace be upon you.

National Novel Continuation Month

November is almost over; just about six hours to go here on the East Coast. And with the end of November arrives the close of National Novel Writing Month. Though I have topped 15,000 words, it is not physically possible for me to get to 50,000 today unless I were to steal words from other documents and paste them into my work in progress. That's not going to happen. I respect myself and my fellow writers too much to do that.

But that doesn't mean I'll stop writing what I have begun. I'm still getting to know the characters in my new novel, Blood Falls. They're interesting and I'm sure there's a lot more complexity to them than has been shown so far. But that's what you learn when you first meet people. I know something about my main character's family, how her parents died, the awful disease her sister has, the brother who seems about as deep as the condensation on a bottle of beer. I met people I didn't know about, like the niece of my main character, who strikes me as smart and precocious and potentially uplifting as this family's story progresses.

I've also gotten to know a couple fellow writers better. For that I am most thankful. I feel like I've been welcomed into a community of writers and I've already learned a lot from them; I suspect that more will come. I hope I've helped at least as many people as have helped me.

But tomorrow, despite the board meeting I must attend and the mountains of work I must tend to, begins National Novel Continuation Month(s). Most likely, it'll extend into the new year. It may also overlap with the beginning of Local Life-Interrupted-by-Babies Lifetime, but I'm ok with that too. Because they will be a big part of my writing life for years to come. Indeed, I expect them to garnish a huge chunk of my salary over the next 20-25 years.

So, off I go to live the life of yet another aspiring novelist -- albeit, one with a novel to show for it and another on the way and dozens of workable ideas to pursue after that. I'll probably reach about 16,000 words on this year's Nano. I strongly suspect I'll start something else next year, but this year's word count may end up as a high-water mark for a while, unless I start fictionalizing what my kids do. Lord knows what tomorrow brings.

How I'll Spend My Summer Staycation

Summer is coming to a fast close and I'm getting antsy. I've not taken any time for myself, and time for myself soon will become a commodity I have less of. My wife and I have kids on the way: two, our first. I won't go into much detail about them on this blog because this is not the place for it, but I am certain these little ones will change almost everything in my life.

As a quick aside, I'll say this: over the Labor Day weekend, I got a terrible case of poison oak. I thought I'd been careful, wearing jeans, keeping my gloves on whenever I pulled at anything as I cleared away a backyard full of brush, but it was warm. So I wore short sleeves.

Dealing with the scrapes and welts and yellow fluid were bad enough, but the itch was miserable. I tried Benadryl gel, which helped but was insufficient. I pinked my arms up with Calamine lotion, but it's not always convenient in a work environment. And then there was a funeral. Nothing is ever quite right when a funeral is involved.

After the torrential rain and wind of the past weekend, we finally made our way back home, and I treated my itch with more care. For the most part, I'm back in shape. Yet there is still a dull aching itch I need to scratch.

I'm taking next week off — my summer staycation — and I already have a full list of things I want to accomplish. It's a list I'll never fully complete and which will leave me frustrated at least till January, when my new list of resolutions kicks in. But a key point on that list is to scratch at my itch. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

The novel is ready. I have begun to write flawed queries that will not see an envelope, but by the end of next week, the first will be off on its way. I've always needed to write, and I've found excuses not to; I suspect I'm like a lot of "aspiring novelists" in that regard. But I have a novel and I have a need — I don't mean the money, though with hungry pooping progeny on the way, that's not to be dismissed either; I simply don't expect much money to come of it. One must be realistic.

But if I have anything to give these children, it's to teach them that the world is full of potential. They could become many things, and some of their dreams will crumble like fallen eggs, but there will be aspirations that stay with them their entire life. Like writing has for me. I need to show them that it's not only good to pursue one's dreams, it's crucial for life itself. It's the only way to live comfortably when an itch just won't go away.

I've begun writing every day again.