Leave it All on the Court - Er, Page.

Andy Roddick is one of my role models. No, not because I have any outlandish dreams of becoming a professional tennis player. I’m thirty years old, with bad knees. And I’m not that good at tennis. He is one of my role models in my outlandish dream of becoming a published author.

Stay with me, here. Last night, I propped open my eyelids until two in the morning, riveted to a tennis match in Melbourne, Australia. Roddick played for a spot in the semi-finals of the year’s first major tournament. After the first set, which he lost in a tiebreak, Roddick called the trainer and took an injury time out. My stomach churned, because Andy isn’t prone to calling the trainer. He’s tough. Something had to be wrong.

He came back for a second set but his opponent trounced him. Roddick looked to be in a fair amount of discomfort – if not pain – and had trouble mustering energy. At the close of the second set, while the trainer worked on his shoulder again, it looked to be all but over. (For tennis newbies – men must win 3 out of 5 sets to secure a match.) The announcers wondered aloud whether or not Roddick would retire from the match because of the injury. Players do that. It’s allowed. Justine Henin, number one in the world a few years ago, retired in the middle of a Grand Slam FINAL because of a STOMACHACHE (she was losing). Last year, Novak Djokovic retired in a Quarterfinal because it was TOO HOT (he was losing). Last night, Rafa Nadal retired because of a nagging knee injury. He was down two sets and it “was impossible to win the match.” Yes, tennis players retire, give up, throw in the towel – but not Andy Roddick.

Then something happened. Roddick started to figure things out, bringing a tight game despite a half-empty arsenal. Evidence of the pain lined his face, but he pushed it aside. He won the third set. Then the fourth. His opponent made costly errors, staring across the net as though Roddick might be a specter come back from the dead. Maybe he expected Roddick to roll over and die, to give in to the pain and injury. If he did, then he doesn’t know Andy Roddick. Through the third and fourth sets, the announcers used words like, ‘fighter’, and ‘gutsy’ to describe Andy. Words like those are often thrown around when referring to the American.

Roddick lost in the fifth set, but not for lack of heart or spirit. He battled through the pain, even though he knew – we all knew – his chances of stealing the victory were slim. His spirit might be wounded after the loss, but his pride shouldn’t be. Andy has been down before, even considered retiring less than two years ago. His career is solid. Besides Roger Federer, he’s the only man on the tour to have remained in the top 10 since 2002. There are a couple of things he really wants though: another Grand Slam title, and a Wimbledon Championship. So he hired a new coach, dropped weight, adjusted his style, worked harder. 2009 was a great year and he looks to be on the right track. I know I’m rooting for the guy.

Andy has learned to handle rejection. Last night, a giant, gangly, 21 year old Croatian rejected him. Last July, Roger Federer dealt a crushing rejection in a Wimbledon final Roddick deserved to win. I only watched it, and the loss hurt me for hours after. It must have brought Andy to his knees, made him wonder if maybe he should quit. But he didn’t. He kept practicing, staying fit, and working on bolstering belief in himself. Roddick might never win another Grand Slam or hold that trophy at Wimbledon. Maybe everyone else is too good, or he’s too old, or his body will give out before he gets there. One thing I know for sure, though. If he fails, it won’t be because he didn’t fight. When Andy Roddick leaves a tennis court, win or lose, the surface is stained with his guts, pain, sweat, and tears.

As an aspiring writer, I see many parallels to my own travels along the path of dreams. Andy Roddick inspires me. I will take the rejections, change my approach, learn, work harder. I might never be a successful author – or even a published one. But if the day comes when I decide to walk away and try something new, no one will be able to say I didn’t fight. My keyboard will be stained with my guts, pain, sweat, and tears. So thank you, Andy, for reminding us that when it comes to our dreams, playing the game isn’t enough. You have to do it with heart.

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Time Management - Or, Not Pissing Real Life People Off

I stink at moderation. When my mind is immersed in something, its all I can think about. My current WIP is demanding my full attention. I've written 25K this month. When I'm not writing it, I'm thinking about what comes next, plotting, and my characters. The real people (and dogs) in my life are getting sore.

This is when my time management skills are at their worst, when I'm really into a project. All I do is write, talk about writing, or want to write. And Twitter. Even when I'm not that into a project, like say, taking on a major editing job, I protect my writing time. I have a day job that uses up nearly 10 hours a day, all traveling, etc. included. I have a husband, a stepson, two dogs, a cat, my parents who live five minutes away, and a disabled sister. I have friends. At least, I used to have friends. Fun is currently relegated to Thursday nights for Grey's Anatomy. I have Twitter. I have my neglected blog and I write television and movie reviews for poptimal.com I don't have kids. I feel guilty enough about neglecting my dogs.

Basically, besides what writing I can squeeze in at work, I have an hour or so in the morning and a couple hours at night. Not nearly enough time to empty all the scenes and dialogue in my head onto paper. This frustrates me, so I spend hours on the weekends trying to write. Then I get complaints.

"When are we going to have some time together?

"Are we ever going to get in bed at the same time?"

"I haven't talked to you in two weeks."

"I haven't been on a walk in days"

"Squeak squeak...play with me!"

I'm still working on a balance, on some kind of schedule that sates the writing beast as well as the people who actually exist in my life. Its not easy. Sometimes I'm resentful, and I hate feeling that way. Other times I give up things I shouldn't - like eating something besides coffee, or showering. If you feel so inclined, I'd love to hear how you all moderate all the people and chores in your life with your writing time. If there's a way to stonewall the muse when she's in a mood like she is with me right now - screaming and impatient - please tell me your secret. Some of you have kids PLUS everything I've described and I'm particularly interested to know how your heads are still attached. Thanks for listening, dear readers and followers. Help me, if you feel so inclined.

I've Been Called a Tease Before...

After reading the awesomeness that is the teaser for Laurie's Blog, I felt inspired to share the beginning of my own WIP. Let me know what you think! PS. She also inspired me to revamp my blog, so look for those changes in the days to come.

Before I even crack my eyelids I know it has happened again. I’ve traveled. The oppressive, terrifying certainty that I no longer exist is a dead giveaway. The familiarity of the sensation does nothing to dull the roaring panic.

            “Breathe, Althea. You know you still exist.”

            I listen to myself a moment later, after my heart rate slows enough to ward off an attack. Daring to peer out between my lashes, I survey my surroundings. It’s early morning. It always is. I hear movement on the floor below and force my fists to unclench, releasing the garish orange comforter wrinkled inside them. The one I went to sleep under last night was green. Resigning myself to starting over, I swing my bare feet out from under the heavy down and settle them into the slippers waiting patiently beside the bed. Like I never left.

            Steeling myself, I creep across the carpet, kneel on the padded window seat, and peer out the clean glass. The trees are bright splotches against the brilliant blue sky, some crimson, others sunny yellow, with a few fiery oranges thrown into the mix for good measure. Autumn. I sigh and reassemble the rest of this life in my mind. Autumn means Connecticut and the Morgans. Althea Morgan. I chant the name in my head a few times and try and make it stick. It usually takes a few days before it does.

            “Thea, darling! Come and get some breakfast! You have to be at school in less than an hour!”

            Great. New school again. More kids who avoid me like the plague, a place where everything I say or do is wrong. Even when it’s right. Maybe especially when it’s right. Not ready to face the breakfast scene quite yet I head for the shower instead. I don’t find any more or less than I expect. The bathroom is stocked with the things that belong to me but aren’t mine. A robe, some makeup I’ll never wear, a toothbrush, towels…I’ll find similar provisions hanging in the closet and stuffed in the painted, white furniture. In my worse moments I want to rip everything to shreds. Today I can’t summon the energy.

            Stepping under the hot stream of water I pop open the bottle of homemade shampoo and take a deep breath. Jasmine. I can’t escape the scent no matter how hard I try. I’ve never smelled the flower in nature, of course. It only blooms in the summer. Shaking slightly and still battling the nagging fear of non-existence, I hide in the shower longer than I should. Throwing on a pair of jeans and a long sleeved, midnight blue t-shirt, I run a brush through my sopping blond hair and brush my teeth before closing my bedroom door.

            Flopping back onto the bed, I pull a necklace from underneath my shirt. It’s the only thing that travels with me, besides the clothes on my back. The gold chain is delicate, like I could snap it with no effort at all. A small, four-pointed star, no bigger than my thumb, dangles off the chain. It’s some sort of black jewel littered with gold flecks, and I handle it carefully as I pry it open and pull out of tiny, folded square of paper lodged inside. This is my ritual, on the day I travel.

            Unfolding the paper, rubbed soft by hundreds of handlings, my eyes caress the words I’ve read so many times before.

            Althea-

You feel different because you are Something Else. You are not alone, though. There are more, and you will find each other when it is necessary. In the meantime, trust no one.

                                                                                    Koj

            I have no idea who Koj is or why this note is scrunched inside my necklace. If it weren’t addressed to me I would assume it is a mistake. But my name is on it, and I do feel different. Sighing, I fold the paper up exactly like it was before, the only way it will settle back into the small space inside the locket. Reading it helps me feel less alone, even though that’s what I am. It also reminds me to hide the ways I am different, for they are obvious if I don’t work at concealing them.

            “Thea! Ten minute warning!”

            Gritting my teeth, I head down the stairs. Landing at the bottom, I turn left and walk through the doorway into the small, cold kitchen. I take my seat at the round, maple table across from Mr. Morgan. He smiles at me and I force myself to return it. There is nothing special about him, nothing that would never make you remember his face. His hair and eyes are exactly the same shade of brown, and a mustache sits on his upper lip.

            “Good morning, Thea. Have some pancakes. You’ll need to be out the door in eight minutes in order to make it to school on time.”

            Neither of them seems to notice that I’ve been away. I don’t know exactly when I was here last, but I think it has been a while. He just looks back down at his own plate, finishing off a stack of cranberry pancakes doused in honey. I have to admit, the cranberry pancakes are one of the better things about the Morgans. It’s one of their Markers. It could be worse. I scarf three pancakes, two pieces of turkey bacon, and down a glass of orange juice before standing up and carrying my plate to the sink. I’m not hungry. I eat because that’s what is expected. What’s normal.

Mrs. Morgan is washing dishes by hand, a white, frilly apron tied around her slender waist. I slide an arm around her and kiss her smooth, peachy cheek, a stray piece of graying hair tickling my neck. My lips smiles as my stomach heaves and the cranberry pancakes threaten to make a curtain call. I do the same to Mr. Morgan, and head out of the kitchen toward the front door. On the way I pass two shelves and a table full of family photos. All of the ones of me were taken in the fall. The Morgans never mention it. I guess they don’t think its weird. I don’t ask.

 My backpack waits on a hook next to the front door, worn and smelling slightly like stale sweat. I might have left it there when I got home last night. If I had been here last night. I grab it and slide it over my shoulders. It weighs nearly nothing, and I know it contains only identification and extra pencils. Everything else will be at the school.

Opening the front door, I breathe in the crisp, cooling air of the fall. The sun is out, but its rays are just lukewarm instead of hot, the way they were yesterday in the waning springtime. The temperature is pleasant in its own way, probably around sixty degrees. For me, it’s a bit chillier than I like and I wish I’d grabbed a sweater. I just can’t make myself turn around and go back in that house right now. Instead I turn down the sidewalk that will take me to the high school, where I suppose I’ll be a senior. Like it makes a difference. I have no friends at Danbury Prep School. I don’t have friends anywhere.

The High Holidays

Christmas has always been my second favorite holiday. My first is the 4th of July. I chose it because I love summer, the Lake, and barbeque. And fireworks. The thing the two have in common, the reason they both hold a special place in my heart, is family. Though I haven't been able to put my finger on exactly why, I just can't work up any holiday cheer this year. I've pretty much only bought the presents that had to be shipped. I don't have a tree. I did decorate the house but the last two nights I haven't even turned the outside lights on. I've been thinking hard about what is the matter with me.

It's probably a combination of factors. Four years ago all four of my grandparents celebrated with us at my parents house. This year there won't be any. I've lost three in the past three years, and my remaining grandma is spending Christmas in Arizona with my Aunt, Uncle, and cousins. Not that I blame her. If I could, I would fly South for the Winter too. My father's parents died a year apart, both fairly unexpectedly. Or as unexpected as it gets at eighty-nine. I loved them, had just begun to really appreciate them, and I miss them. This past May, though, my mother's father passed. He was that one, the one who was special. The one who makes you feel special and loved, just by being in his presence. He and I have always been close, ever since I was an infant. Losing him is something I still haven't adjusted to. I started crying at a restaurant a few weeks ago because the old man at the next table ordered a tenderloin (one of Gramps' favorites). Gramps was a big man in so many more ways that his physical appearance. He filled up a room with joy, kindness, and laughter. The house at Christmas will be so...quiet.
This year it will be only my parents, my uncle, my sister, my husband, and myself. I've been working hard on getting out of debt and there isn't much to spare this year for presents. Usually I go overboard. I love giving. Watching people open the things I've picked out for them brings me such joy. Especially my mother and father, who have done so much for me over the years. It's impossible to think of paying them back, but I love to try. Part of me doesn't want to go and face that empty house. I know I will, though. Families change, surely everyone goes through years like this sooner or later. To top everything off my best friend (who I've had my entire life) is moving away for the first time. I don't make friends easily, at least not close ones, and I have no idea what I'm going to do without her to escape with. It's hard. I'm making a valiant attempt not to let it ruin Christmas, though.
It's a Wonderful Life is my favorite movie. People always say that's an impossible task, to pick a favorite movie, but not for me. I love the characters, the story, and the moral. This year I feel sort of like George Bailey. Like nothing I've done is good enough, will make enough difference, or means much of anything at all. I'm trying to take on his lesson as my own, and remember that it doesn't matter who I've lost, how much money I have to spend on presents, or whether or not our house is bursting at the seams on Christmas morning. What matters is the lives we've touched and those who've touched us. That we are all better people for the love, family, and friendships we've been given over the whole of our lives. Those are the things, the love, family, friends, and memories that make the hard road forward worth it in the end.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, dear readers. Here's to 2010...

Panache Is So Hard to Come By These Days

Jean Lafitte is the ultimate villain. He’s the one I’m always trying to write, the guy who is on the wrong side of the law but remains likable in spite of everything. Hell, maybe he’s the perfect hero. Like somehow, when I watch movies like The Assassination of Jesse James (by the Coward Robert Ford) or Public Enemies, I wind up rooting for the ‘bad guy.’ The thing is when a story is told from the rogue’s point of view, he becomes the hero of the story. At least in those instances. Great films, by the way, especially the first one.

Back to Jean Lafitte. Known as the gentleman pirate of New Orleans, Jean might have been born in France, but referred to himself as a ‘man without a country.’ He had no patience for the French and was drawn to the simplistic idealism of the American Constitution. Some accounts give the reason for his apathy as the beheading of his parents during the French Revolution. At any rate, he and his brother Pierre set up smuggling and pirating operations on an island in Barataria Bay, near New Orleans. Make no mistake, Jean was a pirate. He stole, he killed, he smuggled slaves after their import to the United States was made illegal. For the majority of his career he didn’t actually perform any of these actions, because he had an entire fleet under his command, but I doubt this distinction had any real meaning to law enforcement.

I’m going to share my favorite two Jean Lafitte stories, and from them I believe you’ll garner an accurate picture of the man and the legend. A quick one, in way introducing him. Lafitte’s face was plastered on posters all over New Orleans, all promising a reward of $500 for his capture. Shortly after, posters displaying the Governor’s face went up all over town, pledging $1500 if the man were hogtied and brought to Lafitte’s island. I’d have paid money to see the Governor’s face the first time he laid eyes on one of those puppies.

The first may be legend, but it’s a good one. Supposedly, Jean Lafitte and Napoleon Bonaparte were related, perhaps distant cousins. When the latter learned of his impending exile, he hired Lafitte to smuggle him out of France and to America. Napoleon loaded his belongings up on Lafitte’s ship, and then went out to enjoy his last night in France. He either didn’t make it back by the appointed hour or Lafitte outright took off with his things, but either way he never took that boat to America. Good thing for us too, I’d say. It makes me giggle to think how shocked Napoleon must have been, wandering up and down those docks thinking “how could he?” It reminds me of a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean, when the still-green William Turner is fencing with Jack Sparrow, who disarms him. Will looks at Jack with a wounded, indignant face and says: “You cheated.” Sparrow’s response, with a quick motion to himself: “Pirate.” Duh, Will. All I’m saying is that if I’ve left all of my worldly possessions on the ship of a known pirate there’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere. In fact, I’d probably tie myself down.

Second, Jean Lafitte and several of his pirates lent their services to Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans. By all accounts, this battle would have been lost without their help. Ignoring the elephant in the room, which is that the war was over before this particular skirmish took place, Lafitte did the American government a solid. He did it for two reasons, both of which were selfish. He was a pirate, remember? First, he was French. His genes were coded with English-hating DNA. Second, he and his men were promised a presidential pardon. After the end of the war, Lafitte traveled all the way to Washington DC to request goods and materials that were confiscated from his stronghold by the government. After all, he had supplied men, funds, weapons, and his knowledge of the land to help the US win an important victory. What Madison told him? You can buy it back at auction. Needless to say, Lafitte was miffed over the encounter and never regained his previous admiration of America. Lafitte wanted, badly by some accounts, to be viewed as a businessman and gentleman, as opposed to a criminal. That he felt he had the right to demand his things from the President bolsters this image in my mind.

So what we have here is a man without a country, without a family besides his brother, who does what he has to survive but longs to be part of gentle society. Charming, isn’t he? Identifiable? His plight, when put that way, makes you root for him. In the end, Lafitte and his men were run out of New Orleans and settled in Galveston for a time before sailing south, never to be seen again. I encourage you to read more about Lafitte, there are many amusing stories that I have not the time or knowledge to relay. I dare you not to adore him, at least in some small way, before you are finished.

Next Up - Anne Bonny. Let's here it for the girls!

Pirates - The Ultimate Bad Boys?

            Pirates. Why do we love them so? What makes them so dashing, so romantic, so worthy of admiration? Because historically, our predecessors didn’t see any of the above characteristics in the rogues. They were terrorists, thieves, murderers…criminals to be feared and avoided at all costs. We can blame Johnny Depp, or Disney. I think it’s something more, something engrained in our souls that makes us love them.

            One of my favorite pirate story dates to 75 B.C.E. and involves a man who would one day change the face of the Roman Republic. When Julius Caesar was a young man, still in his early twenties, the pirates of Cilicia captured him and held him for ransom. The Cilician pirates achieved infamy during their heyday, causing trouble for Rome and all of her commercial partners around the Mediterranean. The Romans used the same pirates as mercenaries during maritime warfare, a tradition that did not end with them. The pirates ransomed young Caesar for twenty talents, a paltry amount that made him laugh when he found out. See, Julius informed the pirates they had netted a prize and he believed himself worth much more. As a result, they asked for fifty talents in exchange for the aristocrat’s release. While in their custody, for a length of a month or so, Julius Caesar acted more as their leader as opposed to a captive. He often practiced fighting with them, learned their weaponry and tactics, and sent messengers to ask them to keep their voices down when he wanted to sleep. He talked every day of how they had better not let him go, because if they did he would come back with an army and kill every last one of them. The pirates, believing it to be a friendly joke, laughed along. When they released him, Julius went to the nearest town, raised his army, and returned to slaughter the band of pirates who’d held him. He granted the ones he liked a death by beheading as opposed to crucifixion, Caesar’s brand of mercy. The moral of this particular story is two-fold, in my opinion. First, it provides an intimate picture of piracy; the camaraderie, society, and inner workings of their groupings. Second, it reiterates what history teaches us about the Romans – don’t mess with them. They were like, the Texas of their day.

            As long as people have shipped goods across the seas, men have made their living stealing from them. All the powerful, successful countries (including America) have used the pirates when it’s convenient and punished them harshly when they lose their usefulness. The life of a pirate was hard, the men who chose it rarely living past their twenties. They signed on knowing their time on this earth would be short, so they lived it to the fullest extent. Kind of like college, only at the end you die. Their indulgences contributed to their early demise just as often as the sword, cannon, or rope. The weeks at sea without proper nutrition caused health issues such as scurvy and other vitamin deficiencies. The time spent at port, drinking and whoring, led to every sort of venereal disease, driving many a pirate to an early grave. Without the inclination or opportunity to bathe regularly, scabies and other skin disease took their toll.

            I just made it sound awfully glamorous, didn’t I? Still want to be a pirate? For some reason, I sort of do. And you know what I think it is? The freedom. The chance to travel the world, to give the finger to society and its rules, to live or die on your own terms. The killing people would be hard for me, I’m not very confrontational by nature, but if I looked down the barrel of a naval officer, I might be able to summon some fight. Two of my novels feature pirates and their histories as integral characters, and I plan on sharing their stories in the days to come. If the lives of these scalawags, thieves, and entrepreneurs fascinate you as they do me, drop back by. I promise to keep it interesting.

NEXT TIME: Jean Lafitte, Gentleman pirate of New Orleans

Tacking on That Tough Skin

A week ago I took the next step in my writing journey. Through Twitter, I met some ladies who are part of a writing group that meets locally. I considered joining one before, even searched online, but hadn’t located one I thought would suit my needs. Or perhaps I wasn’t ready. Either way, this time when they invited me to come so we could check each other out, I committed.

            I tried not to think about things too much. I finished my current round of edits, printed my manuscript, query letter, and synopsis, and baked some killer pumpkin cookies with cream cheese icing (when in doubt, sweets never hurt, in my experience). Suddenly the evening arrived, and after a long day in hell…oops, I mean at my day job, I gathered the bits of my soul and set off into the unknown.

            I met everyone, and they seemed nice. We ate some minestrone soup and chatted about our goals and where we are currently, then got down to business. Since I’m the newbie, and they were sort of auditioning me, I went first. Let me say, I’ve never given my writing to anyone I didn’t know, except for college professors. The people who’ve read my novel liked it, but their opinions are colored by things like being related to me.

            I had been nervous before going, complained to my husband and my best friend about it. They tried to calm my nerves but, not being artists, they struggled to grasp the reason for my fears. Now, as I prepared to read Chapter One in a novel I’d been revising for months, my hands shook like a heroin addict two days sober, a fact I hoped they would attribute it to the coffee. My throat was dry and after the first few sentences the words stuck to my tonsils and had to be scraped off. I took off my cardigan in an attempt stem the flow of underarm sweat that threatened to bleed through my shirt. After reading about ten pages, then held my breath.

            They had nice things to say, assuring me that my writing wasn’t total crap, that my stories were worth telling. They also had some excellent advice on craft, an admitted weakness of mine and an area I am intent on improving. Their advice was sound, kind, intelligent, and timely. Two things amazed me. First, I didn’t die from embarrassment or anxiety. Second, they instantly put their finger on the problem I have struggled with for months. They only listened to ten pages, and were able to tell me how to make my beloved story work better. This is a subject for another blog, but reading and critiquing others can also immensely improve your own work. Turning your eye a different direction, looking for holes and craft issues instead of worrying about your story, benefits everyone.

            As artists, we are naturally sensitive people who crave rave reviews and positive reinforcement. It’s part of our makeup. Nathan Bransford blogged about it this week, it’s a good post that stirred up a hornet’s nest of comments. We want to defend our work, because as we write, little pieces of our souls break off and mix in with the prose. It’s hard when people stamp on them. If we don’t put our work out there for others, though, how will we improve? Art is inherently subjective. I love movies that make my husband want to claw his eyes out. I’ve seen art hanging in people’s homes that inspires me to vomit in their decorative urns. Different things appeal to different audiences. Everyone isn't going to love your writing. It will be enough if you can reach the people who do.

            So I challenge you, writerly people, to be brave and charge ahead. Let others help you improve, help you arrive at the point of reaching your audience. I hope I’m on my way, and I’m pleased as punch to have found a group of women whose opinions I respect. Go, find yours. You write a novel on your own, and it’s an intense, personal experience. Polishing that novel takes a village, just like raising a child.