A Feminist's Penchant for Romance Novels

Trashy romance novels, the naughtier the better, are a hidden pleasure of mine. I first started reading them as a young adult. But even at that tender age I knew that the stories I read were not emotionally healthy.  If I prescribed to set out to find a mate using what I found in those books, I would be setting myself up for a world of hurt and somehow I realized that.  Eventually I abandoned reading romance all together because it simply was not compatible with my feminist perspective. 

Decades later I find myself back secretly reading romance novels once again. As much as I hate the idea of liking these books, I simply cannot seem to get enough of them and that really bothers my feminist side. These books depict alpha-male bad boys that often dominate, abuse, neglect and otherwise disrespect the female until they realize, from a variety of catalysts, the error in their ways and pledge their undying love and devotion. Yippee!!! The feminist in me is about ready to stick her finger down her throat, or a poke fork in her eye....or both. Yet firing up my Kindle to read the latest J.R.Ward book is the equivalent for me to tapping a vein is for a heroin addict. It has really bothered me that I, a self-proclaimed feminist, was willingly reading such drivel and finding it so very fulfilling. A very disturbing situation.

Then, as I was reading Orson Scott Card's Xenocide today, there was a passage, spoken through his character Valentine, that describes the genetic programming of human males and females. In short, the author posits that male genetic programming is that of the proverbial alpha-male; to inseminate as many females as possible, and to use force if necessary. The genetic programming of females is to attract the strongest and most virile male as a means of securing the most viable offspring. Everything to this point sounds typical to me; however, the next part caught my attention. Those same females seeking out the alpha-males for procreation also have a drive to attract the most stable males so as to have the greatest chance of them sticking around to provide protection, assistance and sustenance for the mother and young child. But, you may conclude, as I do, that that alpha-male who wants to fuck everything in sight is probably not the same guy that wants to hang around and provide for a newborn baby and a stressed out mommy. Sounds like he'd be hightailing it outta there, right fast.

I don't know what kind of cruel joke mother nature is playing on us women, but these two directives, branded into the human female basic genetic operating procedures, are completely incompatible.  We are, by our very genetics, set up to be disappointed. If we follow our genetic predisposition to be attracted to the biggest, strongest, fiercest males, we will absolutely be the most unlikely to find men that are family-man types to settle down with. But in reality that is exactly what we want them to become ... after they've mated with us. Sad but true. These alpha-males are not likely to be neutered and become non-roaming docile monogamists and yet we delude ourselves into thinking we can tame the testosterone coursing through their veins. They will of course continue in their genetic programming which compels them to spread their seed far and wide, yes, while we're stuck home raising the kiddos. OR, if we are feminists, we chose our mates not based on our biological drives but instead with our minds, choosing those partners that are long-term relationship material. Of course this is a much wiser and more compatible choice for the long haul.

But there is something to be said about the lack of physical passion of a primal nature when you pick a mate using the cerebral criteria of stable, reliable, family man, instead of those used by our genetic encoding which lean toward that untamed rogue. It's a trade off we make willingly.

So is it any wonder that, when choosing our recreational reading material, feminists (often secretly) are drawn to those trashy romance novels with the big bad alpha-male, that dominates and conquers the enthralled, often independent, willful and defiant female in a heated erotic passion that's hot enough to melt your lipstick in its case, and then that same fella turns into the hopelessly in love, devoted and faithful family-man we want to settle down with? It's that alpha-male lover turned devoted family-man mate combination that completely rocks our female worlds. I could never figure out why it was such a pleasurable experience for me reading such silliness until now. I mean, I knew it was insane to think the alpha-male would behave this way. It made no logical sense at all. Looking at it using Card's genetic programming passage though, it makes total sense. These romance novels are pressing the two most basic and incompatible female genetic hot buttons in a very effective 1-2 sucker punch. My feminist me really doesn't stand much chance in stopping my genetically ingrained reaction to it, outside of simply refusing to allow myself to open such books and start reading. 

It's a fantasy world. And as long as I'm an adult that understands that this isn't something I'm likely to encounter in the real world, it's a safe enough pastime. My concern is in the young impressionable girls that read this stuff and think it's the ideal and something they can actually attain in a mate. It is the setup, then, for heartbreak, dysfunctional relationships, and ultimately divorce. I'm proud that the young girl in me saw these books for what they were at a young age. I'm also proud that I figured out why I'm back at it, reading these same books, all these years later. It's an innate female genetic predisposition that is better fed in the fantasy world of my head via the pages of a sizzling book than between the sheets with some hotty boy from the gym or off the football field. And maybe eventually our future female generations won't have this unnecessary genetic remnant that, if followed now with our monogamistic social pressures, can only break a young woman's heart.

That threshold into the world of writing

I remember writing as a child, curled up on my bed with a notebook and a number 2 pencil.  Words spilled on to the page, ideas built out of my little constructor set in my brain, and placed with satisfaction on each line.  It never occurred to me then to judge the work as it was being done.  It never occurred to me that my work might suck.  It was a passionate pursuit of exploration into myself, a fresh new world to explore and paint and mold into something fun, bold, intriguing, sad, insane or whatever else my soul fancied at that moment.  It was sheer and utter pleasure.  And when I handed those writings into my creative writing teacher, without a care if it was "good", I wasn't particularly moved one way or the other when I received an "A".  It was of no consequence.  It was not meant for them, it was meant for me.  And I was fulfilled, so it seemed natural in my young mind that my teacher would also be so.

Years later, I look back with longing at that person I was.  How I so naturally expressed myself without concern.  How easily I tuned into that inner storyteller, drank from that endless well of creativity, made beauty for no one but myself on endless pages of looseleaf.  Now, it is a struggle.  Now, it is a spiritual version of an  MMA cage fight where I am both opponents.  My own worst enemy.  Writing was abandoned for a lucrative career.  So in one corner is the writer, the passionate writer who was silenced.  And in the other corner is the career professional that brings home a paycheck.  The professional hasn't really looked at that artist as much of a fighter for quite some time.  But that has been changing.  The artist in me has caught a second wind, perhaps in retaliation for a the mid-life crisis that tends to hit all of us that have not lead a life of passion. The professional in me still fights for the upper hand thinking the creative writer unable to win.

But am I (the writer) not a worthy opponent?  The villain professional must think I have something worth saying or it wouldn't fight so viciously to keep me away from that pen, away from that story?  What could I now create, if time were not limited by a punch-clock, due dates, bosses, household chores, etc?  I honestly don't know.  But I ache to find out.  After surrendering my pen so many years ago, and living life without it, have I not learned of life's tragedy and triumph?  Do I not still have that inner well that wants to be consumed?  What fear inside me makes me think that I am not worthy of this thing called self expression?  Rejection?  Ridicule? Most definitely.  But in the end, a silenced pen is only going to result in self-ridicule. Self-hatred.

I have changed myself a thousand time over.  Dropping those things once dear and turning a new leaf.  I have never done so with longing for the old me, except for my writing.  Never, not once, have I felt I lost something because of my change of heart, and new pursuits, and new views, except for my writing.  I must accept this.  And find a way to push beyond the ideas that I am largely unread, uneducated, and unworthy of literary appreciation.  If I am ever going to find personal fulfillment, it won't be in the depths of self-doubt, but in that which is within me, like a dog struggling on a choke chain to be free, that craves to write with a passion that seems to have crippled me.

I can only hope that coming full circle and finding the writer within me once again, that I might see that I am, always was, whole and worthy, just as I am, just as I was.  That the stories are there.  That the words are still there.  That it is not too late.  That I can be who I would be if only.  It only takes that first step, pen to paper, a word, a sentence, an idea, a passage.  An introduction.  A page.  A movement.  A belief.  A belief in me.

Creative Writing Tidbit

Just a little tidbit I wrote when I had a few spare moments:


As she sat against the large grey stone, and looked out over the brilliant green meadow, Trista decided that this was it.  She was no longer going to do what everyone thought she should do.  She was not going to be the safe, practical, ever-dependable one any longer. She was tired of that role.  When was she going to have fun and adventure?  Never, at the rate things were going, that’s when. 

The clumps of tall grass wiggled in the wind.  The sky was a muted, mottled blend of shades of gray-on-gray.  It was chilly and she wrapped her bulky knit coat around her tightly and lifted the collar around her neck.  Here she was in the most romantic of settings, Ireland, and she was on yet another errand for someone else. Well, she wasn’t going to get this item checked off her list by sitting on this rock, she thought.  And she pushed herself up to stand and stretch.  She picked up the basket at her feet and continued walking along the path that meandered past open pasture, low stone walls, and an occasional gate. 

When she came to the stone bridge spanning the river, she moved off the path, and started working her way down along one side of the bridge to the river’s edge. She spotted a section of ratty looking cattails and squatted down near them.  It was autumn, and they were beginning to die back, the perfect time to harvest the root “laterals” for this evenings meal, her foreign exchange mother, Nora, had delighted. And of course she’d gone along with Ben and Emily, Nora’s children, the week before and learned the dirty work of harvesting cattail root, so she felt an odd obligation to offer to collect them for Nora today. She pushed the sleeves of her coat and sweater up above her elbows and plunged her right hand into the muck at the base of the cattail looking for the bend in the rhizome, the point where she was to break them off.  She snapped the slenderest part of the root, and pulled back the tuber. Using her pocket knife, she trimmed the root from the plant and tossed the muddy lateral into her basket.  She repeated this process until her knuckles ached from the cold and the muscle at the base of her thumb protested when she tried to grip the root bases with her muddy, frigid fist. Grabbing the half full basket, Trista walked to a clearing on the bank and started cleaning off the roots and then her hands.  As she used her skirt as a towel to dry her hands, she noticed him for the first time looking down at her.  How long had he been there?  A while by his appearance, up on the bridge, sitting on the guardrail, long boot-clad legs dangling lazily over the edge, with the slightest of a smile on his face.

Creative Writing - Same situation from 2 perspectives

WARNING: Explicit content (literary erotica) follows.


FROM "HER" PERSPECTIVE:
They stood together at the checkout waiting for the cashier to run their bills. What was he doing standing so close to her?  She could feel the warmth of his body. Just an inch and she knew she’d feel the hairs of his skin brush provocatively against her arm.  Did he know how much she had to fight to not make the subtle movement to close that inch? Did he understand the temptation he was to her?  How she wanted him?  His youthful body, his boyish charm were enough, that was clear to her, but it was the intelligence that was his mind that truly intoxicated her.  He was her equal.

Did he know she’d dreamed of him? Of course not, how could he know that, as she slept, her subconscious desire for him took over, and she saw his perfect white smile as he tugged her from the hallway into a dream-contrived alcove.  The look on his face alone was enough to make her insides do somersaults. That look said it all.  He wanted her too. As he pulled her close and whispered “shhhh!” with a devilish smile, she could smell his masculine warmth and the sweetness of his breath. The softness of his mouth against hers was in stark contrast to the strength of the muscles in his arms as he brought her in even closer. Her knees gave slightly as he parted her lips with his tongue. She sucked it each time his plunged hungrily into her mouth. Each stroke lashed fire from her thighs to her navel. As she wrapped her leg around his muscular upper thigh, he planted her against the wall, crushing into her breasts, eliciting a moan from her throat, their mouths never parting. As he pushed into her, she could feel his hardness through denim. She craved his nakedness against her own. She wanted him to take her. The thought of him inside of her was enough to make her explode, the orgasm waking her from her dream. Just the jolt of remembering this was enough to break her free from her thoughts to find him standing there beside her at the register in the shop. 

He looked over to her and smiled, “What do you think it would take to light a fire under this cashier?”

She shrugged and smiled back, “She is taking her sweet time, isn't she?”, all the while struggling to sequester the heat ignited by his nearness and her own thoughts.


FROM HIS PERSPECTIVE:

As he stood at the counter waiting for the cashier, he intentionally stood close to the female friend next to him. He liked being close to her. He felt good near her. She wasn’t like the other women he knew. The young pretty girls that were so typical.  The flirtation and light conversation were always the same. He was used to having their attention, not that he cared. But the one next to him was different.  She was older with a regal sense about her. She was smart and sensible, with a sharp witty tongue.  She had a strength about her that he rarely found in a female.  He was entirely drawn to it, to her.  He stepped in closer, as close as he could without touching her, being as subtle as he could.  He breathed deep and took in her scent.  His blood pressure rose. 

When had it happened?  The friendship they shared was once of convenience. She had a decidedly serious nature and he gave her reasons to laugh. He found it easy to make her smile.  She seemed to appreciate his sense of humor more than most. But it was gradually turning into something deeper than that now. Their interest in one another was evolving into something much more complicated.  And yet there was that fine line that they both danced close to but never crossed.  A line that they dared not cross, or did they? 

He knew he wanted to explore territories beyond that line, whether he ought to or not.  Morals be damned, he thought.  Women like her didn’t come around every day.  He wanted to experience her, everything about her and he knew, if he didn’t, he’d forever regret it. Of course it was risky business, what this could become.  Neither of them were without their own obligations and responsibilities.  But if they were discreet, and no one got hurt, what would be the harm? The benefits outweighed the risks as he saw them.

At the moment, they seemed caught in this pattern of move/counter-move, neither yet committing to the eventualities to come.  He of course wanted, needed, to make the transition into a physical pattern. He knew she was attracted to him.  Even now he could hear her breathing catch as he moved closer.  A quick glance at her face and he knew her thoughts were somewhere else.  So he paused on her and let his eyes take her in, unobserved. 

She was beautiful in her maturity; age had made her interesting, intriguing even. Her silver hair, cut in her ever-present pageboy, was prematurely grey, but it went well with her wise grey-blue eyes.  Her hair brushed her long elegant neck, the skin so delicate there.  He wanted to taste it almost as much as he wanted to taste her mouth, taste her.  Her breathing was faster now.  He wondered if it were possible that she was responding subconsciously to the thoughts he had of tasting her. He smiled at the thought of them having such a connection.

He ached to know what it felt like to cup her full breasts in his palms, to feel the warmth of her belly against his, to make love to her.  He knew instinctually that she would be a lover that knew what she wanted, sure of herself, able to get what she wanted without self-consciousness or insecurity. She was not submissive in the slightest, and he had the deep pleasurable feeling that he’d be looking up at her more often than not. She would be able to match his desire, perhaps, finally, in a way that he’d only dreamed of experiencing with a woman. She was most certainly a force to be reckoned with.  And by the look of her at this moment, her full lips looking as if she were being made love to with the slightest quiver notable, her breathing shallow and quick, her eyes still far away, he knew a storm was brewing.
     
Her back straightened, she blinked and looked at him and then at the cashier whose back was to them as she continued to straighten the contents under the counter several feet away.  He smiled at her as he spoke.  “What do you think it would take to light a fire under this cashier?” 


She returned his smile, “She is taking her sweet time, isn’t she?”  


And, he thought, ...so was she. 

First Impressions

Perhaps my biggest ally...AND my biggest enemy is my first impression.  They say that first impressions are all important.  That when we meet someone for the first time, we determine in very short order how we've sized that person up.  In my case, I've been told on numerous occasional by plenty of people that I make a, well, formidable, for lack of a better word, first impression.  Now in a job interview, legal, or professional venue, this serves me quite well.  I apparently come off as intelligent, self-confident, competent, assertive, driven, strong and direct.  Okay, well that sounds good, I suppose.

But now I'm meeting the neighbor lady who is a stay-at-home mom with a slew of kids in tow, and I think that assessment of the first impression becomes less "intelligent, self-confident, competent, assertive, driven, strong and direct" and more "know-it-all, arrogant, better-than-everyone-else, bossy, over-achieving, over-bearing, and pushy" first impression.  I've always wished that I could change this about myself.  Wishing that I could tone down my forceful personality to suit the receptive energies of the audience that was before me, however, isn't going to change anything.  I tend to alienate myself from people unknowingly.  Perhaps it is a protection mechanism that I developed and honed because of how brutally shy I was as a young person especially since we moved every year or two? Perhaps I am trying to present myself as strongly as possible out of fear of rejection?  Perhaps I internalized the same behavior I saw in my mother? I don't know.

It was never so strikingly clear to me, the impact my first impression had on those I met, as it was after my ex-husband and I separated after a 15-year marriage.  It was a devastating experience for me, and I lost my emotional footing for several weeks.  During that time, I noted that strangers that I met were so much friendlier to me.  Not just friendly, but open, helpful, happy, nice, and they even interacted with me longer.  It was the oddest experience, to have people act so nice to me.  I was perplexed, but with the emotional rug pulled out from underneath me as it was, I didn't have the personal resources to really look at it in depth at the time.  As I started healing/recovering, people started behaving normally when I met them again...more abrasive, less warm and friendly, more closed, more rigid, and briefer interactions.  It totally bummed me out.  I would love to be able to change that first impression back to that time, but without the emotional breakdown of course.

The only other time that I've found this to be less of a issue is when I'm doing my passion drummer stuff.  When I'm taking classes and am learning, some of this negative first impression apparently falls away because I meet many more people that are friendly toward me.  I am not conscious of the change in my personality when I'm following my passions, but others obviously are.  This is also true when I'm teaching.  It's strange.

For those that move beyond the first impression, and do become my friends, many have eventually confided that I was not the person they originally thought me to be.  My tough, impersonal, arrogant first impression isn't who I really am at the core of things, to those closest to me. But I sure wish I could figure out how to alter the first impression that I make.  I've changed an incredible amount of things in my life, and I hope that this will be no different.  I just need to figure out how and that's not a simple thing, at least not for me.

Therefore, just so you know, if you aren't yet my friend, keep in mind that my book doesn't really match my cover. But I'm working on that!

The News

Sitting across the Formica tabletop in that grimy truckers diner, my father sat in the booth with this muscular hands fiddling with a matchbook as he took a draw on his cigarette. He was once a beautifully handsome man, a chiseled jaw, a Romanesque nose, brilliant gold-green eyes, jet black hair, deeply tanned skin, and a singing voice that could make a girl swoon. As his little girl, I remembered that movie-star handsome man. Now he was skin and bone, with a grayish complexion, balding, and his body wracked as he coughed up phlegm into a paper-napkin. He looked up at me briefly, and then back down.  Again, eye contact.  “Trace, I have cancer” he said. “Lung cancer.” 

I took a moment to get my bearings.  I knew he had something to tell me when he called me at work and asked if I could get off early to meet him, that it was urgent, but I hadn’t been prepared for this.  “What did the doctor say?  Did you get a second opinion?” 

He said, “Yeah, I got three second opinions.  They all say the same thing.  Chemo.  I start next week.” 

“What’s the prognosis?”  I questioned.  The corner of his mouth turned up slightly and he said, “I can’t get one outta them.  Could be months.  Could be weeks.  Or I could beat it. I’m gonna beat it.”  The look in his eyes didn’t match the conviction in his voice.  He knew as well as I did that he was already too sick to have a chance.  All those years of smoking, drinking, and exposure to asbestos insulation, it had just been a matter of time.

I wasn’t close to this man as his adult child.  He had basically abandoned my sister and me after he and my mother divorced when I was 6. I remembered sitting at the front window on Saturday mornings, time and again, waiting for dad to show up for visitation, but he rarely if ever showed.  Mom would hold me in her arms as I sobbed. There was nothing she could say to take away the pain of my broken heart.  My daddy didn’t love me anymore. 

Now here I was, sitting across from this un-bathed man, he smelled of body odor, bourbon and stale cigarettes.  For years now he had been an embarrassment to me, especially when he showed up in the parking lot of my office, asking random strangers walking in if they knew me.  He once handed a co-worker a stinky and stained motivational (pyramid-scheme money management no less) cassette tape wrapped in cellophane from a cigarette pack to give to me, when he could have simply called my office phone.  The look on my co-worker’s face was unbelieving that this hobo of a man was actually my father. How do you explain that away?  You can’t.  Why didn’t he just leave me alone like he did when I wanted him in my life?  Why did he even bother to try after all these years? 

It was a love-hate relationship for me at best.  The little girl in me still loved this wreck of a man, despite all his failures.  The adult woman was pissed as hell at him.  But here I was looking into those tired eyes, and seeing my father coming to grips with his own mortality.  So now he needed me.  Really needed me.  He had so few friends and family left.  So few people that actually cared about him. He was looking for a response from me.  And being the dutiful daughter, I remained strong and encouraging, and told him I would help him any way I could. 

He reached across the table and took my hand and squeezed.  I looked into his eyes and let him see the love I still held for him.  As tears welled up in both our eyes, the barriers fell away and it was just that beautiful green-eyed man and his little girl, holding hands and smiling at one another at last.

St. Patty's Day, 1992.

(Note: this was a writing exercise I completed during a writer's meetup meeting.  it was completed in 50 minutes.) 


As the nurse pushed my wheelchair through the sterile white corridor, the overwhelming emptiness in my arms was enough to make me choke for air.  All my dreams for that little being that spent 6 months inside my womb were dead.  Instead of carrying home my bundle of joy, I was somehow supposed to prepare myself for the impossible task of a life with a severely disabled child at best, or at worst a funeral for my newborn son. 

How was I to wrap my head around the changes that had happened over night?  I went to bed a happy mother-to-be with 3 months of maternity ahead of me.  I woke up to the equivalent feeling of a 5-gallon bucket of warm water being dumped on my prone body.  In a half-sleep panic, I’d tried to figure out what was happening.  When I realized my water had broken, well more accurately exploded like a poked water balloon, I called my mom to tell her I was heading to the emergency room to deliver my baby.  

I knew 6 months was way too early.  I didn’t want to think about it.  I couldn’t think about it.  Things were happening to my body that were out of my control.  I wanted to protect that little baby inside me but I knew it was not up to me.  I was helpless.  How I wanted things to be different.  How I wanted to have him, fat and pink, swaddled in a fluffy blanket, in my arms while my friends and family cooed over him.  But that dream was quickly dying. Instead of hoping for a healthy child, I was hoping for a living child.  

There was so much I didn’t know.  Was it normal for the nurse to ask me between labor pains if I had a living will? Why did they look at me so strange when they checked my blood pressure or my baby’s pulse oximetry?  I knew things weren’t looking good, but now wasn’t the time for anyone to sit me down and have a frank heart-to-heart with me about the situation in which I found myself.  They clearly just wanted to try to get this baby out of my body without injury to him or me.  

I didn’t want to push, but the contractions happened anyway.  I irrationally wanted to keep him inside of me where he was safe.  My body felt like a boa constrictor had swallowed my belly and was forcing my body to expel this little fetus against my will.  When he came out, after the third savage push, his little body was cobalt blue.  He was silent.  His little head was the size of a tennis ball.  They rushed him out of the room.  

I laid there on the delivery table alone as everyone had moved out to the hallway where they were attempting to intubate him.  One doctor came back into the room to tell me they were having problems establishing an airway.  I heard a single fragile newborn-pitched wale. My Baby!! The doctor rushed back out to the hallway.  I returned my eyes to the delivery room ceiling.  What just happened?  This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.  Was my baby alive?  Was I a mommy?  Now what? 

The rest of those wee morning hours of St Patrick’s Day were a blur.  Getting stitched up.  Wheeling me back to my unused birthing suite for a quick shower.  Being ushered to a regular hospital room. Thank goodness I had the sense of mind to demand a single room.  I didn’t care the added expense, because I knew I couldn’t bear to watch another woman in a bed next to mine with her beautifully healthy baby. 

The doctors began visiting soon after I was in my little room.  My baby had an abnormal airway.  He had a deformed heart.  He had a brain hemorrhage from the delivery.  There were other things, but these were the most immediate concerns.  He was too medically complex to be cared for in this hospital.  He had to go to a larger city.  His condition was too fragile for med-flight.  He was to be transported via ambulance.  

Later in the morning when I was allowed to meet my little boy, it was in the NICU, on a isolation table.  He was laying there on this flat little square, with a heat lamp over him, a breathing tube secured down his little throat, and a couple IVs stuck into his cellophane thin skin. His thigh was the size of my index finger.  His full head of dark brown hair was a shocking contrast to the rest of his still fetus-like form.  He smelled so good.  I can’t even describe it.  At that moment I realized how close to animals we humans still are.  With all our sophisticated civilization, I knew my child by smell. I knew he was mine.

Now my baby’s life was held in the hands of a dozen medical specialists several hours away.  They transported him that same day to the other hospital but I wasn’t released until the following morning. Through a tortured foggy numbness, I watched the hospital exit as it neared with each step the nurse pushing my chair took.  I was going home empty-handed.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  No one had prepared me for this possibility.  No words could make sense of this new world I was entering.  A world of imperfection, and pain, and suffering, and no answers that made any sense.

Nothing? Really!

Today I commented on a recent blog entry posted by a new friend.  The post was about how everyone thinks it's easy to write. A major fallacy, I agree.  My comment was about how it's two-fold in that we not only have to be adept at the craft of writing to be effective but we also have to have something to say.  While I stand by my comment, it certainly got my head gnawing on the grizzle of that statement.  Having something to say.  I talk plenty. And I can write plenty too.  But what do I actually have to say?

This past year, most of my posts have been focused on the change in my view of how I found sustainable happiness (my passion drummer).  Most people that aren't following a passion drummer, which is pretty much every person I know except for Jason and Roger, really don't "get" my posts, even after repeated explanation.  And Jason and Roger read it and go, "duh, of course!"  So it's been more an effort toward my own self-exploration and I'm not entirely certain that needed to go public.  But who's counting the cows after they're already out of the barn.

Those that know me understand that I'm not one for small talk.  I am not a girly girl with lots of flowery language and attempts to make others think I'm sweet and charming and likeable.  I'm not sweet or charming or even particularly likeable most of the time.  I am not the flibbertigibbet type either.  There hasn't been much whimsy in my life.  I am strong, logical, and just a tad bit driven. (Yes, that was a joke!)  And I'm certainly not particularly funny; although, I love to surround myself with people that are by nature funny because I pick some of it up by osmosis, or at least I like to think that.  Anyone that's met me remembers my (shall we say distinctive?) laugh.

I also don't feel that I have a particularly sharp eye in catching the engaging moments of my day.  The only topic that comes to mind today that had me off on a tangent was while unloading the dishwasher (now isn't that engaging). I used to have a flatware service for 14.  I now have 9 teaspoons, 11 tablespoons, 13 knives, 8 large forks, and 10 salad forks.  I should be upset since those buggers cost me $75 for each 5-piece service, but it serves me right (really doesn't it?) using the good silverware for everyday.  So how on earth did I lose my utensils?  Did a fork get thrown out in a pizza box?  Did a spoon on a paper plate hit the trash-bin without notice?  Did a guest inadvertently take home their dish-to-pass with my tablespoon stowed inside?  Did a nurse turn the garbage disposal on with a fork down the drain and chuck it before I saw it?  Did a knife slide down between the cushions of the recliner, never to be seen of again?  Or are there such things as utensils gremlins?  Or perhaps flatware fairies?  I don't think so.  I'll never know.  But these are the types of mundane happenings in my world.  Not much to say.

Most of my time is spent at work, in a class, reading, or creating something.  I don't sit around and if I do sit, I'm most certainly making something while I watch tv or listen to an audiobook.  Forever the multitasker, that's me.  But I honestly think I exhaust people talking about my daily activities.  Or at the very least alienate myself because others feel that they don't measure up some how.  Like my class addiction is some sort of thing to aspire to!?  Seriously?  I don't know many others with 17 classes scheduled for the month of October, plus new class designs to complete, an old job to quit, a new job to start, and a bunch of other crap on my to-do list.  And I don't know anyone that would actually choose that for themselves except for me.  But doesn't that just mean others should think me crazy instead of amazing?  I do. I'm okay with being a bit odd though. But it isn't something I find particularly interesting to talk about.

My sorted past is fairly interesting; however, I can't much write about it without fear of a libel suit. So not much to say there.

So what do I have to say, I ask?  Can you hear the crickets? Me too.

My Week Off Between Jobs

My last day working at AMD was last Friday.  I start my new job at Homeaway.com next Monday.  This week off has been absolutely glorious!  I've had a chance to read, write, take plenty of classes, attend a few meetup group meetings, work on the www.ClassAddicts.com website, lay out by the pool, and craft.  Tomorrow is Friday and is my last official day off.  I could get really used to not working with all the interests that are yet to be explored and/or revisited. But I'm very excited about starting the new job. I'll start getting nervous on Sunday morning.

Abby's health has remarkably improved since the vet prescribed steroids.  She can't stay on them, but at least now it's quite certain that she's suffering from allergies.  Bosley's back is back to normal.  Ruby is Ruby...I came home to find that she'd lifted a pair of basketry scissors off my end table and taken them over to another room to chew the protective slip cover off of them.  Well, at least she didn't chew the handles so the scissors are intact and there's no blood so she must not have cut herself.

One of the meetup groups that I've started attending is Reading for Writers, and I'm actually making progress on character development and plot outline for the idea I have for a novel!  That has me pretty jazzed.  I'm thinking that I'll continue with the meetup group, reading all the assigned books and participating in the meeting  discussions, and hopefully next year around this time, I can push myself to do NaNoWriMo since that seems like an effective way of getting that dreaded first draft out of the way.  I'm hoping to find a few trusted friends that read voraciously to assist me along the way in terms of feedback and troubleshooting.  So far I've read Ann Lamott's Birb By Bird and Donald Maass' Writing the Breakout Novel.  Donald's book was extremely informative to me and it really helped me see how much I need to learn about novel writing.  First of which is that I'm seriously unread!  There were very few book examples that he sited that I've read, or have even heard of before. I hope to compile a list of the books that Donald sited throughout his book, and put them on my audible wish list.  I also need to compile my notes from his book so I have a synopsis of points that I can look to as my novel progresses, so I don't have to read the entire book again to refresh my memory.

But all that lovely stuff has to wait right now as I have 3 new classes that I'm teaching in October and of course being the procrastinator that I am I've waited until the week before the first 2 classes to start the instruction manuals.  Two are done now except for photos.  One manual is 19 pages without the pictures. The second manual is 14 pages before pictures.  I haven't started the 3rd manual yet, but that class isn't until the following weekend thank heavens!  Yet, with the new job starting on Monday, well, it's going to be "interesting" if I don't get all the manuals done before this Sunday when I teach 2 of the 3 classes for the first time.

I'm enjoying my basketry classes the most at the moment.  And I really feel like I'm progress in terms of skill which is always gratifying.  I've only had one negative class experience recently, but another teacher, Rita Ross, was able to help me learn what I failed to learn in that class (not her class!) so that is the important thing.

I'm really hoping the class addicts website takes off and that other class addicts in Austin will use the forum and share info.  If I'm the only one that has 17 classes scheduled for the month of October, well that just proves I'm the biggest class addict of them all and deserve the right to own the website!  I ordered business cards so that should help get the word out!  Maybe I'll offer some sort of prize/drawing for new members, or for submitted forum posts, or for pictures posted or something.  Heaven knows I have plenty of things that I've made sitting around the house that could use a new home!

I'm finally starting to meet people that aren't co-workers too which is great.  The meetup groups are seriously helping on that note.  It is so enriching to be around others that are smart, creative, talented and motivated!

Where's Tracy and What Happened to "2010 - The Year of Body"?

While 2010 is quickly coming to a close, I've realized that I hadn't really finished my work with "2009 The Year of Happiness" in 2009.  I had hoped this year would be about taking care of the physical me (2010 - The Year of All Things Physical), but I'm finding that my focus was continually brought back to the happiness factor.  Since I didn't really find my passion drummer until October of last year, it's just now been a full year that I've been exploring this new window through which I see my world.  It has profoundly changed me and it continues to do so.  My work.  My play.  My relationships.  But mostly my happiness.

What I've learned over this time of self-exploration is more of what I already knew.  I am creative.  I love to learn.  I love to problem solve.  I am social.  I like to perform.  I like to teach.  I like to write.  Nothing new, but somehow it's all more fulfilling now.  Why?  Possibly because it's not just a hypothetical discussion any longer.  Now it's part of who I am, what I do, where I focus my attention, and where I find personal fulfillment.  It's less about where I live, what I drive, how much I earn (don't get me wrong, living comfortably is important but it alone does not equate to happiness), and less about what others expect of me (the parent, the mate, the daughter, the employee, etc.) and more about did I have fun today, did I learn today, did I do something that I found personally fulfilling and do I have plans to do so again soon. 

I'm reading again.  That has me wanting to write again.  I've joined an aspiring writers group.  I have an idea for a novel that's been knocking around in my head since 2002.  I am excited to think that I may actually start writing it at some point.  I have wonderful friends who've volunteered to read my work and give me feedback.  I'm surrounding myself with the things that will nurture me and my creative writing.  It feels good.

I'm teaching for the first time.  I didn't go looking for it.  It came to me from no action of my own control, a teacher approached me and asked if I might like to teach.  I agreed to try it.  And I found I love it.  I love designing the classes, planning them out, drafting the instruction literature, preparing samples, and creating a class environment where students can relax, have fun, learn, and laugh.  I didn't seek this out, but I did honestly pursue what I love to do and, as I have predicted, the universe provides me with experiences that are rich and fulfilling in return.  How very Zen.

I continue to take classes on subjects all over the board. I continue to meet others like me that love to express themselves in creative ways and love to learn.  I am still toying around with my http://www.classaddicts.com/ social network and hope to have a workable format soon.

I don't know if I want to put a theme to 2011.  I'm not driven like that any longer.  It doesn't seem like much fun. If you know me, you understand that I've never been an under-achiever and that's not likely to change any time soon.  However, I don't need control of myself like I felt I needed to before.  I'm just enjoying the ride and working hard at having fun so I'm totally prepared for the next big wave that comes my way.  Life is the journey, stopping to smell the roses isn't an item on my to-do list but a way of living, and I'm excited about my future!  I'm pretty sure it will be better than I could dream up and put into reality on my own with a checklist, a goal, or a "2011- The Year of  ".