Sometimes I look at this blank screen and ask myself, “What have I not said yet?”
Everything, I realize. Everything in the world. There is so much I haven’t written about.
Just the things off the top of my head I haven’t talked about:
Close-up Of A Scared Woman Peeking Through Fingers
I have a phobia about rabies, which is known as hydrophobiaphobia. No kidding.
I have always wanted to become a carpenter or something else useful. A college professor might not be too handy if the zombies take over.
I have cavorted with lion cubs. It was amazing.
I got hit by a car. I’m okay now, but I have a metal bar in my left leg from knee to ankle. At airports, I get treated like a potential terrorist.
I have written several novels, but I don’t know what to do with them.
I wish I could run. It would be handy (e.g. zombies).
I can fall asleep sitting up (and just did).
I write although I can’t visualize.
These are small topics, but they lead to bigger ones. And there are other topics lurking as well. I’ll have to remember this when I feel I am without words.
I used to be Catholic. It was an artifact of my childhood, when except for a brief time, I was Catholic on Easter and maybe Christmas. I gave Catholicism up in early adulthood when it warred with my budding feminism, which remains, although it is more nuanced than it was when I was 20. I became a Friend (Quaker), and later developed agnosticism, which is looked at askance by atheists and Christians, but so be it. (Note: Agnosticism and Quakerism are not necessarily exclusive, so I still consider myself Quaker).
Abstract design of white powder cloud against dark background
All this preface exists to throw in another contradiction: I miss Ash Wednesday. Not because one gets marked on the forehead with ash, as much to show one’s membership in a specific religion as to commemorate the day, but as a way of honoring the inevitability of death. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …” (which is not what the priest intones when he marks the forehead with ashes, but I forget the actual formula).
We started from molecules in the muck like DNA and RNA, which became single-celled organisms, which combined to make multicelled organisms with specialized organelles, which evolved to become the teeming masses of animal and plant life. When we die, we denature and decay to muck again.
My loved ones will literally return me to ashes, rich in minerals that feed life, as I have chosen cremation as my burial method. I feel comforted that I will be returned to ashes, to be scattered in an undisclosed location. I hope I will be useful, that I will build soil with minerals just as my soul will remain in stories told.
Someone will read the previous paragraph and mistakenly believe that I am close to death to be thinking about my demise and burial. I am not; although I am almost sixty years old, I expect to live a little while longer. I just think of death sometimes, on days like Ash Wednesday,
I have a bit of the blues right now. Everything seems so stagnant right now — the weather is grey, there’s at least another month of Winter, there are no surprises (hopefully only the good ones, knock on wood) in my life, and nothing I am doing is very fruitful.
Perhaps it’s just the season. Spring hasn’t arrived, and the juncos outnumber the robins in the yard. The snow melts into squelchy mud and nothing is green.
Perhaps it’s just karma right now. I have spent so much of my life fulfilling Big Audacious Goals (although never at the “becoming famous” level because that’s not where I want to be) that maybe I should see my goals fail.
Maybe it’s just chance, or being an old dog in a new world, or a lack of sunlight bringing me down.
But I’m down, and I want something exciting to happen, because that always gets me out of the blues.
If we consider my Big Audaciousness Goal (BAG) as publicizing twice a week, I’ve gotten a good start at it — two consecutive weeks. I won’t call it success until I’ve posted twice a week for three months, so it’s a good habit.
If we call the BAG querying Apocalypse, I don’t know if I have the heart to do that. I’ve gotten so many rejections from agents. I want to up my publicity game and self-publish that one.
Just a reminder that BAGs are written toward actions and not external results. “I’m going to get 300 readers” is something I have no direct control over, but I might have control over what will attract readers.
And there’s a thrill in and of itself to fulfill a big goal.
How can I tell that my husband loves me? He’s not known for big gestures, for which I’m grateful, because I don’t trust big gestures. A quiet promise is better than a diamond ring.
I know Richard loves me because of mocha mornings. He makes the coffee every morning, presumably because he likes to, but probably because my pour-overs taste somewhere between Folgers (US coffee brand) and a wet dog. Lately, however, coffee tastes too strong for me, probably residual from COVID, which paradoxically has made everything taste stronger to me. Richard has made mocha in the morning these last few days, a combination of hot chocolate and coffee. This makes a perfect breakfast drink for me.
I wonder how this affects my romance novel writing. My writing is very emotional, but not very splashy. My protagonists are good people who, like me, find meaning in little things, like redemption and shared experience and maybe mocha mornings.
Today, I taught my personal adjustment students about love. No, not the deeper, profound experience of love. But I taught them that Valentine’s Day celebrates only one type of the seven types of love that the ancient Greeks celebrated.
So, those types of love:
Agape – love of humanity.
Storge – love of family
Philia — love of friends
Pragma – love which endures.
Philautia – self love
Ludus – flirtatious/playful love
Eros – romantic and erotic love.
Valentine’s Day only seems to celebrate eros, and it does so in a big, splashy, commercialized way.
I want people to reclaim the other types of love for Valentine’s Day and go out and celebrate them. Galentine’s Day is a good start, for those female friends who want to celebrate each other. But we should be celebrating our families, our friends, our flirtations, the world. Wouldn’t the world be better for that?
If you liked this blog post, please drop me a note at lleachie@gmail.com or @lleachsteffens on Twitter.
According to my past posts, I have set a Big Audacious Goal twice already for this year. The first one was to edit and query Apocalypse; the other was the one I came up with yesterday to double my social media presence. I’ve gone with the latter, because it confronts all my lingering reluctance to promote myself:
I’m working on 1) creating the SMART goal and 2) having fun with it.
First, the SMART goal. I will:
Post using Loomly twice a week
Post to Facebook and Twitter (I already post my blogs there)
Only post book news once a week
Use as many Loomly suggestions as possible to improve my social media posts
As for having fun, that’s just a natural part of who I am. Funny pictures, word play, bad puns — all come easily to me.
There’s a cynical part of me that says that this will not make any difference in engagement, but I have to take something on faith. Wish me luck.
First off, welcome to day 5 of COVID. I anticipate being done with it tomorrow when I test again, and then I will be going to work with a mask. I could say I need more rest (who doesn’t?) but truthfully I need to get back into my routine and teach.
What I want to talk about today is my lack of a Big Audacious Goal. The lack of a BAG disturbs me. I have lived with them for years, and they have pushed me forward to do things I wouldn’t have ordinarily done. Writing my first novel was a BAG, as was publishing for the first time. I find BAGs to be ways to plan, carry out, and celebrate goals.
This year, all my goals are things I’ve done before, and I am struggling with them. Write a novel? I have three on the drawing board and I’m not getting any closer to finishing any of them. Publish more? Not at this point; I’d feel better with more readership on the current books. All goals, but not Big Audacious Goals.
I’ve called in my house expert on everything, Richard. He has suggested the BAG of doubling my online media posts with an eye to promoting myself. I like this. We’re even going to let me get an online account with Loomly to help me achieve my goal.
I guess I’m not all better. I thought heck, day 3 of COVID and I’ll be back to normal. My nose is even less stuffy than it’s been. It’s just a severe cold.
Then I got up to write this blog. Suddenly I’m shaky, tired, and altogether unfit for prime time1.out of it. I needed to get out of bed, though, because my time in bed had starved me of light and life.
So I sit next to a sunny window that’s so perky it’s making me a little grouchy. “It’s bright! It’s sunny!” Look, it’s 29 degrees out and I’m sick. Can you deliver me a hot toddy to help me get through this?
I’m too tired to be bored and too bored to be tired.
Time to write. Or fall asleep. Or something.
Back before there were streaming services, there was this thing called television. Television shows had their own time slots, and you could only watch them during those times. The slots in the evening, from 7 to 9 PM, were known as prime time slots. Obviously, television companies showed their best shows then to get the best audience numbers and make their advertisers (where the money came from) happier. If a show was outside of prime time, they did not expect it to perform well in the prime slots. Therefore, unfit for prime time means “not at my best” with a hint of “not presentable.”
It’s strange, but I made it through the pandemic without getting COVID. I managed to not get it despite standing in classrooms with thirty-plus students at a time. I credit this to COVID boosters, diligent masking and good decision-making about avoiding crowds during the worst of it. And not having children. Until today, however, I credited it to my uniquely amazing immune system, and yes, I do in fact have an amazing immune system.
This week my husband came home with some congestion, and we prepped him for a cold with all the usual cold medicines including guifenesin, nose decongestant, and hot chicken broth. I was surprised, then, when he got diagnosed with COVID, as his cold wasn’t that bad. I myself had cold symptoms, but I tested myself thoroughly and daily for COVID, and got negative results. I prided myself on my amazing immune system and fixed our morning oatmeal.
Yesterday, I masked at work and got a raspy throat and a runny nose. A colleague of mine said “You’re sounding worse. You should get yourself checked for COVID.” I reassured her that I had an (stop me if you’ve heard this before) amazing immune system. She said, “I know, but check yourself anyhow.”
I checked myself this morning, using the state of the art COVID tests we’ve been hoarding (“Fold the card flat on the table. Keep the card flat or else a false negative will result. Hold the dropper straight up and down. Do not hold it at an angle. Drop exactly 6 drops into the well. Dropping more than six drops may result in a false negative.”) I had tested myself for the last couple days and found no double line indicating that I had COVID, Today, however, I saw a bright pink line — in the sample area, to mirror the line in the control area.
So much for my amazing immune system.
I immediately got on email to alert my bosses that I have COVID and therefore will be staying home for the next five days. And then I slept. I didn’t know I was that tired. Then I woke up and checked my email, and then slept again.
I’m doing all right. Suffering a loss of pride about that amazing immune system, but doing all right. I do have symptoms, but they feel a lot like a sinus infection. I hope it doesn’t get worse than this.
Words Like Me 