I’m not tired of Christmas carols yet.
Given that it’s only Cyber Monday, a designation that seems odd given the online stores have been offering sales since Thanksgiving, I haven’t had too much exposure to Christmas carols this season.
But I have my favorite Christmas albums, Harry Simeone Chorale and Sinatra and Johnny Mathis, and — OMG, my husband just put Mantovani on (ok, Boomer)!
I have my new favorites, Pentatonix and Take Six, and — not “All I Want for Christmas is You”, which I’m tired of even though I haven’t heard it yet this season.
Throw in Benjamin Britton’s Ceremony of Carols and a bit of Handel’s Messiah, and my Christmas slate is filled with much music to listen to.
If you have Christmas favorites, please let me know in the comments!
Tag: Christmas
Unusual Dreams of Christmas.
It would be a nice time to get obsessed with a story, while I’m waiting to hear back from potential developmental editors for Whose Hearts are Mountains, while I’m waiting for responses for things I’ve sent, while my last two weeks of school are easy and the festive season gives me ideas to play with.
I’m not getting any of those inspirations at the moment. “Silent Night” in Gaelic is playing on the stereo. The artificial fireplace is crackling and I can smell fake pine scent, and I wonder why these artificial remnants of a vital, pagan culture give me comfort. Would the real things give me more inspiration? I don’t know.
I admit that I have fantasies about Victorian-style Christmas Eves (note that in Victorian Christmas, decorations were put up Christmas eve and remained till January 6, the twelfth night of Christmas.) Of course, my fantasy soon takes me off into a decidedly pagan adventure with Father Christmas, finding a way to slip largesse and joy into people’s lives in the countryside. This might involve some invisible smuggling hunting of wild game for the table in a Robin Hood turn. Or modern ones, following an elusive busker through Chicago decorated for the holidays, a search for the treasure of knowing a talented soul.
For not being inspired, I sure feel inspired today.
The Changing Seasons of the Academic Calendar
It’s August first, and I can feel the season change even though it’s warm outside. That’s because I base my seasons on the academic calendar, and there are only three seasons: fall semester, spring semester, and summer.
I’m approaching the end of summer right now, so I’m beginning to prepare for fall semester, updating my online classwork, getting a new work computer, finishing up my internships, cleaning up and rearranging my office (already done!), setting up my calendar … the rhythm of life changes.
Fall semester is the beginning of my calendar, as it brings new things: A shiny new school year, new students, beginning meetings (ok, not everything about the new school year is wonderful). It also embraces football (American) tailgates, dressing up for Halloween, the feast of Thanksgiving, the Christmas season and its associated rituals on a college campus.
Spring semester starts with winter — the Christmas snow is now slushy and dirty, the beginning of the semester meetings seem like same old same old, and Valentine’s Day as a holiday just doesn’t measure up to Christmas. But then come Spring, and the unexpected: the Northwest Yeti comes out of hiding, there’s a big cow statue in front of the Hy-Vee grocery store, art installations spring up like mushrooms, and students plunge into the chilly waters of Colden Pond for charity.
Then we come back to summer, where things slow down, and faculty spend their summers teaching abroad or taking on interns or taking summer classes or teaching short, intensive summer classes. And going on vacation. My summer has been spent supervising interns, taking a class for my certification in Disaster Mental Health, doing moulage (simulating physical injury and illness for training purposes), and taking a mini-vacation. And writing.
So that is my year, and the signs of a seasonal change keep popping up: the announcement of beginning of semester meetings, the back-to-school sales, discussions of how well our football team may do this year (we have one of the best Division II teams in the nation, which for those of you in other countries would be like a lower division soccer league), and emails from students trickling in.
It should be a good year.
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Yesterday was a tough day — two rejections (one agent, one submission of a short story). I don’t feel so bad about the short story rejection, because I think my choice of genre (fantasy) might keep my work from being accepted by some markets. And there’s a lot of competition.
I need to toughen up about agent rejections.
I truly believe at this point that I’m getting rejections because of something as simple as fashion, and I will believe that until someone says otherwise. I’m willing to improve, but I’ve improved as much as dev editors, beta readers, publishing coaches, and my own judgment have allowed me to.
Please wish me luck. I’m serious.
Christmas Eve — a little on the prosaic side
I write this from Ottawa, Illinois, where I am visiting my father and sister and her family for Christmas.
Things I’m thinking about:
1) I wish I could drop Northwest Missouri State (my place of employment) onto Ottawa. This would unite a college town without a college (Ottawa) with a college without a college town (Maryville). I miss the river and the beautiful state parks and the invigorated atmosphere of a town that attracts people from Chicago and the suburbs,.
2) I still have to adjust to being 55. The hardest part is that it’s now unseemly for me to get crushes on younger men (maybe it was before, but I didn’t notice). I’ve gone from being flattering to being an embarassment. This is a major adjustment for me.
3) I can be with my family without talking much. This is a relief.
4) I’m editing Voyageurs, and the big problem is that I have to “fill in” with 34,000 words. I have NO IDEA how to do this. Think good thoughts.
Merry Christmas to all my readers — please keep in touch!
Day 1 Summary NaNoWriMo: Time for Pantsing
I wrote my first 2000 words yesterday, flying my way through the first chapter. The good news is that the writing was easy. The bad news is that, if i go through my outline at this rate, I will be done in 16,000 words, which is 34,000 words short of a win.
It might be time to start pantsing.
To explain (and review for my longer-time readers), there are three modes of writing:
- Planning, which means writing with a meticulous outline;
- Pantsing, which means flying by the seat of your pants;
- Plantsing, which is somewhere in-between.
I think I’ve said in these pages before that I’m a plantser, which for me means having an outline with enough leeway to fill in the blanks. But it’s not working this time — perhaps I didn’t put in enough of an outline, or I wasn’t as sure about the action. So I will be pantsing a bit.
What encourages me is that the more I write, the more the layers of the characters reveal themselves to me. These characters need to be complex, because the story will demand that my characters grow and develop — and become the spirit of Christmas.
Meet Brent Oberhauser
I walk into one of my favorite coffeehouses, all blonde wood and warm brown walls, with an iron and wood staircase which ascends above to a quiet place above the counter. Under the stairwell are more tables, and at one of the tables sits a tall, bony young man with a shaved head and nerd glasses. I sit down; piercing blue eyes regard me from behind the glasses.
“I was expecting you,” he said, cocking his head. “You’re the author, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m the author. Are you on break?”
“Yeah, for a few minutes. Want a coffee?” He called out to the counter, “Bettina, Dr. Leach here needs a coffee. My treat.”
A moment later, I’m settled across the table from the man. His long fingers cradle a cup of coffee.
“Your name is Brent Oberhauser, right?”
“Got it in one.” He leaned back in his chair. “This is what I do when I’m not writing my dissertation. Or teaching American History.”
“So,” I asked, “You’re going to be a professor, right?”
“I didn’t have much of a choice. My parents are both professors — political science and chemistry — and I think they’d have died of shame if I didn’t go for a PhD.” He leaned forward again, setting all four feet of the chair on the floor. I heard his foot tap, and I wondered if he ever truly rested. “Me, I’m history. Not that that’s helping me with my latest dilemma.”
“What dilemma?” I inquired.
“I have to be Santa for the Yule Ball this year. I mean, last several years we had Kris Kringle — I mean Kriegel. Short guy, ginger, runs a toy shop. He put the outfit on and he became Father Christmas. I’m gonna put it on and it’s going to barely hit my knees and I’m going to look like a stork in a skirt or something. I’ll scare the kids away …” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Why did Kris have to move away?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, knowing that as the author, it was all my fault that Kris Kriegel and his new wife Marcia had moved to Missouri.
“I’ll quit whining,” Brent shrugged. “It doesn’t look good on me.” He unfolded himself from the chair and threw his apron back on. “Stay a while. I have to get back to work.”
And so I stayed.
Becoming Kringle
I need to start planning my NaNoWriMo book — well, as much as I plan these things. This is what I know so far:
Name: Becoming Kringle
Genre: Romance/cozy suspense
Main Characters: Brent Oberhauser, History grad student/barista. Tall, pale with black-framed glasses; shaved bald because of premature balding; tall and thin. Looks like a young Moby.
Sunshine Walker, accountant for the philanthropic organization which hides the Secret Society of Santas. Tall, medium dark skin and braids pulled back into a neat knot at the back of her neck. Dresses neatly — professional dress on the job; slacks and shirts off duty. Seldom wears jeans.
Basic plot: There’s the A plot, which is Brent and Sunshine try to uncover blackmail against the SSS which the philanthropic organization covers. There’s a developing romance between Sunshine and Brent. The B plot is that Brent gets drawn into the SSS through having to take over some of Kris Kriegel’s (protagonist of The Kringle Conspiracy) duties.
Outline — I have three chapters but there’s no A plot there, just the romance. Big mistake.
So I have a lot of work to do here.
First Snow — postscript
We received four inches of snow here in Maryville, Missouri to give us a white Christmas. Because it didn’t fall until after 10 PM, we could not celebrate First Snow last night, and so we celebrated it this afternoon with a big festive bowl of snow in the living room and a small mug of mighty Irish coffee to share.
It was Richard’s first First Snow, and as he’s the first one I’ve initiated into the mysteries of First Snow in over 20 years, it was fun to hear his toasts. His toasts addressed very concrete realities of our political and social environment, which is not surprising, given his Master’s degree in History. My toasts addressed more creative/mystical/connectedness themes (those of you who have ever known me, your ears should be burning!)
While Richard poured the last sip of the Irish coffee out into the snow, I followed him out with a snowball in my hands and pelted him with it. I guess we have a new part to the tradition 🙂
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Merry Christmas, Joyous Yule, Happy Hanukkah (late, right?), Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Birthday to all you Christmas babies. Can you say “Happy Festivus”, or is that a contradiction of terms? Happy Holidays to all.
As always, I invite you to write back. If you want to do so by Twitter, I’m lleachie on Twitter. I’m also lleachie on Instagram.
Let there be peace on Earth.
Waiting
The most mundane of waits: A woman sits in the grimy, poorly-lit waiting lounge of the car repair shop, which consists of two cracked leather and chrome chairs next to a haphazard pile of hunting magazines. She glances at the coffee pot whose contents have burned to the bottom of the carafe. Finding no interest in Field and Stream, she pulls out her smartphone and gazes at it, grimacing.
A peevish wait: The teen paces, checks her watch again, scowling. Fifteen minutes late. She plops on the couch, which protests with a squeak of springs. She pulls out her phone, checks her voice mail, her e-mail, her messages. Nothing. She plays Words with Friends for a few minutes, checking her voice mail, her e-mail, and her messages in breaks. Nothing. She checks her watch again and sighs, kicking her heels off. Half an hour late, no messages — she’d been stood up.
Lovers wait: She looked out the window of the train as they passed the projects, tall and bleak with tiny windows, scorch blossoming from some, boards blocking the view of others. Past the projects, graffiti bloomed on the smoky walls of brick factories, the quick iconic scrawls interspersed with vibrant murals, all furtively sketched in the night. Then Chinatown, with its bold, ornate gate and glimpse into the ordered chaos of the outdoor market. The train stopped and moved backward, readying itself to start the maneuver to back into the station. At the station, the woman’s lover waited, lean and energetic and foolish in love with her, edgy like the city itself. She smiled.
Waiting for the end: Her mother lay dying, hooked up to monitors, scratching her bruised hand repeatedly and murmuring that something bit her, that there were bugs all over her. Her father, exasperated, reassured her mother that there were no bugs. It was not the tiny cancer in her mother’s brain that was killing her — it was the pneumonia, and her body’s inability to hold onto sodium. It was never the cancer that killed; cancer only disrupted.
Friday: The week had been rough. So close to the end of the semester, students groused about everything, gathering around her like a flock of geese pecking at her, demanding this and that. And she greeted them, calmly answering their questions instead of lashing out at veiled insults. It was not their fault, she reasoned; they were very stressed from proving themselves and falling short, and it wasn’t unusual for students to have external locus of control toward their failures, blaming outside forces. Still, Friday couldn’t come soon enough, and she would relax with a glass of wine in a totally silent living room.
Anticipation: The pristine layer of snow, the glow of her heart, whispered that something, something good, was coming. She didn’t know if it was a little or big thing, if it would make her day or change her life. She wondered if an attack of bliss, of transcendental, edgy bliss, was about to descend on her as it had in the past. She hoped not — she hoped that this time it would be good without the price to pay.
A child’s wait: Tucked in bed, the little girl keeps one eye open, waiting for a change in the air, a trickle of magic that feels like tingles and kittens, that will tell her Santa has arrived. The eye closes, and she falls asleep next to her sister.
First Snow Lives On.
My husband read my passage on First Snow yesterday, and he asked a lot of questions:
- “Did you get this ritual from somewhere?” I believe I invented it in December of 1984. There are friends of mine who now have their own rituals. Sometimes they post on Facebook and tell me they miss me. I miss them too.
- “Do you celebrate it every year?” I’ve missed a lot of years. One time I was in the hospital and missed it. Some years we don’t get snow in November and December, and it seems too late if the first snow happens in February.
- “What are the rules?” Funny you should ask:
- There has to be enough snow expected to cover the grass outside — at least one inch.
- You need one person minimum, and there’s no set maximum. However, as you can’t plan ahead of time, the number of participants is limited by who’s available. It’s harder to have guests as you get older or live in a small town.
- You can either sit in the snow and cold, or bring a bowl of snow inside.
- Participant(s) will toast with a beverage associated with wintertime. This includes, but is not limited to, eggnog, hot mulled cider, mulled wine, wassail, brandy, or blackberry brandy. Regardless of how many participants, there’s only one cup.You can fill the mug more than once. It’s a ritual; we don’t care about germs.
- The cup is passed around in a circle. Each participant takes a sip of it and proposes a toast. The first toast is always “To the snow”. The last toast is usually very silly, as all the important things have been toasted to earlier. They get sillier more quickly if the mug contains an alcohol-based fortifying beverage.
- The toasting ends when all the beverage is gone or all have run out of ideas for toasts. Or frozen to death.
Over the years, I’ve collected stories around First Snow. There was the year (ah! my college days!) when three of us decided to sit on the Old Stone Bridge in Champaign, a small arch over a creek, toasting the First Snow with a mug of blackberry brandy, swathed in an old sleeping bag — and in violation of park rules twice over, with the alcohol and the lateness of the hour. And then the cop showed up. I piped up and told him we were celebrating the first snow and this was hot cider. I babbled out the whole ritual to him. The cop looked down, likely incredulous, and instructed us to finish quickly. It makes me sad to think that if we had not been white college students, it could have ended badly.
The best toast ever was made by Jon Jay Obermark, on a balcony that bravely held eight people and a mug of cheap brandy (E&J, what else?). “To that star up there … and that star there … and that star over there!”
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It turns out there will be a snow tonight in Maryville. A first snow for the season.
Richard and I will bring in a bowl of snow as the honored guest, and drink a mug of Irish coffee, my only alcohol for the year. Outside, darkness will press on the windows, and in the First Snow ritual, we will find the light in fellowship. The first toast we will drink will be to the snow; the second, to the people from our past and present, scattered all over the world.
“Through the years, we all will be together,
if the fates allow … “
Words Like Me 