Time Nazi

My control issues kicked in this weekend at the children's writers conference I attended in Chapel Hill. For supposedly falling into the category of "creative artist," which brings to mind openness and a free spirit, I find I'm a pretty-regimented human being. A-B-C, everything in a line, one foot in front of the other, no deviations, please.

There were 25 children's writers attending the conference and we each brought pages of our current manuscript to read. The verbal guidelines given to us were that each person would read and then there would be a 5-minute critique by the group. What happened is the person read and there was anywhere from a 10-18 minute critique, depending on interest levels, how much people had to say, and how tired we were at that point.

My thought was that if someone had moderated the time limit with a timer, bell, or even a watch and loud voice, we could have moved quickly (and fairly) through the critiques, with time left over for additional writing exercises.

So when we broke up at night for small group critiques, I asked my group if it would be okay if I timed it so each person received 10 minutes of feedback. And baby, at the end of that 10 minutes I was ON it. "Sorry, time's up, we need to move on. Next person." One woman in my group called me (kindly, I think) the "Mary Lou Retton of stop-watches."

Similarly, when we were dividing up in groups on night two and everyone was hemming and hawing about who should go where, where are you going, how should we split up and on and on, I listened for a few minutes and then broke. I waved my hands in the front of the room and was like, "Okay, this is how we're dividing, and you go here and you go there, and off we all go."

Always making friends, that's me.

Control issues aside, the conference was wonderful from the standpoint of I met 24 outstanding women writers. I was impressed with the skill level of all attendees, and with their openness to share information and their sincere desire in their critiques to really help a writer through whatever challenges they were struggling with.

I'm hoping to attend their larger Fall conference, and maybe even present a brief public speaking workshop.

Anyway, glad to be home. Have a full slate of e-mails to work through, a speech to write, 2 articles to edit, 3 new articles to write, and research to conduct. And that's not including any work on the novels. Seems overwhelming, but during a break in the conference I sat alone on a hill as the sun sank, and stared at the distant hills, and smelled the wisteria, and felt the wind in my hair and thought, "I get to spend each day of my life doing exactly what I want to do. Even if I'm never a "commercial" success, how much more wonderful can life get?"

Sunshine and smiles to all of you reading today.

Dena

Weekend Trip

I'm going out of town this weekend to a writing workshop for children's writers. I've been preparing my cats for my departure all week.

"Mommy will miss you," I coo to my kitten. I press kisses into the soft fur on top of her head. "What will Mommy do without her baby to cuddle?" I blink back tears.

I turn to the cat, who is waiting for me to throw kibbles down our long hall so she can chase them, her favorite game.

"I love you," I tell her as I fling food at her face. "And I'll miss you and think about you every day. But I'll be back soon."

Last night as we were preparing for bed, I gave more kisses to the cats. "I will go into withdrawal, not having any kitty love for a whole weekend," I wail, scratching the cats behind their ears.

"What?" says my husband.

"What?" I say back.

"Why won't you see the cats this weekend?" he asked.

"My conference. I'll be gone."

"What conference?"

Uh-oh. Seems in my desire to prepare my babies for my imminent departure I may have forgotten to mention to my husband I won't be around.

"I remember when I used to be the first one you told things to," he said, throwing the cats a resentful glance. They turned their butts to him.

"Don't overanalyze it," I said. "I still love you best." I hug him and over his shoulder mouth the words, "Not really," to the cats.

He beams and hugs me. "I love you too."

That's us. One big, happy, dysfunctional family.

Freebies

Dear American Red Cross, National Wildlife Society, MDA, PETA, National Breast Cancer Awareness Association, St. Jude's, Juvenile Diabetes of America, Working Assets, Protect Our Forests group, Big Brothers/Big Sisters, the Artic Wildlife Fund, Aids Awareness, CF Foundation, People for Peace, the Democratic and Republican national parties, and Robert Redford:

Please stop sending me address mailing labels.

I appreciate the thought, but really, I'm good. I could mail eight letters a day from now until 2012 and still have leftover address labels. So hear me now. I do not know enough people to send letters to in order to use up my existing labels. Back off.

The problem is I feel too guilty to throw away perfectly good labels. So I ration them out. Outgoing bills receive the really ugly labels like the unnerving stare of the ostrich that was on the Nature Company label. Friends get labels with flowers and bunnies and hearts that I would never, under any circumstances, ever select for myself. Agents and editors get the no nonsense stark labels with name and address but no annoying animal or handdrawn pictures of purple tulips on them (thumbs up to the one or two organizations that sent me those).

I don't even give money to these organizations and still they send me free labels, increasing tenfold my liberal guilt. I will sign their petitions to save the penguins or tell Congress to just say no to government funded Dale Carnegie self-esteem seminars for trash collectors, and I'm sure this is what keeps me on the list. People went to all the trouble to print and mail the labels though, and they've got my name and address on them so they're of no use to someone else, so I figure the least I can do is sign the petition.

The WORST is when they include that damn nickel with some plea like, "We offer this nickel b/c we're hoping you're a good person and you sending this nickel back to us (along with a check for $49.95) would prove it. Please, please, don't let us down. The (fill in the blank - children, bunnies, artic wolves, Robert Redford) is counting on you.

I can't take the pressure! Is it any wonder I have trouble sleeping at night?

Outdoor Running

Fresh air is overrated. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's some slowly poisonous toxin(s) in it that drag the breath from your lungs, making your throat feel like it's on fire if you walk at a faster pace than that of the average garden slug.

I jogged outside today.

Quite the different experience than being inside on my happy little treadmill. On my treadmill, I jog three miles at about a 10-minute mile. Outside, I ran twenty steps and felt like my heart was going to explode.

Inside, I give myself mental pats on the back as I gently increase the treadmill incline, pushing myself to go harder.

Outside, I decide to call it quits when I'm faced with having to step around a small rock.

Inside, my water bottle and tissue are at my beck and call.

Outside, I swallow snot and make gasping noises to people mowing their yards, in the hopes they'll turn the hose on me and I'll swallow a few drops.

Why is it so much harder? I'm probably stretching it to say I even ran ("ran" meaning did not stop moving but not necessarily implying, once again, that I could have outpaced that garden slug)) two miles today. Apparently my treadmill has super-bouncy action in it and the lesson here is I must never ever go outside to exercise ever again.

SOUTHBEACH UPDATE: Does of woe and glory. Broke down and had a couple peanut-butter sandwiches. Dear Lord I LOVE peanut butter sandwiches! Blair decided he needed to be supportive of me though, and so this week has gone above and beyond the call of duty and has brought no bread into the house, even for him. I'm married to a prince.

We went out for brunch today and instead of having what may be the world's best french toast, I had a spinach omelet (with egg-beaters) instead. It was pretty good. Plus, I had a bite of Blair's french toast so I didn't completely lose out.

I don't know that I'm being good enough at this point to lose weight, but I do feel MUCH better with the healthier eating. Normally I roll myself away from the brunch table at this particular restaurant, full to the point of nausea. Today, while still very full, I felt good. Still had energy and didn't feel gross.

Two steps forward, one step back, but still making progress.