It could be worse

…by a lot

I’m talking about the love bugs here.

Plecia nearctica.

Don’t worry; that won’t be on the final.

It’s love bug season again in Florida. Happens two times a year, more or less.

What’s a love bug?

It’s a small flying insect also known as the honeymoon fly or the double-headed bug. This is because during the mating season, also known as a “flight,” these bugs are more than usually enthusiastic. They can and do remain coupled for several days. So, generally, you don’t see one love bug without another.

They’re out and about in force just now, whirling all around my head when I’m mowing, smacking into the windshield when I’m driving.

Perhaps I may have mentioned that I am not fond of bugs. I am especially not fond of bugs in swarms–and this could safely be called a swarm. Things flying at me and crawling on me. . .just, no. I don’t like that.

But it could be worse.

Because love bugs don’t bite. They don’t sting.

They are basically harmless except for a tendency for the acidity of their body chemistry to damage automobile paint–not so much of a problem with newer cars–and for their unfortunate corpses to clog radiator air passages and, thus, interfere with the radiator’s ability to cool the engine.

It’s just the sheer number of them that is. . .unsettling.

On the other hand, it’s not a swarm of locusts. Or grasshoppers. Which–heaven forfend! (And, ick.) It’s just a bunch of little black and red bugs. And since any biting bug makes a beeline for me, I am more than thankful that these are too busy to be biting (even if they could–which they can’t). Plus, they don’t actually live that long. It will all be over in a few days.

So, as bugs go. . .not so bad. Like I said. . .it could be worse.

If I could save time in a bottle,

the first thing that I’d like to do…*

…is shake some of it out.

I need more time. Doesn’t everybody? But the most extraordinary thing about being “retired”–for me–is that I can’t figure out how I ever had time to have a job.

Granted, I have a much bigger house now–and a yard. So that housework takes more time than it used to take–and yard work is a totally new addition to the schedule. On top of it all, I’ve added blogger to the mix–and, sadly, have gotten way too interested in Facebook. But still…

Where does the time go, I wonder.

I think part of what I’m dealing with here is Parkinson’s Law in which work expands to fit the time available for its completion. When all your deadlines are self-imposed, renegotiation is easy. I can always do that tomorrow, you think. And then you’re sunk.

Another part of it, of course, is that now that I have permission to do what I want to do, it is clear that I want to do a lot. I have websites to build, plays to write, novels to read (and write), Chinese to learn, cakes to bake, and on and on and on.

So, in addition to wondering where the time goes, I’m wondering how best to recapture it. I think my progress bars have helped a lot. A visual representation of what I’ve achieved lately goes a long way toward incentivizing (sorry, I hate that word–but it does fit) further achievement.

I’m also wondering how best to prioritize all my projects. No real progress there. (I wish somebody would invent an app that would take all project input and do a cost-benefit analysis on the intangibles of career enhancement, happiness production, contribution to humanity, etc. Pretty sure I’m going to keep on wishing for that one.)

One thing of which I’m fairly certain is that my usual preferred method of diving into something and getting it done and knocking it off the list is just not practical in this new space-time continuum of “retirement.” (I have this impulse, every time I write the word ‘retirement,” to follow it with “LOL!”) My life is now much more like the juggling act it used to be at work when I had dozens of projects to manage. Back then, it was work that required jumping from one thing to another and making incremental progress. Free time was scarce, so it tended to be automatically devoted, in depth and in detail, to whatever I thought was most important.

Now that all time is “free” and everything is important, I’m trying to figure out how best to handle it.

Any ideas? All tips welcome.

* Jim Croce, Time in a Bottle

Make them less skippable

Digging into descriptions.

Last Friday, I wrote about finding Ruth Rendell–an excellent writer–and how much I admired her facility with description (description often being the “parts that people skip”). I also mentioned that I was not so good at descriptive writing. (“Suck” is the word I think I used.)

That got me thinking about description, and I remembered a couple of writing exercises that seem very useful to me. It seems appropriate to include one in this here Tuesday Tip.

Unfortunately, I can’t immediately remember where I found them, but I will be looking through some of my really-helpful books and including those titles in future Friday Finds and Tuesday Tips. So, when I locate the source of these ideas, I will come back and update this post. Meanwhile, the best I can do is to acknowledge that it did not originate with me.

Anyway. . .

The exercise can be called “I look up and I see. . . .”

What you do is this.

Sit down with a notebook and maybe a timer. I think a notebook–the actual old-fashioned kind with pages that requires you to hold a writing utensil in your hand is better–but you could use a new-fangled computer-type notebook if you must. It’ll mean you may be somewhat more restricted as to location, but it will save you that pesky transcription step if anything you write looks worth saving.

Now, this is an exercise, so it’s quite possible that what you write won’t seem worth saving–and that’s okay. We’re priming the pump, greasing the wheels, and implementing assorted other industrial clichés.

Set the timer for ten minutes. (If you’ve only got five minutes, fine. If you’ve only got two, use the two you’ve got!)

Your starting point is the following phrase: I look up and I see. . .

So, write that down, and finish the sentence based on what you can look up and see. Describe what you see literally and figuratively, and keep going until you run out of things to say. At that point, shift your focus, jot down another I look up and I see. . . , and keep writing.

Every time I’ve done this, I’ve been really astonished at how well I can describe things when I really look at them and focus on it. In fact, some of these practice writings are distinctly non-sucky.

Got your notebook?

Got your timer?

Ready, set, go!

A college of cardinals

No, we’re not electing a Pope.

“College” is one of the collective nouns for a flock of cardinals–as in birds. Others are “conclave,” “radiance,” “deck,” and “Vatican.” Alliteration explains “college” and “conclave,” and I get why “radiance” would come into play. “Vatican,” too, makes some sense. But, “deck?” Is it a reference to “deck of cards?” I guess it must be, but–note to whoever makes these things up–I think you’re reaching.

Anyway, the cardinals are a Monday Miracle.

They’re back.

One of the minor miracles about cardinals is that I can recognize them. My skills as a naturalist are about average. I can identify most four-legged creatures and tell the difference between a bird, a snake and a fish. After that, it gets somewhat hazy.

I mean, distinguishing one bird from another? Well, I’ve gotten to where I recognize the ospreys and the Great Blue Herons and the bald eagles. Woodpeckers are clear. And owls. Most of the other little feathered things that flit around. . .many of them look alike.

But cardinals!

Bright red.

Crests.

And a song that I’m beginning to know. (Unless I’m confusing it with the Carolina Wren, which is entirely possible.)

Now, when I say ‘they’re back,’ I can’t swear to the fact that they’ve ever gone away. But I have been noticing quite a few of them hanging around in the last few days.

They provide a nice note of complementary color in the yard. It goes well with the pine cone ginger–and my roof. And they chirp up a storm. Last year, they demonstrated a love for sprinklers which they have not gotten to indulge lately, but I’m thinking that may be a reason to install a birdbath. Maybe one with a spray fountain? Solar-powered, if I can find it. (Another of those “someday,” things. Probably, I should focus on furniture first.)

All of this is to say, I am happy that a college of cardinals is convening conveniently close at hand.

Well, that’s not gonna happen

Another one bites the dust.*

Another brilliant idea, that is.

See, the Winn-Dixie had a sale last week on cashews. Two cans for $5. Pretty good price, huh? So, we bought two cans. And we ate two cans.

And I thought, “I wonder if you could grow your own cashews.”

Google!

You can! You can grow your own cashews.

It’s not even that hard, supposedly.

First and most importantly, they are a tropical tree. It probably gets a little too cold for them here. They like temperatures above 50°, but there are ways around that.

Secondly, they like sandy soil. Got that covered.

Third, unlike some trees, they seem to be easy to grow from seeds.

Fourth, not only do they provide cashew nuts, they also grow something called a cashew apple–which is also edible and sounds interesting.

But then. . .

You read a little further. And you find out why cashew nuts are usually so expensive in the stores.

That tasty little seed has a double shell full of a caustic liquid. As in dangerous. As in potentially life-threatening.

It’s related to urushiol, the toxin found in poison ivy.

Processing cashew nuts is arduous and dangerous. Roasting them properly destroys the toxin, but that requires gloves, long sleeves, safety goggles–and I don’t know what all. The smoke contains droplets of the stuff and is extremely irritating to the lungs.

Yikes!

I’m thinking–best to just keep an eye out for those sales at Winn-Dixie. $5 for two cans–definitely a good price!

* Song by Queen band member John Deacon

PSA

Just do it.

Today’s post is a Public Service Announcement and something about which I feel really strongly.

Mammograms.

Yes, breast cancer is a scary idea. It’s even scarier if you don’t find out about it until it’s too late.

Yes, mammograms can be uncomfortable. Have you ever known anyone in the advanced stages of breast cancer? Comfort is long gone.

Yes, it’s a nuisance to have to take time out for a mammography appointment. Chemo and radiation appointments take a chunk out of your schedule, too. The more advanced your cancer is, the more appointments you’ll need.

Yes, it costs money to get screened. Thanks, however, to the Affordable Care Act, your out-of-pocket cost will be. . .nothing! You can’t beat that.

Yes, there is some disagreement about how often women should have mammograms. There isn’t any serious disagreement about whether they should. A new Swedish study conducted over 30 years–the longest study to date–shows that seven years of mammograms made for 30% fewer breast cancer deaths down the road.

Never had a mammogram? Want to know more about it? Check out the Fact Sheet at the National Cancer Institute.

Been putting off your appointment? Pick up the phone.

Early detection is the real race for the cure.

The parts that people skip*

Description Difficulties

I’ve found a new author. Well, new to me.

I’ve always read a lot, but I went through a lengthy period where I rarely read anything new. Life was so busy and hectic that I wanted to know, when I sat down with a book, that I was going to enjoy it. I tended to re-read old favorites.

Now that I have moved and my days are less about just getting through them and more about enjoying them, I have been able to branch out. And I’ve come across Ruth Rendell.

The Baroness (I love how the English reward artists as well as CEOs) is a well-known (although not to me, apparently) and much honored author of murder mysteries. Is there anyone who doesn’t enjoy a good English murder mystery? A cup of tea, a body in the library, a good old-fashioned butler looking down his nose at the man from the Yard (Scotland, that is) while Miss Marple or her equivalent saves the day.

I like a book with a clear point. It doesn’t get much clearer than a murder mystery. Once you know whodunit, you are done.

The thing, however, that I really want to say about Ruth Rendell is how masterful her descriptions are. I feel that this is an area where my own writing falls short. (Basically, I suck at description.) I don’t know why this is, although it is possible that in my early reading years, the descriptions were the parts I skimmed. I remember skipping whole pages of Ivanhoe, for example. It’s possible that I never really absorbed descriptive technique due to lack of paying attention.

It’s also possible that I am more of a verbal than a visual person, although I can conjure up mental pictures of people and places with ease. There is some major disconnect, though, in my brain when it comes to putting words to the mental pictures. I would be a total failure at that exercise I’m told happens early in police training–where someone with a gun bursts into the classroom, holds up the teacher and then flees, and the recruits are asked to describe the perpetrator.

The recruits, however, are taught to be more observant and probably given tips and tricks for estimating heights and weights. They improve. I probably can, too.

Of course, rookie police officers’ descriptions, of necessity, tend to favor clarity over the evocation of personality or a mood. That evocation is that at which Ruth Rendell excels. I think I’m going to have to study her writing a little more.

She’s written dozens of books, as both herself and under the name Barbara Vine.

How nice for me!

* I try to leave out the parts that people skip. — Elmore Leonard

Mad dogs and Englishmen

And Floridians…

Go out in the midday sun.

But we’ve turned the corner on the weather, I think, and I am so thankful. A couple of days of 85° temperatures and only 52% humidity.

Note that “only.”

It’s astonishing how relative everything is.

There was a time when 52% humidity would seem awfully high. (I went to grad school in Denver, for one thing.) The average relative humidity around here, however, is 89%. And it rained for all of August. All of August! ALL. So, 52% is a good number. We like it.

All of a sudden, it is rather pleasant to do yard work. Mowing, edging, pruning. I am Gertie the Gardener this week. Even a mosquito bite seems more bearable when it doesn’t feel like the insect had to swim through the air to get you.

The thing is, however, that it’s a little hard to adjust to this different weather pattern. In the old days (two years ago), this would be the time of year when I would be launching new writing projects, starting new classes, attending first-meetings-of-the-year for a bunch of organizations to which I belonged. It would be the time to start putting away outdoor toys and accessories.

Down here, however, I am learning that this is the time to start thinking about your outdoor projects. Now is when the ligustrum needs to be pruned and anything I want to transplant needs to be dug up and moved (and, knowing me, likely killed–but that’s a different post).

This is the time to think about cleaning out the garage, tidying up the dock. It’s the time to think about repairing the driveway. (I don’t know anything about concrete, though, so thinking is as far as that will get for now.)

It’s time to get serious about weeding the flower beds, and it’s probably time to figure out how the lid to the dryer vent comes off and clean out any lint.

Trouble is, of course, that it is still time to be launching new writing projects and whatever else comes with a new year.

Because this is the new year, really.

That thing in January–that’s just a Hallmark holiday.

Writing up “that ravell’d sleeve”

The Scottish Play.

Yikes. I’ve quoted from the Scottish Play.

I’m not sure, but I think I’m okay, since I didn’t say it out loud. I’m going to take the chance, anyway. Especially since the headline and quote are such a stretch to get me to what I want to talk about: why writing makes me sleepy?

That’s what I’m wondering this Wednesday. Writing makes me sleepy, and I don’t understand it. You could be charitable and say it’s because it’s really hard work, but I don’t think that’s it. Because, the thing is, it’s the same kind of sleepy that I get doing a crossword puzzle–and that’s just recreation.

Does this happen to any of you? I write for a while, and regardless of how well it’s going, I start to feel like I want a nap. My eyelids get heavy. My brain gets fuzzy. I want to lie down. ( guess it doesn’t happen when it’s going really well. When it’s going really well, you feel like God on maybe the fifth day. You just want to keep going–whether you ought to do so or not. (I think this explains giraffes.) Under ordinary circumstances, however, writing makes me very sleepy.

I have no scientific proof of this, but I’m wondering if the sleep centers in the brain aren’t near the portions that govern language. Does stimulating the one stimulate the other? Or is it the other way around? Are they so far apart that sending all the electrical activity to one area deprives the other of some much needed stimuli? I guess that would only work if we were talking about the language center and the keep-awake center. Is there such a thing?

You see what a successful “wondering” this is? That’s because I have absolutely no basis for forming an opinion. I can theorize in a complete absence of all data. This is otherwise known as guessing. Or “blowing smoke.”

What do you think causes this phenomenon?

Well, you think about it for a while.

I’m going to go take a nap.

Bad to the bone

Try to be, anyway.

This is a tip about getting past that streak of perfectionism that is keeping you from achieving your goals.

Somewhere along the line, most of us got the idea that doing something badly was–well–a bad thing. Maybe we missed a fly ball on the softball field in second grade, and the next time teams were chosen, we were one of the last players picked. Maybe it started earlier–like when we got yelled at for spilling our milk.

Mistake = bad. Dangerous, even.

In the interests of survival, we started to be careful. We started to try really hard to do things “right.” Over time, that can be paralyzing.

But, there is an easy way around it. Just decide to do it–whatever “it” is–wrong. Announce that intention, if necessary. After all, how can someone blame you for not getting it “right” if you’ve already told them you are intentionally doing it wrong?

If that sounds crazy, let me tell you a story about the first play I ever wrote.

The first draft was promising enough that Abingdon Theatre Company was willing to give it a public reading. Jan Buttram, the artistic director, being an experienced playwright and a wise woman, suggested we should have a private reading first. “If you hear it for the first time in front of an audience, you’re not going to be able to hear it,” she said.

So, we had the private reading, and I got some very valuable feedback. I went off, with great enthusiasm, to do a re-write. And promptly froze. Oh, no! What if I ruin it? I wasn’t sure how I’d come to write it in the first place. It seemed to me there was a good chance that, in re-writing it, I would lose whatever had made that first draft halfway good.

I was so stuck that I went back to Jan some weeks later and announced that we would have to cancel the reading. In a further demonstration of wisdom, she said, “No, we’re not going to cancel. We can always read the version you have now. Meanwhile, why don’t you go back and try again? If you don’t get anywhere, don’t worry.”

I sighed and groaned and gnashed my teeth–and I went home to try again. When I got there, I remembered “We an always read the version you have now,” and I promptly saved the file under a new name. Then, I said to myself, “Okay. You’ve got the original saved. Now, you’re going into this version, and you’re going to ruin it.”

The re-write began to flow. We read the new version, and that is the version that launched my great playwriting adventure. Once I gave myself permission to do it badly, I did just fine.

Try it.

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Monthly Archives: September 2012