I call myself a writer even though I have yet to be published. Writing is what I do. My brain spits out page upon page of a tale without even really thinking about it. My hands can't keep up sometimes, flying over a page and cramping at the breakneck speed my mind demands. I weave tales full of emotion, drama, heartbreak and hardships, and of course, love. It all seemed fairly glamorous when I decided I was made to write. There would be book tours, bestsellers, and fans. There still may be, even though it may be a long shot.
Then, reality hits. For me, it popped up like a huge whitehead on my nose, unsightly and painful. It was about six months ago that I realized even if my stories were good stuff, which I still believe they are, it takes a lot more than talent to get to where every writer wants to be. Mostly it's manufactured luck.
Writing is an endless chore of polishing rough drafts, submitting to agents to be turned down, yet again, and polishing all over again. It just wears on you after awhile. I'm about burnt out. I need a shot in the arm of something good. Anyone offering?
Monday, April 27, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Ch-ch-ch-changes
I guess the title of this post is a bit misleading. I remember back when the next day could bring anything, how life could take a 180 in 24 hours. It was back in the days of ramen noodles and a new apartment every year. The next day could be euphoric or devastating, but usually it was different than the one before. Sure there were always classes and whatever part time job I was working, but I always had a good eight hours in which my life would twist and turn in ways that never could have been expected. I might wake up at four in the morning on a strange couch, or maybe it was ten and I was sleeping in after a big party at my place. Maybe I would make a new friend in a class, or piss off a friend I already had. Maybe I would change my major. That happened more than once or twice. Big changes, little changes, they happened every day. One day, I even woke up in some strange dude's house wondering what exactly I was doing there and what he told me his last name was. Less than two years later, I knew that last name because it was mine.
That's when the pieces were set up for my anti-changing life phase. Every day, it's the same. Wake up at 6 or 7. Change a diaper. Grab some breakfast for the kids. Get Tycen dressed. Check the computer. Play with Tan and Rome, maybe get them dressed. Make lunch. Check the computer again. Play more. Make supper. Eat. Clean up. Go to bed. I try to change up the schedule. I try to get out and do things, but it's still the same. We stay home and play or we go out and play. Does it make a difference?
You know what got me thinking about this? It's silly. I dyed my hair last night. No big deal, I dye my hair every few months. This time, I picked up a box that promised my hair would be at least three shades lighter without the red that brunettes are often bestowed from lightening products. I have no red, but I also see no difference. Even in a box of hair coloring, something designed to change, I still can't find it.
That's when the pieces were set up for my anti-changing life phase. Every day, it's the same. Wake up at 6 or 7. Change a diaper. Grab some breakfast for the kids. Get Tycen dressed. Check the computer. Play with Tan and Rome, maybe get them dressed. Make lunch. Check the computer again. Play more. Make supper. Eat. Clean up. Go to bed. I try to change up the schedule. I try to get out and do things, but it's still the same. We stay home and play or we go out and play. Does it make a difference?
You know what got me thinking about this? It's silly. I dyed my hair last night. No big deal, I dye my hair every few months. This time, I picked up a box that promised my hair would be at least three shades lighter without the red that brunettes are often bestowed from lightening products. I have no red, but I also see no difference. Even in a box of hair coloring, something designed to change, I still can't find it.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
My next project
I am brainstorming for my next writing project. The premise is autobiographical. I want to tell Tycen's story, and my story by default. I would love to raise awareness of NF and weave a tale of the hardship that can befall a family because of it. I guess it won't be too much weaving to do, since it's already written in my permanent memories. For those of you who are unfamiliar with our journey so far, I might as well bring you up to speed.
Tycen has Neurofibromatosis Type 1. It is one of the most common genetic diseases in the population. It is a dominant disorder, but well over half of all cases are a mutation, like Tycen's. Tycen was born with strange, light brown birthmarks. Fortunately, or unfortunately, as the case may be, I had watched a discovery health program of NF and knew right away that my 2 month old baby had NF. It took the doctors a little longer to diagnose it.
We didn't learn until Tycen was 18 months old that his legs were two different lengths. Bone disorders are one of the more common NF complications. We had noticed him walking strangely and assumed it was the fatty foot he had. It turned out that the fatty foot was actually a tumor and that the walking problems were because his legs were almost an inch different in length.
By the time Tycen was 4, we knew that he had to have his legs evened out. The difference had grown to almost two inches. Last summer, Tycen had surgery to implant a bone stretching device to lengthen his shorter leg. It was broken and every day, four times a day, we turned a screw to pull the break apart a quarter milimeter at a time.
The surgery was last July and Tycen is just now walking unassisted again. He lived in a wheelchair for three months, went to a walker, and then back to a wheelchair, and then the walker again, and now he is finally free, even if his steps are still timid. We have spent many nights on hospital pull out couches, Eric and I. Tan and Roman have had a lot of grandparent time. There was a strain put on all of us that sometimes felt like it was too much.
We're not done. Tycen's legs continue to grow at different lengths. He now has two tumors, one of which will be removed and we pray the other doesn't get that big. Tycen will have several small, disfiguring tumors when he gets older. For now, we hope they are going to show up on just his trunk, which is what it looks like at this point.
Tycen also has Asperger's Syndrome, which is on the autism spectrum. It is essentially a social autism. He is extremely high functioning, learning to read and progress to a second grade level before kindergarten and completing math at a higher level than that. Autistic disorders are also very common in NF.
That's where we are now, in a holding patttern, as families most often are with NF. We wait for the next thing to pop up. There are worse, much worse, manifestations of NF, but we choose not to face those until we have to and pray that we don't.
Tycen has Neurofibromatosis Type 1. It is one of the most common genetic diseases in the population. It is a dominant disorder, but well over half of all cases are a mutation, like Tycen's. Tycen was born with strange, light brown birthmarks. Fortunately, or unfortunately, as the case may be, I had watched a discovery health program of NF and knew right away that my 2 month old baby had NF. It took the doctors a little longer to diagnose it.
We didn't learn until Tycen was 18 months old that his legs were two different lengths. Bone disorders are one of the more common NF complications. We had noticed him walking strangely and assumed it was the fatty foot he had. It turned out that the fatty foot was actually a tumor and that the walking problems were because his legs were almost an inch different in length.
By the time Tycen was 4, we knew that he had to have his legs evened out. The difference had grown to almost two inches. Last summer, Tycen had surgery to implant a bone stretching device to lengthen his shorter leg. It was broken and every day, four times a day, we turned a screw to pull the break apart a quarter milimeter at a time.
The surgery was last July and Tycen is just now walking unassisted again. He lived in a wheelchair for three months, went to a walker, and then back to a wheelchair, and then the walker again, and now he is finally free, even if his steps are still timid. We have spent many nights on hospital pull out couches, Eric and I. Tan and Roman have had a lot of grandparent time. There was a strain put on all of us that sometimes felt like it was too much.
We're not done. Tycen's legs continue to grow at different lengths. He now has two tumors, one of which will be removed and we pray the other doesn't get that big. Tycen will have several small, disfiguring tumors when he gets older. For now, we hope they are going to show up on just his trunk, which is what it looks like at this point.
Tycen also has Asperger's Syndrome, which is on the autism spectrum. It is essentially a social autism. He is extremely high functioning, learning to read and progress to a second grade level before kindergarten and completing math at a higher level than that. Autistic disorders are also very common in NF.
That's where we are now, in a holding patttern, as families most often are with NF. We wait for the next thing to pop up. There are worse, much worse, manifestations of NF, but we choose not to face those until we have to and pray that we don't.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The day after hangover
I am suffering from a hangover. I wish it was one of the alcohol induced variety. This one is much worse. No, this is a crushed hopes hangover.
First, I got to watch Verlander blow an entire game in an inning. It was the first inning, no less! Even home runs from Granderson and Inge couldn't rally the troops.
Then, I get to watch the Spartans forget how to play defense...and offense.
I don't feel much like blogging today.
It's a hell of a hangover.
First, I got to watch Verlander blow an entire game in an inning. It was the first inning, no less! Even home runs from Granderson and Inge couldn't rally the troops.
Then, I get to watch the Spartans forget how to play defense...and offense.
I don't feel much like blogging today.
It's a hell of a hangover.
Monday, April 6, 2009
SNOW??? On opening day???
It's only to be expected, after all, this is Michigan. It's April 6th and it's snowing. And why not? Mother nature has a sense of humor after all. Today is the first day of spring, at least as it matters to me. The crack of the bat is supposed to open the skies and bring the sunshine down upon the upper Midwest. We should be soaking in the sun and the RBIs. Instead, the Tigers are opening the season in a dome, and the sounds of the game are muted before they can reach the skies above.
The White Sox have already pushed off opening day until tomorrow, if then. If the Tigers were home, no game would be played in Detroit, either. There will be baseball in Toronto, but what kind of a game will it be? Baseball is not meant to be played inside. Did Ted Williams ever hit perfect under a roof? Did Ty Cobb ever slide into third, spikes first inside? Did Cy Young or Bob Feller ever pitch a killer game in a dome? No, uh-uh and absolutely not. Baseball was born and evolved in the daylight under the blue skies of spring and summer.
So, here I am, left with a lackluster opening day. The snow is on the ground in Detroit. The boys will suit up and I will watch my beloved Maggs and the rest of the boys take out the Blue Jays and their pitcher, Halliday. It will happen. I will be sitting on my bed, game tuned in. I will watch my boys start off the season. In a dome. And one thought will invade my every thought. At least I'm not a White Sox fan.
The White Sox have already pushed off opening day until tomorrow, if then. If the Tigers were home, no game would be played in Detroit, either. There will be baseball in Toronto, but what kind of a game will it be? Baseball is not meant to be played inside. Did Ted Williams ever hit perfect under a roof? Did Ty Cobb ever slide into third, spikes first inside? Did Cy Young or Bob Feller ever pitch a killer game in a dome? No, uh-uh and absolutely not. Baseball was born and evolved in the daylight under the blue skies of spring and summer.
So, here I am, left with a lackluster opening day. The snow is on the ground in Detroit. The boys will suit up and I will watch my beloved Maggs and the rest of the boys take out the Blue Jays and their pitcher, Halliday. It will happen. I will be sitting on my bed, game tuned in. I will watch my boys start off the season. In a dome. And one thought will invade my every thought. At least I'm not a White Sox fan.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
I keep getting older, Spartan basketball players stay the same age
I started to feel old last night. I watched my beloved boys in green and white earn their way to the national championship game in an awesome show against UConn. Instead of Mateen and Mo Pete I took in the sweat soaked, glistening bodies of Suton and Morgan. Sure, Mateen and I are both past the 3-0, but those that don the mesh jerseys keep me forever 22.
I remember that Monday in 2000 like it was last week. Carrie, Eric and I watched the game at the now-defunct Plum Crazy in Haslett, just a few miles from what is now my alma matter. In a move that could have been fully expected, Carrie and I walked out with the bar banner that hung on the wall, charting MSU's path through the tournament. It was one of my many petty thefts of bar paraphenilia back in the day. I use to have quite the collection of shot and pilsner glasses back in the day. The 2000 bracket banner was the crowning jewel of my collection.
After the game, the two of us decided to drag Eric out to East Lansing for the post game celebration. The main stretch of Grand River Avenue was packed with people and cars. The vehicles could only inch forward through the thick, drunken masses of students, not that any driver wanted to leave that cloud of complete joy quickly. We joined the parade in complete julilation and I took the opportunity to do a little truck surfing across the street from my university. It was the kind of excitement that only that particular occasion could bring. We were Spartans and OUR boys were the national champions!
Now, nine years later, I cannot recapture the exact emotion I had that day. I'm too old to have that kind of emotion. I'm too sober these days to have that kind of experience. But, I remember. Oh, how I remember. I think of my little brother being able to experience what I did back in 2000. I find myself jealous of him for a moment, pouring out of some college bar in to the crowded streets of East Lansing, high on alcohol and complete and total pride and joy. One more game, and he can have that. I hope beyond hope that he will have that and that I can remember what that felt like.
I remember that Monday in 2000 like it was last week. Carrie, Eric and I watched the game at the now-defunct Plum Crazy in Haslett, just a few miles from what is now my alma matter. In a move that could have been fully expected, Carrie and I walked out with the bar banner that hung on the wall, charting MSU's path through the tournament. It was one of my many petty thefts of bar paraphenilia back in the day. I use to have quite the collection of shot and pilsner glasses back in the day. The 2000 bracket banner was the crowning jewel of my collection.
After the game, the two of us decided to drag Eric out to East Lansing for the post game celebration. The main stretch of Grand River Avenue was packed with people and cars. The vehicles could only inch forward through the thick, drunken masses of students, not that any driver wanted to leave that cloud of complete joy quickly. We joined the parade in complete julilation and I took the opportunity to do a little truck surfing across the street from my university. It was the kind of excitement that only that particular occasion could bring. We were Spartans and OUR boys were the national champions!
Now, nine years later, I cannot recapture the exact emotion I had that day. I'm too old to have that kind of emotion. I'm too sober these days to have that kind of experience. But, I remember. Oh, how I remember. I think of my little brother being able to experience what I did back in 2000. I find myself jealous of him for a moment, pouring out of some college bar in to the crowded streets of East Lansing, high on alcohol and complete and total pride and joy. One more game, and he can have that. I hope beyond hope that he will have that and that I can remember what that felt like.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
On home repairs and marriage
I have found the best test of the strength of a marriage is to embark on a huge remodeling project. Eric, the kids and I have been living in utter chaos for almost two months now. The plan is to completely renovate our house as much as possible, put it on the market for super cheap and get the heck out of Dodge.
I usually find myself working at the project alone while Eric takes on parenting duties. This use to bother me to no end. Why should I have to bust my ass while he gets to sit in the bedroom, watching DVRed reruns of Newhart (don't ask why, he loves that show)? But then, I think about it and I wouldn't want him helping most of the time anyway. He's usually more trouble than it's worth when it comes to a paintbrush or nail gun.
A year ago, in the throes of our earlier days with three children, we layed flooring and renovated our bedroom. Every three seconds, I wanted to throttle the man. Everything was his fault. He couldn't hold the floor in the right angle for me to lay the next piece. He was always in the way. I joke that the last time we attempted a project together, we nearly missed a divorce out of the thing. It's only a joke, but it was a rough patch for two days.
Yesterday and last Sunday, Eric and I installed the same kind of flooring in the hallway and the den. There were a few minor disagreements, but no major blow ups this time around. I didn't threaten to move out of the house, at least.
Maybe we've fallen in to a better routine since then. Maybe we've just gotten older and milder. Maybe we've found it isn't worth it to fight anymore. Whatever it is, I've decided that the way we react to difficult situations mirrors how we feel about each other. Eric and I are happy people now. We've been through an extremely rough year with Tycen and we've come out on the other end with a kid who can walk again and the miraculous ability to lay a floor.
I usually find myself working at the project alone while Eric takes on parenting duties. This use to bother me to no end. Why should I have to bust my ass while he gets to sit in the bedroom, watching DVRed reruns of Newhart (don't ask why, he loves that show)? But then, I think about it and I wouldn't want him helping most of the time anyway. He's usually more trouble than it's worth when it comes to a paintbrush or nail gun.
A year ago, in the throes of our earlier days with three children, we layed flooring and renovated our bedroom. Every three seconds, I wanted to throttle the man. Everything was his fault. He couldn't hold the floor in the right angle for me to lay the next piece. He was always in the way. I joke that the last time we attempted a project together, we nearly missed a divorce out of the thing. It's only a joke, but it was a rough patch for two days.
Yesterday and last Sunday, Eric and I installed the same kind of flooring in the hallway and the den. There were a few minor disagreements, but no major blow ups this time around. I didn't threaten to move out of the house, at least.
Maybe we've fallen in to a better routine since then. Maybe we've just gotten older and milder. Maybe we've found it isn't worth it to fight anymore. Whatever it is, I've decided that the way we react to difficult situations mirrors how we feel about each other. Eric and I are happy people now. We've been through an extremely rough year with Tycen and we've come out on the other end with a kid who can walk again and the miraculous ability to lay a floor.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Does Obi have to wear a collar in heaven?
It's funny how kids deal with death. Tycen and Tanis have been very understanding and mature far beyond their few years when it has come to losing one of our dogs. They watched his health decline and they said goodbye to him for the last time, knowing we were taking him to the vet to have him put down. We told them we were taking him so he could live in heaven.
For days, and weeks, after, Tannie caught me crying several times. Each time I heard a three year old's sympathy. "Don't cry. Momma, you'll see Obi again in a long, long, loooooong time when you die". "It's okay Mom, Obi is happy playing with his tennis ball in heaven". "We all miss Obi, too, Mom". She has had pearls of wisdom for me each time I start to cry.
We should really take a minute to think about how kids deal with things with such maturity. It's as if the older we get, the less we understand, the less we can cope with the tough stuff. In times like these, I am amazed by my children. They mourn, but they celebrate life first. They would rather think of playing catch with our old Springer than think of him dying.
Today, Tycen came up with a good one.
"Hey, Dad, does Obi have a collar in heaven?" he asked Eric.
My husband chuckled a little and answered, "No, I think that he doesn't have to wear one in heaven."
"Oh," said Tycen, "I think he does. He's crazy and God needs his collar to keep him from being crazy in heaven."
Obi was a little energetic, to say the least. I would have to restrain him by his collar to keep out guests from getting a close up greeting, and possibly a good ol' fashioned doggie kiss. I would have to grab his collar to keep him from taking off to play with the neighbor dog. So, the answer, I suppose, is yes, Obi has to wear a collar in heaven.
For days, and weeks, after, Tannie caught me crying several times. Each time I heard a three year old's sympathy. "Don't cry. Momma, you'll see Obi again in a long, long, loooooong time when you die". "It's okay Mom, Obi is happy playing with his tennis ball in heaven". "We all miss Obi, too, Mom". She has had pearls of wisdom for me each time I start to cry.
We should really take a minute to think about how kids deal with things with such maturity. It's as if the older we get, the less we understand, the less we can cope with the tough stuff. In times like these, I am amazed by my children. They mourn, but they celebrate life first. They would rather think of playing catch with our old Springer than think of him dying.
Today, Tycen came up with a good one.
"Hey, Dad, does Obi have a collar in heaven?" he asked Eric.
My husband chuckled a little and answered, "No, I think that he doesn't have to wear one in heaven."
"Oh," said Tycen, "I think he does. He's crazy and God needs his collar to keep him from being crazy in heaven."
Obi was a little energetic, to say the least. I would have to restrain him by his collar to keep out guests from getting a close up greeting, and possibly a good ol' fashioned doggie kiss. I would have to grab his collar to keep him from taking off to play with the neighbor dog. So, the answer, I suppose, is yes, Obi has to wear a collar in heaven.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Opening day jitters
Monday is finally opening day! My boys emblazoned with the Old English D are about to hit the field for real. I'll be watching Maggs, Inge, Miguel, Verlander and the boys take to the diamond for the first time in '09. There have been moves that have scared me, primarily Ol' Man Leyland naming the hot and cold Rodney as closer. But, baseball is back and soon spring will transform in to summer and Michigan will finally emerge from the icy fingers of winter.
I am obsessed with baseball this year. My latest novel revolves around the sport. Most days, I want to crawl inside my own words and the world I have created with a pen on paper. It seems so real to me. I watched spring training games fully expecting my characters to be out there, taking pitches and snagging line drives. Polanco would morph into Cruzado, the antogonist. Smalls, the love interest, would bat near the bottom of the order and occasionally hit a long ball out to right for a game winning RBI. Lawson, the best friend, would be doing interviews on the new MLB network.
That is my world. I can't climb out of it, not that I would want to. I see myself in Kiera, the heroine. Of course, she is written with elements of myself, as most writer's main characters seem to be. But, she is not me. At 28, she is still finding herself. By that age, I was married with two children and happy with my life and the choices that built it. She is a city girl, through and through. Give me a patch of land with another homestead in the far distance and I'm in heaven. But, Kiera is me, or at least a very big pice of me. We both have our ball teams and on opening day, we'll both be cheering them on with all our hearts.
Go Tigers!
I am obsessed with baseball this year. My latest novel revolves around the sport. Most days, I want to crawl inside my own words and the world I have created with a pen on paper. It seems so real to me. I watched spring training games fully expecting my characters to be out there, taking pitches and snagging line drives. Polanco would morph into Cruzado, the antogonist. Smalls, the love interest, would bat near the bottom of the order and occasionally hit a long ball out to right for a game winning RBI. Lawson, the best friend, would be doing interviews on the new MLB network.
That is my world. I can't climb out of it, not that I would want to. I see myself in Kiera, the heroine. Of course, she is written with elements of myself, as most writer's main characters seem to be. But, she is not me. At 28, she is still finding herself. By that age, I was married with two children and happy with my life and the choices that built it. She is a city girl, through and through. Give me a patch of land with another homestead in the far distance and I'm in heaven. But, Kiera is me, or at least a very big pice of me. We both have our ball teams and on opening day, we'll both be cheering them on with all our hearts.
Go Tigers!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Like Triple Sec, Lime and Salt without the Tequila
The last two weeks have passed in slow motion. My days wear on emotionlessly as if a good chunk of my soul is sleeping after taking a month's worth of Ambien. I keep poking a it with a stick, but it refuses to arouse. My Obi is gone. Really, really gone.
Obi was one of my three dogs, but he was the integral ingredient of the canine and feline mix in the Frohriep house. The best way I can explain it is that I use to have the perfect mix for a great margarita and now the tequila is gone.
I need my pets more than most people do. I always have. They're living, breathing antidepressants. Before Obi, I had Keika, the three legged cat who had been my savior since I was twelve. I have always needed a special pet or two in my life. I still have two dogs and a cat, thus the lesser ingredients for the margarita. Bailey and Kissy are pretty good dogs, and they try to fill the void left in my life after we had to put Obi down for progressed bone cancer.
But, as they attempt to fill in the emptiness, I realize that no matter how much I wish and hope, I just can't will triple sec and lime juice to be tequila. As for salt, Lil' Kitty, I don't even try. She'll always be salt, great for adding the final punch, but salt will always be salt.
Someday, I will find more tequila. Sure, it may be a different brand. Maybe Sauza to Obi's Cuervo. For now, I have a pretty sour mixed drink to swallow. But, I still take it in, because like the drunk that needs something to ease the pain, anything is better than nothing. Anything will take away the jitters, at least for the time being.
Obi was one of my three dogs, but he was the integral ingredient of the canine and feline mix in the Frohriep house. The best way I can explain it is that I use to have the perfect mix for a great margarita and now the tequila is gone.
I need my pets more than most people do. I always have. They're living, breathing antidepressants. Before Obi, I had Keika, the three legged cat who had been my savior since I was twelve. I have always needed a special pet or two in my life. I still have two dogs and a cat, thus the lesser ingredients for the margarita. Bailey and Kissy are pretty good dogs, and they try to fill the void left in my life after we had to put Obi down for progressed bone cancer.
But, as they attempt to fill in the emptiness, I realize that no matter how much I wish and hope, I just can't will triple sec and lime juice to be tequila. As for salt, Lil' Kitty, I don't even try. She'll always be salt, great for adding the final punch, but salt will always be salt.
Someday, I will find more tequila. Sure, it may be a different brand. Maybe Sauza to Obi's Cuervo. For now, I have a pretty sour mixed drink to swallow. But, I still take it in, because like the drunk that needs something to ease the pain, anything is better than nothing. Anything will take away the jitters, at least for the time being.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
