Skip to main content

Compost

Today I am starting a compost pile, my first ever, and it seems oddly appropriate to also begin this journal on the same day: tossing chopped up veggies and old history and scraps of paper into these two heaps. Of course, I am insane to start any new project right now. I am sixteen days away from heading off to Odyssey and nine weeks away from the start of Scrabble Nationals. I should be studying or writing or cleaning closets.

Before leaving for Odyssey, I need to complete one more story (I've sent two so far). I'm a little reluctant to just grab one from my rough drafts folder. It's not that I don't have plenty to work with. I suppose I want to just start fresh. Odyssey is in many ways a true start for me. I've done a lot of writing. Editors have liked and bought my work. Writing is important, even vital. But I keep holding back from truly going for it, from saying "This is what I do, who I am."

So I say it.

This is what I do. This is who I am.

Before Nationals, I just need to learn all the rest of the words. That's all.

I'm working my way through a stack of flashcards -- actually I'm not quite finished making the flashcards, but will be by the time I leave for Odyssey -- of all the eights that have no sevens in them. I'm alternating this study with my study of stems. Stems are great and useful, but these eights with no sevens are a blast. Sannyasi, papyrian, apoapsis, kalyptra, santalol... I love this list!

Actually, I do want to know all the words. For Nationals, I will be pleased if I manage to get through the event without humiliating myself. (As I'm defining that myself, I will be the one to judge whether or not I succeed.) Oh, and I'd like to avoid having my picture taken much. Simple goals.

On the home front, Daniel and Aaron both got their driver's licenses yesterday. I'm not too nervous yet. I think I'm in denial.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Last night was the first meeting of the writing group. It is a quirky group. The other Odyssey grad seems like a good contact to have. He told me about a group led by Ted White near here. I’m thinking about looking into that one, too. I suppose I can’t be gone every evening. Anyway, this group (the one from last night) will force me to produce at least two pieces a month. That alone is worth the price of admission. Well, the price of gasoline, anyway.
Life is a little tough these days. Taking a break. I will be back with more tales of grasshoppers and compost heaps and scrabble games soon.
I have to confess something. I enjoy reading Anne Lamott. Okay, okay, I know that makes me more touchy-feely than I usually admit. She is very lovey. She talks about mystical things. She freely admits to praying (although she uses the F-word frequently in her books about “faith”. I like this in a person.) She talks about breathing. She is very real, and I admire this. She talks about her parents and her son with a mix of love and frustration and grumpiness. She admits, in public, in her writing, to sometimes being angry, sometimes disliking her loved ones, to having to work very hard to forgive them. I like to think I’m like her in a lot of ways, but I don’t share this ability. I can’t easily look at someone I love, look them in the eyes, and say “I’m really angry with you.” “I am mad.” “That was a bad thing you did. To me.” Instead, I’m the sort that says, “Oh, gosh, I’m sure you didn’t mean to run over my dog. It’s okay. I was meaning to get rid of that old thing soo...