Stranger than Fiction...and Funnier, too

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day, one who I grew up with back in Oregon, and she was telling me about the book she's writing. It's about her life, and as she was telling me about some of the events that will be included in the book, I was shocked. Truth is stranger than fiction, everybody knows that--or at least everyone should--and I actually found myself at one point asking her, "He really did that??" when she told me about one of the scenes from the book. I honestly couldn't believe it, to which she quipped that it would not be possible to make this stuff up.

That's why I love real life. It's why I love reading about real life. And I know I say it all the time, but I just love memoirs for that reason. It's so satisfying knowing that what you're reading about really happened. And I think the potential for grand emotions is heightened. Real life has the potential to be more heartbreaking, more inspiring, more joyful, more hilarious, and certainly more unexpected than anything we can make up. That's probably why I'm sixty pages into a new novel right now (I know! I know! What am I doing reading fiction?) and can't seem to get into it but was in stitches when my friend read me the opening pages of her hilarious memoir. Life is just funnier. Now, back to this novel. Groan. (Watch, it will turn around any second and become the best thing I've ever read and I'll be eating crow for days. Which, incidentally, would also be pretty funny.)
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Guest Post!

 
My friend Crystal Brinkerhoff, a fellow writer who hails from the same corner of Oregon that I do, is today's featured post. It's my first guest post and I hope to do more in the future. Enjoy!!

Gotta Fight for Your Right to Write

I rolled out of bed while the house was still quiet to work on this brain child that I keep obsessing over. (Why won’t characters leave you alone once you get them down on paper?) I avoided the squeaky floorboard in the hallway. Maybe I could have a few minutes alone. I swear the 3-year old has built-in radar that alerts her when I’m awake. I started typing when she appeared in front of me. 

“It’s morning,” she pointed out the window. “Cereal?” Fair enough.

I spent some time answering emails and other boring stuff. A task that was supposed to take a few minutes grew to three hours. (When I found the immunization record I was trying to track down, half the page was ripped and missing. Was someone hungry? For paper?)

My husband called needing a book and could I please bring it to him since he had a lunch meeting. I’m proud of the fact that we love books. But I considered downsizing today.

“What does it look like?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, but it’s 8 ½ x 11.”

“You know the size but not the color? Is it green? I’m picturing green.”

Pause. “Yeah maybe.”

Lunchtime rolled around later than normal. I’d been avoiding grocery shopping. Food schmood. So I dug through the bare cupboards until I found enough food to fake it. A package of six crackers, two fruit roll ups, and a bag of carrots. If I cut the roll ups in half then they can each have one. Desperation leads to genius in my opinion.

After lunch my youngest curled up to me with a book in her hand. I kept getting a whiff of something funky. Sure sign it’s time for a bath. But first I had to clean the tub.   

I got around to getting myself ready for the day which meant I could deliver the book to my husband. Then realizing we had nothing for dinner I stopped at the store. I got home just in time to make dinner, get my oldest boys fed, and send them off to swim lessons. My husband took them tonight so I could get some writing done. He’s a gem that one.

I sat down in front of the laptop. I made the mistake of looking up. Dirty dishes on the counter. I’ll just do them really fast. Then my 5-year old offered to help. I’m not about to squelch an interest in chores.

By the time we were done my 7- and 8-year olds came in needing showers and then it was bedtime. Brush teeth, use the bathroom, get pajamas on, tuck in and smooch kids, turn off lights.  

At last I sat down in front of the computer. Footsteps on the stairs. My toddler. I wasn’t going up the stairs again if I could help it. I let her curl up next to me.

I’ve been fighting since waking up this morning to write. There’s finally time tonight. It’s quiet. Everyone’s asleep. My youngest is sprawled on the couch next to me while I type, breathing soft snores.  

I recently finished my roughest of all rough drafts. It was agonizing. It was amazing. Not the draft. The draft is garbage. But the process is magic, like delivering a baby without the blood and tears.  Even if it’s ugly, the kid is still mine.

I let my oldest read part of it. He’s eight. That’s where my courage was.

“You wrote this? It’s awesome!”

I tried to play it cool, “It still needs lots of work.”

“Yeah but Mom, you’re going to be a famous author! Kids in my class would read this!”

His enthusiasm was sweet and I won’t lie, the praise is nice regardless of the age of the source. But the proudest moment for me was when he grabbed his own notebook, sat on the other end of the couch and got to work on his own story.

He gets it. 

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The Pines

Or whatever they are. (Firs?) I don't really know trees, but I grew up positively surrounded by them. It's always funny to hear people talk about how "green" Cleveland is, because are these people insane? They don't know green.

I've just returned from spending the holiday week in small town Americana with family, something I do as often as I can. Shelling peas picked fresh from my grandparents' garden, attending a flag raising ceremony at the local church, the parade down Main Street, the piddly festival in the park, the community orchestra performing Stars and Stripes Forever, the late-night fireworks down by the water.

What gets to me most is Oregon itself. The greenness. The peace and beauty that is country living out there. The quiet. The deer. The lack of paved roads. And while I've always looked forward to returning to Cleveland--my life, my love, my career, my cat--this was the first time in years that I wanted to beat my departure off with a stick. I was misty to drive away from the homestead, misty to say goodbye to my parents at the airport, and usually not one to even look out the window while on a flight, I couldn't look away as the plane took off. I ached to stay. I kept my eyes on the trees as long as I could see them, until the green expanse of Western Oregon had given way to the brownness that is everything else.

Not sure why this occasionally overcomes me. I guess the excitement and adventure that is having your own corner of the world sometimes pales in comparison to the loneliness that can come from being completely on your own and far away from those who care about you. I know, I know, I need to put on my big girl pants and be braver. But I ask you, if this was the view from YOUR homestead, would you ever want to leave it?
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Disasters at the Pump

I was twenty the first time I pumped a tank of gas. This is not unusual for a kid who grew up in Oregon, because in that blessed state you don't pump your own gas. Pretty sure you aren't allowed to. You simply stay in your car and say "Fill it with regular" out the window to the attendant and that's all there is to it. I've met a lot of haters in my life that go on and on about how horrible and lame it would be to stay in your car on a cold day and let someone else deal with the pumping, and I never understand what's not to love about the Oregon way.

The only disadvantage, I suppose, was the day my 20-year-old self ended up alone and on the other side of the Oregon/Idaho border. Not that it's hard to pump gas. But just because you know what to do or even how to do it, that doesn't mean you'll do it well. Or even correctly. (I related this to my first kiss in Schooled.) That day at the pump I managed to do everything correctly, or so I thought, but still no gas came out. Surely after watching me try over and over for quite some time, a voice came over the intercom for all to hear. "YOU HAVE TO PUSH THE START BUTTON!" Which they could have, I don't know, mentioned somewhere.

Last night I had to fill up my tank after leaving the office, and I know I shouldn't sit in the car while I'm waiting for the tank to fill, but it's winter. And I live in Cleveland. About the time I realized it was taking longer than normal to fill was the time I made the connection that the gushing sound I heard was my tank overflowing. How does this even happen? The clicky thing is supposed to click off when the tank is full. I jumped out of the car, rushed over, and figured removing the nozzle would force it to unclick. Au contraire. It was like a fire hose, gas shooting everywhere (over my car, over me), and the only thing I could think to do was scream. Surely something somewhere in the vicinity would spark and my car and person would blow up immediately. "SOMEONE, HELP!!" I shouted, and even though the man who rushed over to help thought I didn't know that the clicky thing stays clicked until released (and consequently thought it was my own cluelessness that had caused the problem), at least he rushed over to help. The clicky thing did eventually unclick, but not before I'd paid a small fortune for the gas now flowing toward the gutter.

And this, ladies and gentleman, is why I write books. Because these things happen to me. It's also why I miss Oregon. One of the many, many reasons. Stay tuned next time for rants on sales tax and snow.
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Renege

So, remember when I said this? Well I take it back. Except the part about how I wouldn't be surprised to see him move up one day. And the part about Ohio State fans being kind of obnoxious.
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The Chip Kelly Weekend

Being from Oregon, I'm a huge Ducks fan. One of my first major trials of living in Ohio was, in fact, when Ohio State played Oregon in the Rose Bowl a few years ago. It felt like me verses the entire state of Ohio. Probably because it was. Oregon lost, which was a huge blow, but even worse was enduring the taunts from Ohio State fans who really do think their team is invincible. Fans who the following year when Oregon made it to the national championship game felt---having been the last team to beat Oregon---that Ohio State was still the better team. (What kind of logic is this?) Fans who are sure Ohio State would be winning the championship this year had they been bowl game eligible.

I've lived in Cleveland for almost five years, and while the Ducks are close to my heart, I've never developed much (read: any) affection for the Browns. And hearing rumors of Chip Kelly taking the head coaching job here had me stressed out the majority of the weekend. Surely Chip has created a winning culture in Oregon that could be preserved on some level, but he himself has been a big part of why they continually win, and I, selfishly, would prefer that Oregon keep on winning. Most people in Cleveland were pretty excited about the prospect of Kelly with the Browns, and the mood this morning is a bit dreary, and I've heard more than one person comment on being baffled as to why he wouldn't want to make the jump to the NFL.

I can't speak for Chip, nor am I about to, but this whole idea of lingering in a place or position where you are happy and successful gets more flack than it deserves. I see this a lot in the corporate world as well, where it's sort of assumed that you should want to take that next promotion, move onto bigger and better things, ascend the ladder as quickly as possible. But it takes all kinds, people. Not everyone aspires to hurry to the next step, not everyone aspires to a next step at all. And while I wouldn't be surprised to see Chip move to the NFL someday, I'm also not surprised to see him stay where he is known, loved, clearly at the top of his game, and where there is no sales tax or snow to worry about. Atta boy, Chip. Looking forward to next season.

(And just so you don't think I've given up on writing altogether, I wrote 1000 words this weekend. Not a lot, but it's 1000 words more than I usually get written in a busy weekend.)
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Here's to you, Longfellow

I've just spent the weekend with a large portion of my extended family. My grandparents have lived in the same house for 43 years, and small-town Oregon still serves as the meeting place for our holiday gatherings. I love everything about the town. From the lights on the small main street to the impressively renovated library (that stocks a couple copies of Schooled, I'm pleased to report), to the gravel that replaces the pavement once you get far enough away from city limits, being there with the fam is the closest I can come to being completely happy.

On these holiday weekends when we're all together, we have a Christmas tradition of caroling several houses in the area. Yes, I said caroling. As in a big group of people singing Christmas carols. In someone's front yard. Until they open the door. As we caroled the other night, I was struck by one house in particular. The woman who lived there was so touched, she put a hand to her mouth as tears welled up in her eyes. As some of us hugged her, she began to openly weep, and while it was probably just a happy, holiday spirit kind of cry, it made me think of all the people this holiday season who are sad, depressed, and lonely. In some ways, I think we all are. It's hard to live in this world and not be affected by the sea of crap that we as a society seem to be perpetually swimming in.

And so I've been thinking about Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem about the Christmas bells. You may have heard it, but what you might not realize is that he wrote it out of sheer despair. His wife had died in a tragic accident, and his son had been severely wounded in battle. The most heart-breaking stanza:

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then he ends with the most powerful and inspiring stanza of all, and one that to me is a very literal reminder of the biggest source of hope we have.

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep;
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

On this Christmas Eve, I hope we can each find the peace and comfort we seek, and that those of us with the resources to be of service to others will feel inclined to do so. Even if it's just a Christmas carol on a rainy night.
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Reminiscing on the Hood

I was in Pittsburgh this past weekend, a city I visit fairly often. I love the donut shop in the strip district, I love that Pittsburgh houses both the closest IKEA to me and also the closest Tiffany & Co., and I love that it has the same industrial blue collar feel as Cleveland but is infinitely more lovely with all those rivers and bridges. I might live there if they had an NBA team. Yet, I digress.

While on the trip I got to meet up with a woman who is as dear to me as family. For those who have read Schooled, this woman---my former neighbor---is the one whose daughter I used to trade sandwiches with on the school bus, the one who calmed me down when my over-the-top prom hairstyle had me borderline weepy, and the one who introduced me to such luxuries as bologna, white bread, the country music video channel, and hide-a-beds, which, to be clear, were ALL things that I considered luxuries. Surely there is no one else (besides my own family) who was such an integral part of my growing up years in Oregon, and as we chatted over dessert on Saturday night, she said, "It really was a great neighborhood." And it was. But more than that, she really was a great neighbor. And I miss her terribly.

But it's funny how life shuffles things around, people too, because even though I'm three time zones away from my beloved Oregon, this sweet former neighbor lives only a couple hours away from me. I think about that sometimes; the fact that somewhere in the city of Pittsburgh is the woman who is the closest reminder I have of my childhood. I think about this a lot, actually. How most people I see (in stores, on crowded streets, in airports, etc.) mean nothing to me, but to someone, these people mean the world. And that makes me want to be nicer. To everyone. Because I hope the people who surround my loved ones in their various corners of the world are doing the same. So smile at the person in the elevator next to you. Ask how they are. Ask what they do. And if they've written a book, buy it.

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