a physical perspective – Page 17

The Falls of FUBAR

Flowing energy rushes toward the edge, a slave to its inevitable fate. It builds and builds and builds some more, unwilling to compromise.

Suddenly, it slips.

For a few precious seconds it suspends high in the air, engaging in a soundless symphony.

Then, it falls.

The finale is deafening, like cymbals clanging against the bottom of an unforgiving pit. This masterpiece draws us in – millions year after year.

Niagara Falls.

Embarking on a road trip to Montreal made this a no-brainer overnight stop for us. Mr. H and I booked a crappy chain hotel on the Canadian side, followed our trusty electronic maps, and strapped Ken Follett the cow in his seat.

Along the way we admired ~~Provence~~ upstate New York…

Ten lengthy hours after leaving Milwaukee, we arrived.

It was dark. And the border crossing at Niagara Falls, Canada was completely FUBAR.

Labor Day weekend. Border strike. FUBAR.

There’s something bittersweet about driving across North America, making it to your destination in decent spirits – cramping with hunger, aching from head to toe, delicates lodged in places – and being trapped with all the other bleary-eyed, naive tourists in this…

…for a freaking hour.

Naturally, Mr. H. wasn’t havin’ it. I love him even more for rescuing us from our gridlock hell to nowhere. My hero!

Destined to sleep in our truck on the side of a potholed street, we stumbled into a nearby hotel and luckily they were able to accommodate us. (Nothing like flushing money down the shitter on that unreachable hotel on the Canadian side, eh?)

As usual, we made the best of the situation. We lowered our standards and gleefully stuffed our faces in the familiar chain restaurant attached to the joint.

Mediocre fried food. Cold beer. We were saved.

Feeling tipsy, our sanity obviously questionable, we decided to go to the casino across the street to drink our touristy sorrows away and people watch. We’re not gamblers, so this environment fascinates us.

After a while, what initially seemed intriguing became ho-hum, borderline depressing, and our eyes became heavy. So we stumbled back to our hotel, scented with cigarettes and defeat.

The next day, despite our irritation with the whole charade, we went to the damn falls. We were a tough crowd, but Mother Nature won us over with her minxy appeal.

The credit card bill, the slot machines, and the traffic disappeared in that moment.

Niagara Falls…are they really worth it? The blood, the sweat, the tears?

Hell yeah they are!

Gone Road Trippin’

My dear, fantastic, rad, amazing sweet ones…

I will be out of the blogging office starting tomorrow, August 29th. No social media, pix, comments, likes, etc. – I’m going dark.

Mr. H and I will be embarking on a road trip (or, le road trip as we are lovingly calling it) to Montreal. It’s been almost an entire year since I’ve had a vacation.

(Gasp.)

Tell me about it!

I’ll be back on September 10th with some North American tales. In the meantime, stay cool, be cool, and…I’ll miss you guys!

Yours truly,

Britt

That Aha Connection

Sometimes I have these surreal interruptions – “Aha” moments, if you will.

Like a group of determined children, they tap my shoulder, tug at my clothes, or even grab my face to win my erratic attention.

Hey, lady! STOP.

So, I do…and it changes me.

Those running in my social media circle heard about the recent death of my Kindle. She was a trusty companion – knowledgeable, entertaining, and just an overall good soul. Until Hazel the cat rubbed her out, knocking her off the highest ledge in our apartment.

Alas, the Kindle was no more.

Being that I don’t possess the financial superpowers to replace my beloved Kindle currently, I took a field trip to the library. My first time in over a year. (Free books….yay!)

Blogger gal pal Gabriela Blandy at The Sense of a Journey, pointed me in the direction of Raymond Carver, spartan wordsmith extraordinaire.

Always the literature mutt, I decided to give him a whirl.

Whilst pouring over “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love“, I came to a dog-eared page from somebody who had checked out the book before me.

And, I stopped.

Another person had left their mark, a folded corner for me to find. Why did they stop reading just then?

Did they set their alarm, turn off the light, and go to bed? Did they sigh and head into the kitchen to wash the dishes? Did they stuff the book in their bag and board a plane?

From that point…we were connected. The dog-ear was my “Aha”.

Just like the time my change was shoved into my hand at a drive-thru. At a stoplight, I looked down at my palm and noticed Washington’s smirk was littered with poetry in red ink.

Aha.

Just like the time I had this indescribable urge to name one of my characters Sal. Months later I looked down at the right corner of my desk and noticed this carving was there the whole time…

Aha.

We zip through our lives half the time, don’t we? Eat, sleep, work, play. Repeat.

But when it all comes down to it, we are connected in so many ways. And, it’s absolutely magnificent when we stop and breathe it in.

We live side by side – none of us are really that different. Sometimes we need the “Aha” to make us pause, to see how damn incredible this thing called life is.

How the cynic became a sap

I never dreamed of the white dress.

While we’re at it, I never thought much about white picket fences either. Hey, I grew up in a modest condo in Southern California.

My parents divorced when I was six. I remember it like it was yesterday.

I hid in the My Little Pony tent on my bed until I heard the front door slam shut, signifying the finale of “Mom Just Moved Out”, a play I never wanted to see. I peeked my head out and saw my dad sitting on the floor, his face covered by his hands.

All I could do was put my arm around him. It’s all I had.

We did the joint custody thing. Dad most of the time and mom every other weekend. It was odd living out of a suitcase when I hung out with my mom, but we did our best.

I have two half-sisters and one half-brother. None of us grew up together.

A smattering of step-siblings trickled in and out of my life for years. It was always a strange dynamic with them: we played together, we ate together, we pretended to be this makeshift family.

It never worked…we were strangers playing house.

But, this story isn’t about having it hard growing up. I know, compared to many, my childhood was a piece of cake.

The outcome of it all was a cynic – a young one. I grew up thinking love was a sham. Marriage was just a joke to me, the kind I rolled my eyes over.

From a young age, I vowed never to marry. Why the hell should I even bother? All I could see was heartbreak, callousness, and paperwork.

Then, somebody came along to prove me wrong. My husband. My soul.

When we first saw each other…we just knew we were meant for one another. It’s cliché, I know. But damn, what’s wrong with a little cliché?

This year we celebrated eight magnificent years of marriage. We’ve been through it all together – we’re war buddies, we’re best friends.

Now I believe in something different, that love is available to all of us. We just have to accept it, then hang onto it for dear life.

Well, that’s how the cynic became a sap.

Love Thy Editing

Say it with me…I

love

love

OK, guys. Here’s the toughy…editing.

silence

editing (she repeats in a firm, but encouraging tone)

extreme silence

Alright, writer pals. We’re getting there. Baby steps.

I just so happen to be one of those weirdos who doesn’t mind the editing process. (Notice I still didn’t say love.)

When it comes to a systematic approach, mega details, and cutthroat decisions devoid of emotion. Well…meet my dark side, folks! The editor.

On a less intense note, I see editing as something to cherish. Because at the end of the day, you just wrote a freaking book.

A novel is no joke, pumpkins.

The love, commitment, and devotion put writing a book on par with the most important people in your life. That book is the buddy you tell all of your secrets to, the lover you think about endlessly, and the spawn of your imagination.

It’s your soul in written form.

Man, oh man. There’s just something magical about seeing your first draft all printed out.

Sure, it looks like shit. But that shit is yours.

Currently, I’m working on my second draft of The Bra Game. In other words, I’m murdering my baby with a cheap red pen.

Now I don’t claim to be an expert, nor am I anything in the vicinity of a bestseller. In fact, I’m a self-taught writer who gets her jollies by bending the rules.

But, I do have three books under my belt, so I’ve learned a thing or two about editing.

Specifically, how to try to love it a little.

Change location Rather than being chained to your desk with a sad face, take your printed baby outside. Fresh air will do your pasty ass some good.
Check out some resources As writers, we will forever remain students. Recently, I picked up “Self-Editing for Fiction Writers“. Some parts boosted my confidence, while others slapped me on the wrist. But, it was all good. I learned some shit.
Read it out loud For the sake of your loved ones, try to do this in private. But, do it. When it comes to the rhythm of your writing, especially dialogue, it is crucial to mouth off.
Sporkforge Hey, what’d you just call me?! I stumbled across Sporkforge from another writing blog once. It’s ghetto as hell, but it’s a life saver. The word counter/text analyzer is a free online tool that dishes out your repetitious words and phrases. I’m sure there are fancier programs you can buy to do the job. But, Sporkforge is free for us poor indies.
Use caution with find and replace One time I replaced “purse” with “handbag” throughout my entire fourth draft. Let’s just say, my editors and I had a good laugh over “handbagged her lips” instead of “pursed her lips”. Whoopsy!
Marry it, then divorce it You will live with this story every day – you will get into spats and you will comfort each other. No matter how much energy you put into it, you will never be satisfied with the finished product. Never. So put your big boy or girl pants on, sign the divorce papers, and go your separate ways.
Pat yourself on the back You wrote a damn book for crying out loud! Pat yourself real good.