Sunday, January 27, 2013

And Then There Was the Time....

So, big news today, at least in my little world. I have completed the first draft of my latest novel. Yes, this is the third first draft, but hopefully the last. Not to say that it's anywhere close to finished. There will still be hours of tweaking and twiddling, cleaning up typos and repetitions, ironing out inconsistencies, but the heaviest lifting should be done (fingers crossed).

In the meantime, I have been invited to talk to the Women's Club here in town, an honor I earned by way of inflicting my rural humor column on readers of a few area newspapers every other week. I did a similar talk last week for the Friends of the Library. If you have nothing whatsoever to do for the next half an hour you can see the video over on the right sidebar under MFR Live, or click here.

This week I'm changing it up, talking about writing real life, which means things like memoirs and biographies, but also includes what I do here, and in my newspaper column. In my own way, I am recording the history of my people, whether they want me to or not. The majority of my stories are true, though often sanitized or embellished as needed to fill space on the page and avoid being banished forever from family gatherings.

Out of curiosity, how many of those who read this post have considered writing a memoir, or a family history? How many have actually put pen to paper (or fingers to keys, in this day and age)?

Since joining the board of directors at our local historical museum, my views on memoirs, family histories and even diaries have changed tremendously. I'd always thought of these things in one of two ways: either you had to live a big, important life to be worth writing about (aka, selling) or it only mattered to your family. Now I've seen how these personal accounts of a normal life can be a treasure trove for historians.

Rather than blathering on, I'm going to refer you to one of the masters, William Zinsser, whose book On Writing Well is considered a touchstone for non-fiction writers. This article from The American Scholar is a wonderful read:  How to Write a Memoir 

From that article I condensed this nugget, a bit of advice any writer in any genre should heed:

"When you write...don't try to be a writer....Be yourself and your readers will follow you anywhere. Try to commit an act of writing and your readers will jump overboard to get away." 

So write your stories, large or small. You never know what value they will hold for those to come.

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Saturday, January 26, 2013

Lazy Days

The boy and I are making a determined effort to be completely worthless this morning, so instead of a blog post you get a couple of links. One is to a new page you'll see over there on the right tool bar, called MFR Live. Yep, that's me, in all my video-taped glory, trying to talk like I know something about this writing thing.

The second link is to a blog I posted elsewhere, on the subject of how training barrel horses is just like dating, only more expensive. Meet Mr. Sometimes. 

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Sunday, January 20, 2013

Revelation


Last week I had a New Year's revelation. Yeah, I know it's supposed to be a resolution, but I've never had much luck with those and besides, it's not like you get to choose your light bulb moments. They're notorious for bursting into your head without warning. Like at one-twenty-three last Monday morning when I attempted to roll over in bed and every muscle in my body screamed loud enough to wake my husband. And that was when it hit me.

Falling down is bad.

It seems obvious in retrospect. For some reason it was a lot less so when I was standing in the rental shop at the ski slope telling the guy behind the counter, "Yep, a snowboard. Definitely."

Snowboarding looks so cool, like surfing a frozen wave. Swish, swish, swish. Reality is more like swish, slip, slam! Repeat every ten to fifteen yards for the length of the slope. Insert other S words as needed.

Have you ever stepped onto an icy sidewalk, felt both feet fly up in the air and crashed onto the back of your head? Congratulations. You've completed lesson number one in snowboarding. For lesson number two, sit on your living room floor, tie both feet to a plank and attempt to stand up while a friend jerks the board out from under you. Are we having fun yet?

I actually improved a lot over the course of the day, assuming success equals being able to stay upright long enough to work up serious momentum before crashing. And I've recovered faster than I expected, given my inability to fully extend my spine the next morning. A week later all but the biggest bruises have faded and I can turn my head past forty-five degrees in either direction. I can hold a coffee cup again, too, although it'll be a few more days before my thumb stops paining me too much to open my car door.

The only body part still giving me real grief is my left quadriceps muscle, and that was an aggravation of a prior injury. Other people get tennis elbow. Golfer's wrist. Rub their knee and mutter about how it must be gonna snow because their old football scar is acting up. Meanwhile, I am nursing a persistent case of Poop Scooper's Thigh.

What can I say? I clean the barn very aggressively. When the pitchfork stuck in a particularly tough pile of manure I reared back and stomped on it with my right foot, so hard one of the metal tines snapped off, the fork slipped, and I did a passable imitation of cheerleader splits, complete with the high-pitched scream and flailing arms. Now every time I do anything strenuous it gets tight and sore and I gimp around pretending I tripped over the dog because even that's less embarrassing than slipping in the…stuff.

But at least that was an accident. The snowboarding I did on purpose. And kept doing, even after the thirty-fourth time I went splat! Hopefully a couple of weeks of bursting into tears every time I climb stairs will be enough to convince me that falling down is to be avoided at all costs. If I should get another wild hair, my husband is prepared to take the advice of one of the ski patrollers.

"If she even mentions it, nail her shoes to the living room floor," he advised. "Then walk by every minute or so and knock her over. It's just like snowboarding without buying a lift ticket."   

The way I do it, that's about right.

**Yes, there is video, but only of my first run. I did get better. Honest. Especially after I figured out I had the bindings backward for a right-footed person. Watch the upper left corner as the video starts, you'll see me make my grand entrance. 


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Monday, January 14, 2013

In a Rut

We've been in winter sports mode here for the last three weeks--skating, snowboarding, skiing and sledding--we've given it all a shot with varying degrees of success. The snow in the coulees is still a little scant for downhill sledding so we've been limited to the tow-along version. If you've never experienced sledding at the end of thirty feet of rope, you might want to start by reading this post from a couple years back, called The Snow Saucer of Doom.

Since starting the snowmobile generally requires half a can of ether and a generous dose of curse words, Logan and I stick with the four wheeler. Nice enough for the driver, but it just can't match a snowmobile's wide, flat track when it comes to sledding. I think you can see why:



I would like you to please all note that I never once dumped the kid on purpose. Yeah, I know. I'm gonna make him soft.

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Tuesday, January 01, 2013

Power Commuting

"Behind every successful rancher is a good woman...with a job in town." Everyone who knows anything about the cattle market. 

I don't normally talk much about my town job because it's the kind of work that makes most people go cross-eyed with boredom. I am a medical coder and biller. I spend my days at a computer, translating doctor's notes into insurance claims then doing everything in my power to see that they get paid, which includes reading reams of Medicare and Medicaid rules and...

Yeah, I see you there in the back, dozing off.

You may have realized by now that we live some distance from Cut Bank, our nearest town, with 'some' being equal to 55 miles, the first twelve of which are gravel roads. I drive those miles every working day, just under an hour each way when the roads are good. Extreme, you might think, but many of the city folks I know spend easily as much time getting to and from work. I'm willing to bet my commute is a lot less stressful, and a whole lot more scenic.


As frustrating as it can be to waste two hours a day on the road, I try to keep the whining to a minimum (excuse me while I reach over and whack that smirk off my husband's face). It's part of the package when you choose to live out in the sticks. It hadn't occurred to me that my commuting situation could go from bearable to ridiculous.

In the middle of December my boss calmly informed us that we were assuming management of a medical clinic in Great Falls. And we'd be making the hundred and ten mile drive at least two days a week. From Cut Bank. Which is, as I believe I mentioned, already some distance from my house. For those of you counting on your fingers...yes, you are correct. I now commute 165 miles each way. And the last hundred miles is one of the most boring stretches of road in the state of Montana. 

Yee haw. 

There is some good news. In order to avoid overtime, we depart and arrive at the home office during normal business hours as much as possible, so I'm not actually working longer. And I'm a passenger for the Cut Bank to Great Falls stretch, so I'm not behind the wheel any more than before. Since I am lucky enough not to suffer from motion sickness, I can catch up on my reading. But still...

Map courtesy of the fine folks at gonorthwest.com, who'll help you plan a great Montana vacation. 


I got an email a couple of weeks ago saying how I could make thousands of dollars working from home, stuffing envelopes. I wonder if that offer is still open? 

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