Darn you, Carrie Bradshaw!

So today is Blog Me MAYbe's "May I tell you something about writing?" day, and you know what?

I blame Sex and the City.

Not Carrie's brownstone, but aren't they amazing?
Image courtesy of Robert Linder, rgbstock.com

For many years, mostly because of the show's ever-so-talented (yet fictional) Carrie Bradshaw, I had the romantic notion that being a writer would mean I'd sit in my cute brownstone apartment in New York City every day, typing away on my laptop while gazing out the window at the lovely and inspiring views.

The reality? Yeah, it's not so much like that.

Every morning, I stumble across a floor littered with toys, making my way to a tiny table wedged into the corner of my only slightly bigger office/guest room. There I type away at an oldish eMachine that takes forever to warm up, and if I turn my head to the left, I'm treated not to a lovely and inspiring view of the City but am instead privileged to gaze upon my neighbor's junk pile, and beyond that, the picturesque side of her house.

Carrie, I have a feeling we're not in the City anymore.

Writers can write anywhere, of course, but I've always craved my own writing space, a place that belongs only to me. And who knows? I may well get one someday, but in the meantime, I enjoy learning about where other writers work. What are their writing spaces like? Do they like to sit at desks cluttered with knickknacks and family pictures, or do they work best with clear desks and minimal distractions? Maybe they enjoy writing in libraries or cafés--or perhaps they prefer to write while sitting in bed, their notes spread out around them on the bedspread and a cup of tea waiting on a nearby table.

Last summer I read a book that described just these things: The Writer's Desk by Jill Krementz. In her book, Krementz, the wife of the late Kurt Vonnegut, showcases photographs of fifty-six authors in their writing spaces, among them Stephen King, John Irving, and Joyce Carol Oates. And I learned that while some of them do indeed write in spaces comparable to Carrie Bradshaw's, others, like Toni Morrison, who prefers to write while sitting on her living room sofa, don't have dedicated writing spaces at all. (I posted a brief review of this book here.)

If you're interested in seeing where writers do their work, check out this site. A Twitter friend directed me to it about a year ago, and I spent half the day marveling at the pictures. (Fair warning if you decide to click the link: you may not get anything else done!)


So tell me, what's your writing space like?

Sunday inspiration

Happy Sunday! I hope you're all having a great weekend.

In yesterday's post, I listed ten little-known facts about me, one of which is my love for Johnny Cash. Today I thought I'd post one of my favorite videos, Hurt, a remake of a Nine Inch Nails song that Cash recorded near the end of his life. I find the video inspirational: it's beautiful and sad and hopeful all at once. The images themselves, many showing a younger Cash, could tell a thousand stories. What do you see? Is there a video or song that you find particularly inspiring or intriguing?

I bet you didn't know that!

Happy Saturday!

Today I'd like to give a shout-out to the wonderful Maryann Miller at It's Not All Gravy, who recently presented me with the Kreativ Blogger Award. Be sure to check out her blog, "a commentary about life, writing and the absurdities of the human condition." You'll always find something great there!

As per the rules associated with the award, here are ten little-known facts about me. To make things a bit more interesting, I've included one "fact" that isn't true. Can you guess the impostor? I'll tell you the answer at the end of the post.

1. I met my husband in a chat room and married him on a riverboat.

2. Dirty Dancing is my all-time favorite movie.

3. I love capers and sometimes eat them straight out of the jar.

4. I never leave the house without putting a little makeup on.

5. I crave chocolate-covered potato chips.

6. I don't care for most country music, but I do love Johnny Cash.

7. I could eat avocados every single day.

8. When we were kids, my sister and I used to "kill" our Barbies and then hold funerals for them.

9. During the summer, I like to spend as much time outdoors as I can.

10. I think Mom's Rhapsody is one of the funniest parodies out there:





Before I reveal the impostor, I'd like to pass this award along to six of the many great friends I met during the Blogging from A to Z Challenge. Be sure to visit their blogs:

1. Cheryl at Writing Remnants
2. Sherry at Mama Diaries
3. Nikki at Inspire Nordic
4. Jen at Crafting Magic
5. M. J. at Writing Tips for Success
6. Liz at The English Bad Ass

Congrats! It was difficult to choose only six.

And now for the impostor fact: During the summer, I like to spend as much time outdoors as I can.

I love summertime, but I get physically sick when I'm out in the heat too long. I can take temperatures up to the mid-seventies or maybe a little higher, but after that, I need to stay indoors and out of the sun.

Did you get it right?


Now it's your turn. I'd love to get to know all of my followers better. Why not post a random or little-known fact about yourself in the comments?

Friday funnies

Image courtesy of Christine Landis,
rgbstock.com

Need a laugh?

Today is Friday, which means it's Blog Me MAYbe's "May I share something funny?" day. I've got a few kid-inspired funnies that I hope will help get your weekend off to a good start. Enjoy!

Things My Kids Have Said:

♥ My two-year-old daughter, after sampling her first waffle: "I tried the awful!"

♥ My five-year-old son, after I told him that his new battery-powered fan would be nice to have in the summer: "If I get sweaty out there, I can always use this to blow the sweaty away. Right?"

♥ Conversation I had with my two-year-old daughter about a month ago:

Me: Do you want socks?

Daughter: No.

Me: That's right. You like to have bare feet.

Daughter: (puzzled) I don't have bear feet. I have girl feet!"

The look on her face was priceless! Was Mommy crazy?


Finally, here's something that anyone who has kids can surely relate to:

Image courtesy of cybersalt.org

So what made you laugh this week?

Thursday spotlight

It's Thursday and time for Blog Me MAYbe's "May I tell you something about someone else?" day. Today I'm turning the spotlight on a woman who was a very early proponent of my writing career, my seventh grade writing teacher, Mrs. J.

Image courtesy of Steve Woods,
rgbstock.com

Mrs. J taught a required creative writing course in a tiny, triangle-shaped classroom wedged into a corner of the school's second floor. I remember walking into that classroom on the first day and noticing how cramped it was, how all the desks were pushed so tightly together, how warm it seemed... Even so, I couldn't wait for the class to begin! Most of the kids didn't want to be there, but I knew from the moment Mrs. J explained what the class was about that I would look forward to it every day. And I did.

As the semester went on, my friends would complain (loudly!) about the assignments--to write stories based on the prompts Mrs. J gave us--but I thought they were fun and not that difficult. After all, all we had to do was tell tales, something I loved and had been doing since I was too young to write. The bonus was that more people would be reading them--not only my parents and Mrs. J but my classmates as well. I was excited to have a bigger audience, even though I knew many of the kids in the class couldn't have been less interested.

Mrs. J was great about writing encouraging comments on my stories, but she also noted areas where I could improve. I appreciated those critiques. I wanted to get better at telling stories, and her advice helped me to do so. During parent-teacher conferences that year, Mrs. J told my mom that she thought I had raw talent, and she urged my parents to support my writing, which they did and still do now, nearly thirty years later.

Near the end of the school year, Mrs. J, who was also the high school art teacher, chose to feature a portfolio of my stories in the school's art show. To my knowledge, that was the first time that writing had been included in the exhibit, and I can't describe how proud I was as people looking at the art would stop at my table and read my stories. Seeing people react to what I had written was a high like no other. That was the day I truly understood the power of words.

Even though I had been telling stories since I was a child, without Mrs. J, I don't know if I would have had the courage to continue. Oh, maybe I would have written a story here or there, perhaps a poem, probably this blog--but I don't know if I would still have the passion for it if it hadn't been for her encouragement and support. She was a magnificent teacher and mentor, and someday when (fingers crossed) I do make it in this business and find myself holding a book contract in my hands, I will make sure to dedicate my story to her.


So tell me, who was your first cheerleader, the person who really made you believe that you could do whatever you wanted to do in life?

So what's your word?

It's Wednesday, and that means it's Blog Me MAYbe's "May I ask something about you?" day. Are you ready for today's question? Okay!

So I've noticed recently that there's a certain word I overuse, one that I find myself saying all the time in all different contexts. What is it, you ask?

Image courtesy of Marja Flick-Buijs, rgbstock.com

Yes, the word is okay, and in Dana-speak, it means at least five different things. No wonder I use it so much--talk about versatile!

First, there's the Apologetic Okay. This is the kind of okay I use when someone rear-ends my car, sneezes in my face, or accidentally pushes me down a flight of stairs. The scenario goes something like this:

The Perpetrator:  I'm so sorry I hit your car/sneezed on you/pushed you down those stairs, causing you to break your leg.

Me: That's okay.

Next, there's the Wishy-Washy Okay. This one can make my authority (such as I have) seem pretty weak, as in the following example:

Me: Kids, the living room is a mess. You need to pick up your toys. Okay?

Kids: (continuing to watch TV) Yeah, sure Mom.

The third okay is the Reluctant Okay. This is the one I use when I really don't want to do something but don't know how to get out of it. Example:

Teacher at my son's school: Would you serve on the community relations committee? It really wouldn't take much of your time.

Me: Um...okay.

Fourth is the Noncommittal Okay, which--as one would suspect given its name--gives no indication of my true feeling and is often used in response to the following question:

Friend: How are you today?

Me: (thinking about the fact that the bank has apparently "lost" some of my money) I'm okay.

And finally, there's my favorite okay, the Enthusiastic Okay:

Husband: Let's go out for dinner.

Me: Okay!

(Now if only this last scenario were true!)


So what word do you overuse? You'll tell me, right? Okay!

Have I told you the one about the klutz?

Hi to old friends and new! I had so much fun with the Blogging from A to Z Challenge that I decided to participate in a blogfest that begins today: Blog Me MAYbe, the brainchild of writer and blogger Sara McClung. Basically, throughout the month of May, participants can choose (or not!) to blog five days a week following this predetermined schedule:

Mondays: MAY I tell you something about writing?

Tuesdays: MAY I tell you something about myself?

Wednesdays: MAY I ask something about you?

Thursdays: MAY I tell you something about someone else?

Fridays: MAY I share something funny?

You can find out all the details by clicking the banner in this post or the button on the right side of my page (both created by the talented Tracey Neithercott). I hope you join in. This blogfest promises to be a lot of fun!


So, then... May I tell you something about myself?

I am a Klutz with a capital K. If there's a wall, I will walk into it. If there's a toy on the floor--and when isn't there, in a house with two small kids?--I will trip over it. If there's a hole, I will fall into it. If there's a set of stairs, I will fall down (or up!) them. I think you get the picture.

My life of klutziness began the moment I learned to walk. I, of course, don't remember those days, but according to witnesses (mainly Mom, Dad, and Brother), I couldn't walk two feet without slamming into something, bumping into something, or falling on my face. Apparently I was a walking bruise, which, come to think of it, probably helps to explain all those pictures in which I'm wearing hats and long sleeves. Curiously, no one seemed to be bothered by my apparent klutziness. (Well, I was probably bothered.) It wasn't until I was nearly five years old that people (namely the kindergarten registration people) determined that maybe--just maybe--I couldn't see very well.

They were right, and off I went to get my first in a long line of glasses. (I've been wearing them now for almost thirty-five years. Yikes!) Once those glasses were firmly in place on my face, everyone sat back and breathed a sigh of relief: Dana's klutziness was cured!

Um, not so much.

Not my thumb--but how easily it could be.
Image courtesy of Jana Kollarova,
rgbstock.com

Apparently, my eyes have nothing to do with it. I am--I confess--completely and utterly uncoordinated. I can't control my limbs; I certainly can't dance. I can, however, walk into doorways, trip over coffee tables, bump my head on open cabinets, walk into the corners of the kitchen table, slice off the tips of my fingers while cutting vegetables, walk into open car doors (not to mention slam my fingers in them), and trip over invisible objects.

I have no excuse. I'm just a Klutz.

Unfortunately, my five-year-old son seems to have inherited my klutziness gene. Just last Sunday as we were getting ready for church, I heard a cry from the kitchen and ran downstairs, nearly breaking my leg as I stumbled over a blue Mega Blok and my two-year-old's stuffed Minnie Mouse, only to find my son sitting dazed on the floor, crying and holding his head. This is the conversation that ensued:

Me: (panicked, looking for blood) What happened? What happened? Are you okay?

Son: (gasping for breath between screams of blood murder) I bumped my head.

Me: (looking around and wondering what he possibly could have hit his head on, as he was sitting on the floor in the middle of the room) On what? There's nothing here.

Son: (wailing) On the wall!


(And sadly, this wasn't his first time at the rodeo.)

So there you have it. I'm a klutz, and unfortunately, it appears that I'm raising another one. I guess what they say is true: the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Poor kid.