A Bit of Frustration with Deep South Status Quo

To the Middle-Aged White Man:

Making policy decisions

Like you think you own the land,

Why show up at the Capitol

In your classic beige sedan,

And try to pork the law

To benefit your fans?

Your actions thinly veiled

From a modern-day white Klan,

You decide for one whole state

Based on opinions of one man.

You cheated on the last campaign,

You shouldn't have reran,

All to elevate you,

To sprawl out your wingspan,

To keep your lazy lifestyle,

To elevate your brand,

When we wish you'd go curl under

Your wife's home-knit afghan,

Spend time with lofted 'family'

Instead of watching girls cancan,

Leave off the gin and tonic

And go drink beer from a can,

Go home where your ideals

Can blanche and get a tan,

Where you'll see what you are doing,

And learn the world firsthand.

Go back to where your selfish self

Can learn to be a Man,

And leave the laws of State

To be designed and planned,

Where common sense has value,

Where the weight of rationality can

Become the leading factor,

Can your 'ideals' withstand,

Can lead to smart decisions,

And laws so firm in hand

That for once they seem to come

From All and not White Man.

Crutches Chronicles Part 2

The first real challenge I faced when I came home in a cast in crutches was the four or five worn stone steps leading up to my 88-year-old condo building. I had no idea the balance and skill needed to achieve the feet, and after nearly toppling over once or twice, I made it to the landing--where I was immediately faced with my next challenge. Some extremely hateful building designer had put the digital keypad to the right of the door, while the handle is on the left. A small detail, yes, but it means that to enter through that door, one must balance bags and crutches to enter the correct combination, hobble over and grab the handle, begin to open the door, and then take a step down to allow said door to open--all before the short time limit expires and the door automatically locks again. After messing it up twice, I was finally able to make it through.

 

But the ensuing sense of victory was not to last long.

 

Upon entering the small foyer, one must then crutch to one's door, fumble with keys to unlock it, and hobble inside in time to disable the alarm system. My first attempt at this next feat ended in dropped crutches, spilled purse, and a knocked-over table--as well as two scared-to-death cats. It was, however, successful.

 

The limitations of my new crutch-dependent self became more and more evident throughout the rest of the day. The cats wouldn't come near me. I couldn't carry my bowl of delicious pasta painfully prepared on just one foot with me to the den. Taking a shower is near-disaster. And if the remote is not within my reach, I'm stuck watching whatever is on the TV.

 

To add insult to injury, my condo began striking out against me. First the light bulb in my bedroom burned out. No big deal, I told myself, hopping on one foot around the house to bring an extra lamp into the room. And then the bathroom light burned out as well, and a small battery-powered flashlight is not the safest way to go in the middle of the night.

 

I am beginning to see that this chronicle of my life will be a long and arduous journey.

Running a Victory Lap

If bad things come in three's, I think good things must come in two's.

 

Yesterday, February 25th, I finally finished my second book. As my 46th day of writing, I was three weeks behind schedule, taking almost twice as long to finish Book 2 as I had Book 1. But I've long forgiven myself--the plot is at least twice as complicated, the characters three times more determined to drive me crazy, and I've been about ten times as busy writing during my final semester in school versus during the summer. However, it is completed, and it came together better than I could have ever hoped.

 

Although I thought that would be the highlight of my day, the even better news came at 8 o'clock last night, when I checked the results of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest for the upteenth time and found out that, yes, my book has made it to the second round!!! Now if it makes it all the way, I can tell Penguin Press that I already have a sequel ready for them!

 

So in celebration, today I'll be doing some more writing for my blog as well as work on an academic piece I'm co-authoring...running a victory lap.

Lunch with my Idol

Most state governments are filled to the brim with older white men, but there is one representative in the Georgia State Legislature stands out. She grew up a Democrat in Mississippi, is African American and went to Yale Law School, and...she's a closet writer.

 

Normally, these facts would make me admire her from afar, appreciate what she's doing for the good ole' state of Georgia, thank God that there is at least one smart person working on the decisions that affect our daily lives. However, I discovered that there were other interns in the Capitol that were just as awed by her as I was...and today, this seemingly normal Friday, we had lunch with her.

 

I crutched to the restaurant with a certain trepidation. Suppose I found out that she wasn't as brilliant as I thought? Suppose she could care less about the questions of a lowly college student? Suppose that I said the wrong thing, tried to draw too many parallels? My suppositions all proved irrelevant, of course. The Representative Of My Dreams was far too amazing to even come close to confirming any of my fears. She talked adamently about the 'good ole boy' system we have here, about what it was like to come in as a black female. She discussed her decisions that led her to law school, how she never wanted to be a lawyer, how she cares just as much about her writing as she does her work in the legislature. And then, glory of all glory, she told us that we simply must do this again sometime.

 

And then...if that invitation wasn't enough...she demanded that I have my manuscript ready for her to read by the next committee meeting we have together.

 

Today I had lunch with my idol, and it was everything I could've dreamed. (sigh).

A Limerick Summarizing a Writer’s Feelings about the Publishing Process

Curse you, Publishing Process.

Making hopeful writers obsess—

Write the story, then query,

Agent intermediary,

‘Till by chance, we see it in Press.

To tent or not to tent?

Tent weddings are beautiful. They are your own precious creation of custom rented pieces, from chairs to their covers to the ribbons tying them, from round or rectangular tables piled high with linens and flowers and cutlery, from the dance floor to the band to the cake table to the caterers. All perfectly accented by the scenic outdoors peeking through the flaps of a large white tent.

Except for the one element you can't control with a tent wedding: the weather.

Chairs and the covers can sink into the soggy ground even if the April showers stopped the day before. Table linens will flip over in the wind, candle flames flickering out at the slightest breeze. Guests could be soaked, sunburned, or windblown, all at the whim of the weather gods. No bride, you would think, would want to have a wedding so susceptible to these whimsical entities.

And yet...

As high as the risk is for such a wedding, the payoff is much higher. Tent weddings are remembered as fantasies come to life, as one night where love and unity seem the children of nature herself. What could be more perfect than a tented haven where all of your closest friends and family members are gathered? Where you look into the eyes of your beloved, surrounded by the glory of nature and the rented pieces you assembled to accent it, and say "I do"? How can it not be worth the risk, when the reward is a perfect memory?

Because when it comes to whimsy, a soon-to-be bride can surpass even the nature gods in hope and unpredictability.

Crutches Chronicles Part 1

Walking out of the podiatrist's office with a cast and crutches I truly didn't need to walk, I encountered my first adventure in surviving the crutches chronicles: rain. Already I had struggled to walk from the back office to the front, carrying papers, coat, and purse. I had dropped things and picked them back up, nudged my way through doors, even managed to sign the necessary documents all while on my new set of steel gray crutches. But nothing had prepared me for the sight that I encountered in the small overhang just outside the automatic doors. Sloshing rivers racing down the street. Torrents of pelting raindrops filling the sky. Thunder and lightning clashing eagerly in the distance. And my car--200 feet away.

I looked longingly down at my purse hooked precariously on my shoulder, at the miniature umbrella tucked safely inside. For one moment I envisioned myself trying to balance crutches, purse, and umbrella all while I determinedly did not use my left foot. It wasn't going to happen.

My first adventure in the crutches chronicles commenced, and I hobbled to my car. And got soaked.

Two thoughts immediately added insult to injury. First, I had walked easily on the left foot into the podiatrist's office, with only a slight pain I was sure would be dismissed by some kind of physical therapy. And second, that 200 foot walk was definitely in the sunshine. Thus began the crutches chronicles.

Ode to Posterity

One hot summer fifty-five men

With formal, grueling austerity,

Met to form our Constitution--

And a nation for their Posterity

Common defense and liberty,

Justice, welfare, tranquility,

Were through this edict guaranteed

For Ourselves and our Posterity.

But half of this we’ve been resisting:

To protect their popularity

Congressmen act for those existing

And forget about Posterity.

Energy, climate, nuclear war--

Laws pass with such celerity;

Health, education, drilling offshore--

We are hurting our Posterity.

Slow down, O hasty lawmaker!

With some foresight and clarity

Conserve our world, safeguard each acre,

For long-forgotten Posterity.

The Constitution, our holiest script,

Entreats us toward prosperity.

Protect living world, not deathly crypt!

For Ourselves and our Posterity.