(Originally posted at SCHUYLER'S MONSTER.)
I got my edits back.
Other writers keep telling me that this is the hardest time, waiting to see what your editor is going to do to your work. I've been nervous about it, I confess. Another writer friend of mine who was recently published has been telling tales of his editing process, in which massive swaths of text, sometimes whole chapters, had been removed. I was bracing myself for the scalpel, rehearsing my defense of chapters that I feared were not long for this world.
I got a note from the apartment complex office yesterday, saying that I had a package, and when I saw the return address, I knew Santa was here. Bonus: getting to open the package in front of the pretty young ladies working in the office and impress them with my fancy pants authorliness. My favorite among them (yeah, I have a favorite; leave me alone with my wicked old man ways) was actually talking about throwing a book release party for me. Thanks, Santa.
After returning to my apartment (hurriedly so I wouldn't pass out from sucking in my gut much longer), I started reading the letter and bracing myself for the cuts.
Except there weren't any, aside from a few sentences here and there. There were lots of tweaks, some questions and requests for clarifications, requests for more material in a few specific areas, and some legal questions. But no chapters with giant red X's. My original conception of this book is going to be very close to what comes out, almost frighteningly so.
As I dig into the manuscript page by page, making the small changes, I'm learning a lot about my writing. A few things I've realized just in the past 24 hours:
*I begin far too many sentences with the word "and". I'm not stupid; I know it creates incomplete sentences, and that's bad, by golly. But it's always been something I've done, a stylistic choice I made when blogging to give my work a conversational flow. That's fine for the immediacy of online writing, but in a memoir, it had to go. Just deleting them has improved the flow and tone dramatically.
*I am far too vulgar for my own good. Sheila didn't go through like a puritan missionary, striking out all my blue material and replacing it with family-friendly phrasing. What she did was recognize when I needed a strong word and when I was just being lazy. In every case so far that I've replaced an obscenity, it has strengthened the writing. She left the ones I felt I needed without flinching.
*Julie, on the other hand, is not quite as vulgar as I make her sound. Sorry, Julie. I think what happens is that when she gets upset, Julie achieves an eloquence that sticks in my mind, so I tend to quote her in those situations. Those are also the best opportunities for F-bombs, however. The final version of the book will present a much less sailorish version of my lovely bride. (Just so you know, however, the two edits I did to clean up her image a little? Total spin. She really did say the nasty things I originally reported. They just didn't seem so cute on the written page.)
I'm sure there must be some sort of cosmic plan involved in giving two foul-mouthed people like Julie and myself a child who is physically incapable of repeating the off-color words and phrases that occasionally slip out in front of her. (If by "occasionally", you mean "daily".) Lord help us when she starts spelling out words on her device by ear, or starts programming them into it by herself.
If you doubt for a moment that Schuyler's story landed on the desk of exactly the right editor, you should know that when I wrote about Schuyler's favorite movie (King Kong, of course), Sheila corrected my spelling of one character's name and fleshed out some other information as well. Is my editor a King Kong fan, too? THAT, my friends, is Fate at work.
So I'm back to work on the book, happily so, and feeling more confident than ever that hooking up with St. Martin's Press was the best thing that could have possibly happened to this book. I know there are people out there who doubt the value of a good agent or a good editor. For me, however, they've made all the difference.
The photo at the top of this post is looking like the odds-on favorite for the book cover, by the way, and I think that's great. Schuyler wasn't posing for some metaphoric conceptual shot, either. She was laughing at something, I snapped the shot while she giggled behind her hand, and a split second she had moved on. It was only later that I realized what I had captured. It was the luckiest of shots.
May 10, 2007
May 8, 2007
Monster Gallery
Schuyler had a pretty good day.
She woke up in a good mood and insisted on taking photos of her bus when it pulled up. She took pictures of me, too, as I took pictures of her, and the ridiculousness of it made her laugh. When she climbed aboard the bus, she waved excitedly and blew her kisses to me, unaware of the tiny piece of me that died like it does every time her bus pulls away.
We met with two of her teachers today, the miracle worker who runs her box class and the mainstream first grade teacher who loves our daughter even though I think she's a little frightened by Schuyler's independent streak. She told us today, in the midst of reporting Schuyler's progress, that occasionally "she talks too much in class". Julie actually laughed out loud.
The general feeling of her teachers seemed to be that Schuyler is doing very well in some areas, lags behind in some others (she apparently has inherited a gene from me, the one that both hates and fears math), and can either reach for academic greatness or pull amusing but ultimately useless stunts, depending entirely on her mood.
(These include correctly writing, in her careful, jagged handwriting, the numbers up to 29 before getting off track for a few lines and then simply drawing little squiggles in every box, right up to the last one, where she wrote "100". Or the science question, in which she answered the question "What is the natural resource that covers over 70% of the earth's surface and is required by all living things?", not with the obvious junk science answer, "water", but rather that more controversial scientific theory, "ballet class".)
For the most part, however, she appears to balance that occasional lapse with genuine, true school-nerd enthusiasm. She raises her hand in class, whether or not she knows the answer or has even heard the question yet. Sure, I suppose she could simply be turning into a little kissass, but I think the truth is that she's happy to have a voice of sorts and is desperate to participate in the world around her. She's become excited about her Big Box of Words again, thanks to her ongoing transition to the higher level, and she's starting to show her classmates how to use it on the 84-key setting. Her teachers say she's doing well in school, despite her monster, and she'll be moving on to second grade next fall.
I worry about Schuyler, about the uphill struggle she faces in trying to keep up with the rest of the kids in spite of the huge disadvantage that she has with the BBoW. And let's be clear; it is a remarkable tool for her, it has given her a way to communicate that has changed her life and unlocked a lot of doors for her, but it is also a maddeningly slow way to speak, and that is going to make it very hard for her to function in class. There are time benchmarks that she is supposed to be able to meet according to state guidelines, and they don't lend themselves to augmentative communication. But there are adults who do it, and Schuyler will, too.
I also worry about her social development, particularly how she'll be accepted by her peers. But school seems to be a haven for her in that regard; the neurotypical kids love her and argue over who is going to help her in class. She may still be the equivalent to E.T. to most of them, but we'll take it for now. Perhaps my expectations about mean kids will be proven wrong; they have been so far, I must admit. Grown-ups are often another story, but she doesn't appear to care too much for adult acceptance. We're the dinosaurs. Mean, old and doomed to extinction.
We saw her briefly when we went to the classroom to get some paperwork taken care of, and she was neither embarrassed nor clingy. She said her loud hellos, gave her big, Sumo-style hugs and then went back to her social circle, bragging about how her dad (the Hero of Inappropriate Movie Choices) took her to see Spider-man over the weekend.
When she got out of school, we gave Schuyler a surprise, a hand-crafted little monster that was made for her by an artistic reader. She loved it, playing with it and talking to it all the way home. She kept asking us for its name, and Julie suggested "Paisley", for obvious reasons. Schuyler liked that name, so Monster Paisley was born.
When we got home, I wanted to take a photo of it to put on the book site, and Schuyler eagerly helped. I had her gather the monsters that she'd been given as gifts over the past year or two, and as I took their photo, she kept bringing in even more monsters (along with Jasper, who gets to do whatever he wants, thanks to his role as Unofficial Big Brother).
Schuyler wanted a monster family portrait.
I've taken a lot of portraits, but this one was my favorite so far.
So it goes.
May 3, 2007
Bookedy book book stuff
I've been posting so rarely on my book blog lately that it's probably worth mentioning when there's a new entry over there.
So yeah. There's a new entry over there.
This has been the slow time for book stuff, and really, I'm still nine months away from publication, so that's probably as it should be. I've been writing online for so long, since 1995 if you can believe it, and the worst delays I usually have to deal with involve not having internet access at the precise moment that I want to upload some pearls of wisdom.
(Tonight would be a good example. Massive, nasty Texas storms rolled through last night and knocked out our power for about eight hours. It was cool while the storms were actually moving through; we just sat on the bed and watched the show, waiting for cows and trailer homes to start flying by so we'd know when it was time to hide in the bathtub. Now, it's just boring. Also, it's uncool when the lights and television suddenly come back on at 3am. I think I peed myself.)
So I've been spoiled by the instant gratification of the internet. Adjusting to the glacial pace of the publishing world is probably good for my impatient soul. Having said that, I found out today that I'll be getting my first round of edits back soon, and that's when the real work begins. You know, aside from that whole "writing the book" part.
So yeah. There's a new entry over there.
This has been the slow time for book stuff, and really, I'm still nine months away from publication, so that's probably as it should be. I've been writing online for so long, since 1995 if you can believe it, and the worst delays I usually have to deal with involve not having internet access at the precise moment that I want to upload some pearls of wisdom.
(Tonight would be a good example. Massive, nasty Texas storms rolled through last night and knocked out our power for about eight hours. It was cool while the storms were actually moving through; we just sat on the bed and watched the show, waiting for cows and trailer homes to start flying by so we'd know when it was time to hide in the bathtub. Now, it's just boring. Also, it's uncool when the lights and television suddenly come back on at 3am. I think I peed myself.)
So I've been spoiled by the instant gratification of the internet. Adjusting to the glacial pace of the publishing world is probably good for my impatient soul. Having said that, I found out today that I'll be getting my first round of edits back soon, and that's when the real work begins. You know, aside from that whole "writing the book" part.
May 2, 2007
Don't quote me
(Originally posted at SCHUYLER'S MONSTER.)
Okay, so let's say you're working on your book, and there's a favorite song of yours, or a novel by your favorite writer, or some other bit of work that you find both inspirational and relevant in the context of what you're writing. You say to yourself, "Gosh, Self, I think that would make a swell addition to my book!"
I'd like to suggest that you resist the urge. Unless you find you really need those quotes, you might be opening yourself up to a world of frustration.
When I wrote SCHUYLER'S MONSTER, I included a number of quotes, mostly from songs that I liked and have sung to Schuyler over the years. In a few cases, the songs themselves played a part in the story. Including them made sense to me.
Move forward a few months, to about ten minutes ago. I just finished going over my manuscript and removing every single one of those quotes.
I did it for two reasons. The first, and most obvious, is that it is quite simply a gigantic pain in the ass to get permission to use quoted material. I sent out four permission requests (using a form written in Martian Legalese provided by St. Martin's Press), three in order to secure permission to use song lyrics and one for a line of poetry. Of the four, two were ignored outright, at least so far. One artist's manager corresponded with me via email and, after I made a change requested by her legal department AFTER bouncing it off of St. Martin's legal department, agreed to give me the permission but then never actually returned the form.
And then there was the poetry quote. Fifteen words, not even a complete sentence. I sent the form, along with a letter and a business card, to the person in charge of permissions at the big house that published the poet. (I won't say which publisher, except that every time I see their name, I think of The Office.) A few weeks later, he returned it all, even my business card. (In the words of one of my fictional idols, High Fidelity's Rob Gordon, "That is some cold shit.") The reason? He needed more information, things like the publication date, number of pages, territory, print run, and price. At the time, my book was ten months away from publication; I didn't have answers to most of those questions.
My editor was kind enough to provide the answers for me (which was actually pretty cool to find out; you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll kiss $24.95 goodbye), so I resubmitted the form. (No business card this time, though. Get your own, buddy.) Today I finally got permission. Except of course, they listed my publisher as "Self-published", so I have no idea if it's even valid.
I give up. Keep your fifteen words. It's like trying to negotiate with the Gollum. "My precious!"
I said there were two reasons for losing the quotes. The general pain-in-the-assedness is a good one, to be sure, but perhaps a better one is simply this. If I have faith in my writing (and if a house like St. Martin's is willing to believe and invest in my work then I'd better believe in it, too), then I need to re-evaluate why exactly I feel it necessary to use other people's words to back up my own. I see the value of a quote for color, but when I really looked at the number of quotations I was using (one or two at the beginning, one for each of the three parts, and some material within the text as well), I realized that it was too much. At that point, I'm relying on someone else's words to express what I should be saying myself.
It feels like a rookie mistake, and I'm glad I got it out of my system this early in the process.
I should be getting my first edits back soon. I can't imagine I won't have something to say then. Things are about to start happening in a hurry. I look forward to it with enthusiasm and perhaps just a sprinkling of nausea. You know, the good kind of nausea.
Okay, so let's say you're working on your book, and there's a favorite song of yours, or a novel by your favorite writer, or some other bit of work that you find both inspirational and relevant in the context of what you're writing. You say to yourself, "Gosh, Self, I think that would make a swell addition to my book!"
I'd like to suggest that you resist the urge. Unless you find you really need those quotes, you might be opening yourself up to a world of frustration.
When I wrote SCHUYLER'S MONSTER, I included a number of quotes, mostly from songs that I liked and have sung to Schuyler over the years. In a few cases, the songs themselves played a part in the story. Including them made sense to me.
Move forward a few months, to about ten minutes ago. I just finished going over my manuscript and removing every single one of those quotes.
I did it for two reasons. The first, and most obvious, is that it is quite simply a gigantic pain in the ass to get permission to use quoted material. I sent out four permission requests (using a form written in Martian Legalese provided by St. Martin's Press), three in order to secure permission to use song lyrics and one for a line of poetry. Of the four, two were ignored outright, at least so far. One artist's manager corresponded with me via email and, after I made a change requested by her legal department AFTER bouncing it off of St. Martin's legal department, agreed to give me the permission but then never actually returned the form.
And then there was the poetry quote. Fifteen words, not even a complete sentence. I sent the form, along with a letter and a business card, to the person in charge of permissions at the big house that published the poet. (I won't say which publisher, except that every time I see their name, I think of The Office.) A few weeks later, he returned it all, even my business card. (In the words of one of my fictional idols, High Fidelity's Rob Gordon, "That is some cold shit.") The reason? He needed more information, things like the publication date, number of pages, territory, print run, and price. At the time, my book was ten months away from publication; I didn't have answers to most of those questions.
My editor was kind enough to provide the answers for me (which was actually pretty cool to find out; you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll kiss $24.95 goodbye), so I resubmitted the form. (No business card this time, though. Get your own, buddy.) Today I finally got permission. Except of course, they listed my publisher as "Self-published", so I have no idea if it's even valid.
I give up. Keep your fifteen words. It's like trying to negotiate with the Gollum. "My precious!"
I said there were two reasons for losing the quotes. The general pain-in-the-assedness is a good one, to be sure, but perhaps a better one is simply this. If I have faith in my writing (and if a house like St. Martin's is willing to believe and invest in my work then I'd better believe in it, too), then I need to re-evaluate why exactly I feel it necessary to use other people's words to back up my own. I see the value of a quote for color, but when I really looked at the number of quotations I was using (one or two at the beginning, one for each of the three parts, and some material within the text as well), I realized that it was too much. At that point, I'm relying on someone else's words to express what I should be saying myself.
It feels like a rookie mistake, and I'm glad I got it out of my system this early in the process.
I should be getting my first edits back soon. I can't imagine I won't have something to say then. Things are about to start happening in a hurry. I look forward to it with enthusiasm and perhaps just a sprinkling of nausea. You know, the good kind of nausea.
April 28, 2007
Screw Holland, revisited
This is Schuyler.
She is holding this week's spelling test. The words printed on the page are hers, from her device as she took the quiz.
Aside from a soccer ball sticker and a "Toadally Awesome!" stamp, it has no other markings on it.
That's because once again, she received a perfect score.
This is Schuyler. Two years ago, we were told that she was not intellectually capable of using this AAC device, the Big Box of Words; it was deemed, in the school district's final report before she actually acquired the device, to be "educationally unnecessary".
This is Schuyler. Two years ago, and also another two years before that, we were told that her future lay in general special education classes. We were informed that she was most likely suffering from some level of mental retardation and would likely remain in the care of special education until the day she was old enough to become Our Problem rather than Their Problem.
This is Schuyler. She is learning to use the BBoW on its highest setting, its most advanced vocabulary. She's already better at it than we are. She likes to show off on it and is already embracing the new vocabulary possibilities. Also, it has more dinosaurs.
There's a word that is forbidden in this home. It's a word that sounds very kind and nurturing, like something you might hear on Sesame Street, a word that spawned the Holland thing. We've been handed this word over and over again, and we reject it, completely. The word is a cage, plain and simple, and it's a cage we'd be putting Schuyler into if we embraced it.
ACCEPTANCE.
We don't accept a thing, because Schuyler doesn't. She never wants comfort or pity or acceptance. She has things to say, and she wants to say them. She wants to live a life as close as she can to the ones you and I live, not as a "special little champ" or "perfect just the way she is" or whatfucking ever, but as a punky, funny, smart and troublemaking little girl. She is Chaos in Chuck Taylors. And if you get in her way, she'll knock you over, because she's lost enough time and she knows it. She's flawed, more than some but not so much as others, and she knows that, too, and she doesn't shed a tear about it. While I worry and get sad, she rolls up her sleeves and gets to work.
Acceptance wouldn't be for her. It would be for us, for our fears of failure. I can't speak for any other parents out there, of children who are broken or exceptional or shy or hyperactive or just plain weird or whatever. But for myself, I was blessed from the very beginning because while I had a great deal of fear, Schuyler had none. She has none today.
And she has no use for Holland, either.
She is holding this week's spelling test. The words printed on the page are hers, from her device as she took the quiz.
Aside from a soccer ball sticker and a "Toadally Awesome!" stamp, it has no other markings on it.
That's because once again, she received a perfect score.
This is Schuyler. Two years ago, we were told that she was not intellectually capable of using this AAC device, the Big Box of Words; it was deemed, in the school district's final report before she actually acquired the device, to be "educationally unnecessary".
This is Schuyler. Two years ago, and also another two years before that, we were told that her future lay in general special education classes. We were informed that she was most likely suffering from some level of mental retardation and would likely remain in the care of special education until the day she was old enough to become Our Problem rather than Their Problem.
This is Schuyler. She is learning to use the BBoW on its highest setting, its most advanced vocabulary. She's already better at it than we are. She likes to show off on it and is already embracing the new vocabulary possibilities. Also, it has more dinosaurs.
There's a word that is forbidden in this home. It's a word that sounds very kind and nurturing, like something you might hear on Sesame Street, a word that spawned the Holland thing. We've been handed this word over and over again, and we reject it, completely. The word is a cage, plain and simple, and it's a cage we'd be putting Schuyler into if we embraced it.
ACCEPTANCE.
We don't accept a thing, because Schuyler doesn't. She never wants comfort or pity or acceptance. She has things to say, and she wants to say them. She wants to live a life as close as she can to the ones you and I live, not as a "special little champ" or "perfect just the way she is" or whatfucking ever, but as a punky, funny, smart and troublemaking little girl. She is Chaos in Chuck Taylors. And if you get in her way, she'll knock you over, because she's lost enough time and she knows it. She's flawed, more than some but not so much as others, and she knows that, too, and she doesn't shed a tear about it. While I worry and get sad, she rolls up her sleeves and gets to work.
Acceptance wouldn't be for her. It would be for us, for our fears of failure. I can't speak for any other parents out there, of children who are broken or exceptional or shy or hyperactive or just plain weird or whatever. But for myself, I was blessed from the very beginning because while I had a great deal of fear, Schuyler had none. She has none today.
And she has no use for Holland, either.
April 27, 2007
"There you could look at a thing monstrous and free..."
In a moment of seemingly random generosity, two different readers sent Schuyler items off her Amazon list, and all but one of the items were related to her love of monsters.
One of them blew her mind. I wish I'd had a camera ready when I walked into the living room with a purple dragon puppet (with unseen controls) on my shoulder. I wish you could see her expression when she said hello to it and it answered her.
I had a rough week. I needed that.
For the first time, Schuyler is going to write her own thank you notes.
And life goes on. Perfect moments on a spectacularly imperfect canvas.
I know it's easy to think that because things are going well for Schuyler and for me professionally, there would be nothing but happy times. I can't imagine for a moment why that isn't the case. The world is supposed to make sense, it's supposed to be ruled by logic and a sequence of events and behaviors that are connected and rational, and yet it so rarely works out that way.
When things get confusing like they are now, I run to the only person in the world who has never disappointed me and who never sees me as weak or stupid or ugly. Or broken.
Schuyler and I are broken, but we never see each other that way. We play with toy monsters and leave the real ones outside the door for just a little while. I suppose everyone's broken, really. And like that line in Schuyler's favorite movie, the thing we come to learn about ourselves is our undying ability to destroy the things we love.
One day, Schuyler and I will damage each other, too. But for now, I'm taking her to the zoo. The hurt and the chaos of this grand rough world will just have to fucking wait.
One of them blew her mind. I wish I'd had a camera ready when I walked into the living room with a purple dragon puppet (with unseen controls) on my shoulder. I wish you could see her expression when she said hello to it and it answered her.
I had a rough week. I needed that.
For the first time, Schuyler is going to write her own thank you notes.
And life goes on. Perfect moments on a spectacularly imperfect canvas.
I know it's easy to think that because things are going well for Schuyler and for me professionally, there would be nothing but happy times. I can't imagine for a moment why that isn't the case. The world is supposed to make sense, it's supposed to be ruled by logic and a sequence of events and behaviors that are connected and rational, and yet it so rarely works out that way.
When things get confusing like they are now, I run to the only person in the world who has never disappointed me and who never sees me as weak or stupid or ugly. Or broken.
Schuyler and I are broken, but we never see each other that way. We play with toy monsters and leave the real ones outside the door for just a little while. I suppose everyone's broken, really. And like that line in Schuyler's favorite movie, the thing we come to learn about ourselves is our undying ability to destroy the things we love.
One day, Schuyler and I will damage each other, too. But for now, I'm taking her to the zoo. The hurt and the chaos of this grand rough world will just have to fucking wait.
April 24, 2007
Return of the fancy
Tomorrow, I'm going to spend the day in Austin pretending to be a fancy pants author, visiting some book stores to promote my fancy pantsedness. I can't tell you how nice it'll be to get out of Dallas, even just for the day. My pants, they have not been feeling so fancy lately.
If you are a fancy pants media person in Austin and are thinking of attending the very first ever fancy pants mediabistro.com All-Media Party in Austin, I hope to see you there.
Remember, wear your fancy pants. (Well, dress for the party is casual, so your pants need only be fancy in your BRAIN...)
If you are a fancy pants media person in Austin and are thinking of attending the very first ever fancy pants mediabistro.com All-Media Party in Austin, I hope to see you there.
Remember, wear your fancy pants. (Well, dress for the party is casual, so your pants need only be fancy in your BRAIN...)
April 22, 2007
Dispatches from inside monster-occupied territory
One of the things we'd sort of come to accept about Schuyler's condition was that the effects of polymicrogyria on her fine motor skills meant that handwriting for her was always going to be difficult, if not impossible. For a long time, her writing was awkward to the point of being unreadable, which was less of a problem once she started to do well on the Big Box of Words. It was generally accepted that Schuyler will almost certainly never be able to speak and probably not be able to write, either, but with the BBBoW, that was fine. It was one more aspect of PMG that she might not be able to knock down, but with the right tools, she could just walk around it instead.
One of Schuyler's defining characteristics, however, is her stubborn refusal to give up on something. That's not going to be a surprise to anyone who's been reading about her for even just a little while. When something defeats her, you can see it in her eyes, beneath her cheerful shrug of acceptance. Outwardly, she seems to say "Okay, whatever, no big deal." Watch carefully, however, and you'll see that last lingering glance. "I'll be back to kick your ass later." And she always does.
In the past month or two, her handwriting has suddenly improved dramatically. She loves to spell, and she loves to write. (As an author, you have no idea how happy that makes me, even if she ends up writing a book one day saying how full of crap I was.) When she woke me up this morning, the first thing she did was start writing notes. The first was this one, "Love mommy and daddy". The second was a note demanding cereal for breakfast.
It's clumsy, sure, and when she runs out of space, she continues mid-word on the next line. But damn it, she's writing, and we can read it, and that's just one more thing we were told she'd probably never do.
It may not look like much to you, but to us, it's like professional calligraphy.
One of Schuyler's defining characteristics, however, is her stubborn refusal to give up on something. That's not going to be a surprise to anyone who's been reading about her for even just a little while. When something defeats her, you can see it in her eyes, beneath her cheerful shrug of acceptance. Outwardly, she seems to say "Okay, whatever, no big deal." Watch carefully, however, and you'll see that last lingering glance. "I'll be back to kick your ass later." And she always does.
In the past month or two, her handwriting has suddenly improved dramatically. She loves to spell, and she loves to write. (As an author, you have no idea how happy that makes me, even if she ends up writing a book one day saying how full of crap I was.) When she woke me up this morning, the first thing she did was start writing notes. The first was this one, "Love mommy and daddy". The second was a note demanding cereal for breakfast.
It's clumsy, sure, and when she runs out of space, she continues mid-word on the next line. But damn it, she's writing, and we can read it, and that's just one more thing we were told she'd probably never do.
It may not look like much to you, but to us, it's like professional calligraphy.
April 21, 2007
Tiny paleontology
Schuyler has more to tell you this morning...
-----
My dinosaur is orange and yellow and green. She has red eyes. She roars and eats little dinosaurs. She has friends. I love dinosaur. Her name is Lana. My Dragon is name Zoe. My dinosaur is a tyrannosaurus rex! Good-bye to daddies friends!
-----
(Just so you know, we looked on this stupid thing for five minutes, trying to find how to do an apostophe s before she gave up and just went with the plural. The BBoW knows how to keep its secrets. On the other hand, she knew exactly where to find "tyrannosaurus rex". Go figure.)
-----
My dinosaur is orange and yellow and green. She has red eyes. She roars and eats little dinosaurs. She has friends. I love dinosaur. Her name is Lana. My Dragon is name Zoe. My dinosaur is a tyrannosaurus rex! Good-bye to daddies friends!
-----
(Just so you know, we looked on this stupid thing for five minutes, trying to find how to do an apostophe s before she gave up and just went with the plural. The BBoW knows how to keep its secrets. On the other hand, she knew exactly where to find "tyrannosaurus rex". Go figure.)
April 20, 2007
Another Inconvenient Truth
Before the fluttering of TV-ready flags and the patriotic, outraged sputtering gets too loud for anyone to think clearly, let's hear it once straight up.
The thumping has already begun, the wailing of "They don't support the troooooops!", and if past experience is any indication, the Democrats will soon be issuing "clarifications" about what the senator really meant and trying to water down what was actually a much-needed stiff drink.
So before Senator Reid ascends the wobbly tower of public relations Jell-o, let me throw in my own opinion.
He's right. The war is lost.
It was lost long ago. Maybe from the very first day.
It wasn't lost by the troops. It was lost very much in spite of the troops.
It was lost by old men in Washington, D.C.
If they can resist the indignant cries from that small but loud percentage of the extreme right who would unconditionally support the president even if he shot up a college campus or ate a puppy on television, the Democrats might just turn back into a party with some measure of leadership.
They just need to know one thing most of all. Here's that thing, the one they might not completely know because no one on either side of the aisle seems to be able to hear the voice of the People (with a big P) very clearly,
We already know the war is lost.
We may be stupid, easily distracted, American Idol-watching children, but we know the war is lost. Speak what's true, and we'll listen, we'll listen because we already know it, even if we're not all ready to say it. We need leaders to say it and to actually lead us out of the dark.
I've had my heart broken in the past by Democrats who stood up and spoke hard truths, only to weasel and wiggle back across the line when the heat got turned up. But even knowing how it usually turns out, I do still so love that brief moment when the party of my idealistic youth stands up like an aging bull ready to take one last futile stab at the matador, forgetting for just that moment of clarity to fear the butcher's block and the Hamburger Helper yet to come.
Support the troops with more than a ribbon magnet on your SUV. Get our people out of there.
"I believe myself that the secretary of state, secretary of defense and -- you have to make your own decisions as to what the president knows -- (know) this war is lost and the surge is not accomplishing anything as indicated by the extreme violence in Iraq yesterday."
-- Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, April 19, 2007
The thumping has already begun, the wailing of "They don't support the troooooops!", and if past experience is any indication, the Democrats will soon be issuing "clarifications" about what the senator really meant and trying to water down what was actually a much-needed stiff drink.
So before Senator Reid ascends the wobbly tower of public relations Jell-o, let me throw in my own opinion.
He's right. The war is lost.
It was lost long ago. Maybe from the very first day.
It wasn't lost by the troops. It was lost very much in spite of the troops.
It was lost by old men in Washington, D.C.
If they can resist the indignant cries from that small but loud percentage of the extreme right who would unconditionally support the president even if he shot up a college campus or ate a puppy on television, the Democrats might just turn back into a party with some measure of leadership.
They just need to know one thing most of all. Here's that thing, the one they might not completely know because no one on either side of the aisle seems to be able to hear the voice of the People (with a big P) very clearly,
We already know the war is lost.
We may be stupid, easily distracted, American Idol-watching children, but we know the war is lost. Speak what's true, and we'll listen, we'll listen because we already know it, even if we're not all ready to say it. We need leaders to say it and to actually lead us out of the dark.
I've had my heart broken in the past by Democrats who stood up and spoke hard truths, only to weasel and wiggle back across the line when the heat got turned up. But even knowing how it usually turns out, I do still so love that brief moment when the party of my idealistic youth stands up like an aging bull ready to take one last futile stab at the matador, forgetting for just that moment of clarity to fear the butcher's block and the Hamburger Helper yet to come.
Support the troops with more than a ribbon magnet on your SUV. Get our people out of there.
April 17, 2007
Large things made small
You know, when there's a huge new event in the world, I always have to pause and see if I have anything to say about it here. After yesterday's events in Virginia, I didn't think I did. It was obviously as upsetting to me as it was to the rest of the country and the world, but that didn't mean I had anything particularly unique to say about it. I didn't think I had a personal reaction to offer about the effect of such large, remote events on my own small world or that of my family.
But then, I didn't expect to feel such a heavy sense of unease, such a stone in the pit of my stomach, as Schuyler got on her school bus this morning. I never felt such an urge to go outside and wave the bus away like I did today.
What a world we live in. So it goes.
Update: I just watched a CNN reporter completely lose his composure while he described the local emergency officials removing the bodies from Norris Hall as the dead students' cell phones were ringing and buzzing, their frantic parents tried to make sure that they were okay. I don't even know what to do with that image.
But then, I didn't expect to feel such a heavy sense of unease, such a stone in the pit of my stomach, as Schuyler got on her school bus this morning. I never felt such an urge to go outside and wave the bus away like I did today.
What a world we live in. So it goes.
Update: I just watched a CNN reporter completely lose his composure while he described the local emergency officials removing the bodies from Norris Hall as the dead students' cell phones were ringing and buzzing, their frantic parents tried to make sure that they were okay. I don't even know what to do with that image.
April 15, 2007
This could be the start of something interesting...
Okay, so the thing we discovered in our Box Class a few days ago? The one that I said I was just going to spring on you? Well, we learned how to interface directly between the BBoW and our laptops. This means that Schuyler can now send emails, input into Word documents and, well, blog. Good thing, too, since she wants to tell you about her new friend...)
-----
my Dragon eats elephants . My Dragon is green . I love Dragon . she can fly! She is my friend.
-----
(Note: Yep, it's apparently a chickie dragon. Well, of course it is.)
-----
my Dragon eats elephants . My Dragon is green . I love Dragon . she can fly! She is my friend.
-----
(Note: Yep, it's apparently a chickie dragon. Well, of course it is.)
April 14, 2007
April 12, 2007
April 11, 2007
Love your pets
So I got a surprise comment left on a previous entry, Things to do in Plano, from none other than the brother of the monkey guy himself.
Believe me, you've missed most of the story on this one. For the whole truth, and to see why you've all been suckered into taking part in character assassination of a really nice man, go check out www.savedarwin.com.
In the interest of fairness, you can go check out the rest of the story. I will say that as I read what's on the site, I honestly think there are a lot of holes in the story, but you can judge for yourself.
(Perhaps this might be a good time to read up on why having a pet monkey is a phenomenally bad idea. I haven't read the whole site, so I don't know if it addresses something I've always heard, that little tiny boy monkeys will jump up on your shoulder and have sex with your ear. Maybe that's best left a mystery.)
So here you go. Let it never be said that I don't provide both sides of the story. Or that I'm not here to meet all your scandalous monkey love needs. You're welcome.
April 8, 2007
Fragile Innocence
Julie ran across a passage in a book she's reading, James Reston, Jr.'s Fragile Innocence: A Father's Memoir of His Daughter's Courageous Journey .
Reston writes about his daughter, Hillary, who was stricken at the age of eighteen months with a high fever that left her significantly (and mysteriously) impaired. His descriptions of the onset of her seizures is enough to keep us up at night. But it was this observation that resonated with Julie, and with me, enough to share with you.
We haven't finished the book yet, but so far, it has given us a sobering and gripping look at a family dealing with another child's monster, one that is much bigger and more sinister but vaguely familiar all the same.
Reston writes about his daughter, Hillary, who was stricken at the age of eighteen months with a high fever that left her significantly (and mysteriously) impaired. His descriptions of the onset of her seizures is enough to keep us up at night. But it was this observation that resonated with Julie, and with me, enough to share with you.
When we moved to Washington that summer, the coldness and embarrassment of strangers were evident. With Hillary's yips and her strange gait and her impulsive gestures and her hovering parents, it was clear to any passerby that something was wrong with her. Strangers turned away or looked at her curiously as if she were an exotic creature from Mars or the circus. As we met new people, their reaction to Hillary, whether inviting or embarrassed, became a litmus test of whether we chose to pursue the relationship. In our minds we knew this to be unfair, and later we came to realize, in our denseness, that good and well-intentioned people often simply did not know how to react. But we could not help it. It meant that our circle of friends shrank to a precious few.
We haven't finished the book yet, but so far, it has given us a sobering and gripping look at a family dealing with another child's monster, one that is much bigger and more sinister but vaguely familiar all the same.
Reminder
I should probably post something like this every now and then, especially as we get closer to the book release.
Coffee Talk
Sometimes we do things for Schuyler that help her along in the world. We make decisions and sacrifices that turn out to be the right ones and which propel her down smooth, bright roads.
Sometimes she does it herself. Most of the time, she pushes herself down those roads.
The other day, we took Schuyler to a local mall so she could run around and play without being subjected to (or subjecting us to) fried "foods", cheap Happy Meal toys or demented clowns. At this particular semi-fancy mall, there is a huge play area that Schuyler loves. It is one of those new trendy playgrounds made of squishy giant forms that the kids can climb around on and fall off of without incurring litigation.
In the case of this particular play area, the theme was "giant breakfast". A twenty-foot plate held a steak the size of a queen-sized mattress and two wagon wheel-sized eggs. A slice of grapefruit was topped by a cherry the size of a basketball. It is a very very cool playground.
Schuyler was having her usual great time on the Big Breakfast; I think it's probably her favorite place to play, with the possible exception of the previously mentioned and oft-requested Clown House. As she tends to do, it wasn't long before she'd made some friends. In this case, it was two sisters who wanted to run around the giant plate, alternately chasing and being chased by Schuyler, and their brother, who kept us as best as he could despite a cast on one leg.
After exhausting themselves, the four of them climbed into the giant, jacuzzi-sized cup of coffee and began the whole "So who are you and what's your scene?" discussion. Before it got very far, Schuyler ran over to us and grabbed her Big Box of Words.
What happened next stopped us in our tracks. And by us, I don't mean just Julie and I, but rather every parent in the area. We all sat, silently mesmerized, as Schuyler began demonstrating her device and asking questions of all the kids present. The four turned to six, and then eight little kids crowded around the giant cup, fascinated by this hard-playing, hard-laughing little girl with the robot voice. All the adults watched in wonder as a crowd formed around one little girl. I think they worried about the Revolution of the Small beginning at that moment.
At the center of it all was Schuyler. She asked everyone their names and how old they were, and she answered their questions as best as she could. She led a cyborgian rendition of "Old Macdonald Had a Farm". And when one little girl repeatedly tried to reach over and take the BBoW, Schuyler told her "No." and sternly pointed at the ground outside the cup until the little girl glumly climbed out and skulked away.
Banished by the Cyborg Princess. It's a harsh world in Schuyler's Coffee Cup.
For a full twenty minutes, Schuyler held court, and kids came and went from her audience, aside from the siblings she'd befriended, who never left or took their eyes of off of her. It was only after the kids' mother came up nervously and started checking them out that I approached them. I could see at a glance, as is often the case, that while the kids were all fascinated by and even envious of Schuyler and the BBoW, their mom was a little freaked out.
That's how it usually happens. Almost every time, actually. If someone gets spooked by Schuyler or her monster, it's almost always another adult, as if their kid might catch whatever she has. Kids her age tend to absorb what's different, make their quick adjustments in order to facilitate play, and them go on. Can't talk? Well then, let's run around and howl instead.
When I came over to check on her, Schuyler looked up at me and smiled. I could tell she was as happy at that moment as she's ever been. Then she turned to her new friends, lifted the BBoW over her head without looking at me until I dutifully took it from her, and then she leapt out of the cup and ran away, off to conquer the giant bacon.
Her new gang of transfixed friends followed close on her heels. They didn't leave her side until their skittish mother finally took them home, and their eyes followed Schuyler until they were out of sight.
She was already making a new friend by then.
Sometimes she does it herself. Most of the time, she pushes herself down those roads.
The other day, we took Schuyler to a local mall so she could run around and play without being subjected to (or subjecting us to) fried "foods", cheap Happy Meal toys or demented clowns. At this particular semi-fancy mall, there is a huge play area that Schuyler loves. It is one of those new trendy playgrounds made of squishy giant forms that the kids can climb around on and fall off of without incurring litigation.
In the case of this particular play area, the theme was "giant breakfast". A twenty-foot plate held a steak the size of a queen-sized mattress and two wagon wheel-sized eggs. A slice of grapefruit was topped by a cherry the size of a basketball. It is a very very cool playground.
Schuyler was having her usual great time on the Big Breakfast; I think it's probably her favorite place to play, with the possible exception of the previously mentioned and oft-requested Clown House. As she tends to do, it wasn't long before she'd made some friends. In this case, it was two sisters who wanted to run around the giant plate, alternately chasing and being chased by Schuyler, and their brother, who kept us as best as he could despite a cast on one leg.
After exhausting themselves, the four of them climbed into the giant, jacuzzi-sized cup of coffee and began the whole "So who are you and what's your scene?" discussion. Before it got very far, Schuyler ran over to us and grabbed her Big Box of Words.
What happened next stopped us in our tracks. And by us, I don't mean just Julie and I, but rather every parent in the area. We all sat, silently mesmerized, as Schuyler began demonstrating her device and asking questions of all the kids present. The four turned to six, and then eight little kids crowded around the giant cup, fascinated by this hard-playing, hard-laughing little girl with the robot voice. All the adults watched in wonder as a crowd formed around one little girl. I think they worried about the Revolution of the Small beginning at that moment.
At the center of it all was Schuyler. She asked everyone their names and how old they were, and she answered their questions as best as she could. She led a cyborgian rendition of "Old Macdonald Had a Farm". And when one little girl repeatedly tried to reach over and take the BBoW, Schuyler told her "No." and sternly pointed at the ground outside the cup until the little girl glumly climbed out and skulked away.
Banished by the Cyborg Princess. It's a harsh world in Schuyler's Coffee Cup.
For a full twenty minutes, Schuyler held court, and kids came and went from her audience, aside from the siblings she'd befriended, who never left or took their eyes of off of her. It was only after the kids' mother came up nervously and started checking them out that I approached them. I could see at a glance, as is often the case, that while the kids were all fascinated by and even envious of Schuyler and the BBoW, their mom was a little freaked out.
That's how it usually happens. Almost every time, actually. If someone gets spooked by Schuyler or her monster, it's almost always another adult, as if their kid might catch whatever she has. Kids her age tend to absorb what's different, make their quick adjustments in order to facilitate play, and them go on. Can't talk? Well then, let's run around and howl instead.
When I came over to check on her, Schuyler looked up at me and smiled. I could tell she was as happy at that moment as she's ever been. Then she turned to her new friends, lifted the BBoW over her head without looking at me until I dutifully took it from her, and then she leapt out of the cup and ran away, off to conquer the giant bacon.
Her new gang of transfixed friends followed close on her heels. They didn't leave her side until their skittish mother finally took them home, and their eyes followed Schuyler until they were out of sight.
She was already making a new friend by then.
April 6, 2007
A Prayer for My Daughter
I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.
From "A Prayer for My Daughter"
by William Butler Yeats
April 4, 2007
Things to do in Plano
Sometimes it pays to read your local news.
A man right here in Plano, Texas had his monkey taken away from him, and was then accused of sending monkey porn to his incarcerated pet. Or maybe it wasn't monkey porn, says the guy who originally made the allegation but is now reconsidering his opinion. Maybe it was just the heartfelt expression of a guy who loves his monkey.
I really do think that this story ran in the paper for no other reason than to serve as an excuse to print the following quote:
"I don't have sex with my monkey." It's my personal belief that if you find yourself in the position where you feel it necessary to make that statement to the news media, you might just have a serious image problem. Also, you sound totally guilty.
A man right here in Plano, Texas had his monkey taken away from him, and was then accused of sending monkey porn to his incarcerated pet. Or maybe it wasn't monkey porn, says the guy who originally made the allegation but is now reconsidering his opinion. Maybe it was just the heartfelt expression of a guy who loves his monkey.
I really do think that this story ran in the paper for no other reason than to serve as an excuse to print the following quote:
"I don't have sex with my monkey. That's absolute crap," Mr. Crawford said. "Why would I do that? I gave him an audiotape, but it didn't have anything like that on it. It said, 'I'm coming home, I'm coming to get you. Daddy's coming, he's coming to get you,' " Mr. Crawford said.
"I don't have sex with my monkey." It's my personal belief that if you find yourself in the position where you feel it necessary to make that statement to the news media, you might just have a serious image problem. Also, you sound totally guilty.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)