I need a bookmark

Last week I was at the book shop purchasing "real life & liars" by Kristina Riggle (more on this book soon) when I overheard a wonderful conversation.

A little girl in a marvelous pink sundress, funky braids sticking out every which way on her head, pointed stubbornly at a display of bookmarks and said, "Daddy, I NEED a bookmark."

If she, by some remote chance, was actually old enough to read, she most certainly did not read books that required a bookmark, but her mature little stance, hands on her hips, as she made her declaration was perfectly remarkable. I nearly scooped up this child and carried her home with me. Heck, I would have lured her with candy and bookmarks right out the door.

Her Dad was much more practical, of course, and he said, "Do you need it? Or do you want it? There's a difference."

And, I have to tell you, this girl did not proceed to jump right in and start defending herself as children often do. Instead, she really thought about this. I mean, seriously considered this. She truly took her time. Eventually, she sighed, and said with confidence, "I don't need it. I just want it."

I nearly offered to buy this precious child 100 bookmarks of her choosing. She was just too much.

But, she made me think a lot about the things we need. I'm not sure how often we step back and ask ourselves: Do you need it? Or want it?

The Statue

My friend Taryn was chatting about an experiment she had heard on the radio to study job satisfaction. You'll have to forgive me if I get some of the details wrong. I had a few glasses of wine before she told this story. ;-) The study was conducted using two groups. Each member of the first group was asked to construct a tiny statue out of a kit. And after each statue was completed they were given $1.

The other group was also asked to make the same statue using the same supplies. After each statue was completed they were given $5. But once they finished their statue, the organizer disassembled it and asked them to make it again. When they finished it, the organizer disassembled it and asked them to make it again. And when they finished it...well, you catch the trend?

The second group walked out on the job much quicker than the 1st group, even though they were making 5 times as much money.

This story really made me think. I actually don't consider this a metaphor for writing or editing or querying or critiquing or any of that. Yes, as aspiring writers, there's a lot of getting knocked down and picking yourself back up again. But, unless you have some really mean critique partners, people aren't exactly destroying what you've created.

It just occurred to me that not every creative outlet is like that. There are jobs in which creativity is often analyzed and revised and ripped apart until none of the original intent is left. So I actually found it lucky that, for now...and I don't exactly know yet how this might change... writing is a creative outlet in which everything I build is 100% mine. That makes me happy.

Competition

I've been thinking a little bit about competition these days. I haven't really competed in anything seriously since high school when I participated in a variety of sports teams. And after high school, I no longer participated in those sports. I never became competitive about grades at the university or climbing the corporate ladder in the work place.

Even now, I participate in activities that challenge no one but myself. I bike, not to win races, but to prove to myself that I can climb a hill or go a distance I never thought I could. And I write stories only to prove to myself that I can.

As I thought about this, I noticed a trend. In a way, I'm always in a competition between the Melissa, last week, and the Melissa, this week. The Melissa, this week, wants to win. She wants to bike a little farther. To get up the hill a little faster. To write a better story than the last one. Everything is an inner competition that doesn't involve anyone else.

I wonder about that. Are you a competitive person? Do you compete with others? Or yourself?

The Heart Of A Place

The more time I spend in New York City (I have been living here since 2004) the more I realize what an intimate place it is. I don't know if others view it that way. The sheer amount of people, the absurd pace of life, the lingering anonymity might lead us to believe that New York is a place of loud, rude, superficial encounters. It isn't.

Our local bodega is a very nondescript, somewhat dingy place, but it is our place. The owner is always there to talk about the daily news. He knows everything that is happening in the world as it unfolds, sitting in front of his portable television behind the counter. And on sunny days he sits outside in a metal folding chair waiting for customers, smiling and enjoying time spent outside his small, windowless world. He has talked me through some very serious deliberations about what pint of ice cream I should buy and his door is open when all the other doors in our neighborhood are closed.

But for the past week, the place has been sealed shut, the result of what I can only assume was a fire, although I can't find any record of it anywhere. The past few days we have noticed that hand-written notes have been popping up to say, simply, We miss you.

To know the heart of a place is not easy. It is often discovered slowly, after many years. People come to New York for many reasons. And, despite the amount of people here, it can be a lonely, often desperate, city. But it is not a city of strangers.

Unfinished

I have had this strange feeling in the past few weeks of being left behind. I watch lives unfold and realize that I’m the little girl who has been sent to bed, wondering what all the adults are doing just outside my bedroom.
I suppose it is okay to feel a little unfinished while everyone else forges ahead. But I wonder if patience will ever find me. If I’ll ever be able to close my eyes and be content. Sometimes it’s difficult to ignore everything that’s happening just outside the door.

Book Nerds

Overheard in my kitchen while cooking dinner.

"See," Tyler points to the television where Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire is playing in the background with the Dark Lord threatening our dear Harry. "This is where Harry Potter is really ratcheted up a notch."

"What do you mean? His life has always been in danger. Even in the first book."

"Yeah but this is the first time he has somebody Avada Kedavra-ing in his face."

Let’s Start At the Very Beginning. A Very Good Place to Start*

You heard from me last, confused and concerned about a last minute addition to a manuscript that has been patiently waiting for its missing piece. I’m happy to say that I discovered it, after thinking about it before I slept, obsessing over it all day yesterday, churning it around in my mind through a particularly grueling spin class, and babbling about it to Tyler over dinner. Never mind all the subconscious thought during the 3 months the manuscript slept, curled up in a little drawer.

I expect to make a lot of mistakes in my ‘first’ novel. And yesterday, I knew that the direction I was taking was a mistake. I was concerned that what I was doing didn’t fit and flow. It didn’t.

Like I said, I had a scene that didn’t fit anywhere but it was key to a secondary storyline. I mistakenly thought that scene was in the middle of the story arc and I tried, and failed, to make it work that way. As soon as I realized that the scene was actually at the very end of the story arc it became that literary lightbulb moment that left me writing late last night and even on the subway this morning.

I can only smile. Shake my head. Realizing that all of my mistakes come from forgetting the most basic rule of storytelling. Beginning. Middle. End…

*Maria Von Trapp, you’ve saved me once again…

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