Played softball last night, starting at third. It's been several weeks since I last played there, but I actually felt pretty comfortable. I made the plays that came to me (with one exception, in which I short-hopped a throw to the second baseman, who didn't catch it). Even the umpire commended me for my play at third during the game, which surprised me. I was on the back end of a line-out double play, where the pitcher caught the liner and gunned it over to me. Frankly we both thought the runner had gotten back, but I'll take the umpire's word for it.
I think I prefer it to short and second. While the speed of the ball coming in can be disconcerting, there's not much time to think about it. You either make the play or you don't. One of the plays in which I didn't, my footing went out from under me. I was annoyed, but I couldn't do anything about it once the ball was into left field. Another advantage third has is that I'm generally not involved in many cut-offs. Occasionally I might have to take a throw from the left fielder, but the shortstop takes most of them. I'll relay information about whether to throw through to third or to cut and hold, but it's basically like being a destination spot. It's almost like being a catcher again!
The important part of last night's game, however, was not as positive. We got killed, 20-3. I scored one of the runs, having walked in my second plate appearance. I didn't get another one.
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Monday, June 28, 2004
Chapter 11: Revising The Process
I was walking Riley, our cat, on Saturday morning after I'd run my six miles, when I decided that putting both "long runs" on the same day probably wasn't necessary. By that I mean the physical long run and the extended writing day. I'm going to switch the long writing day to either Fridays or Tuesdays.
Tuesdays are when Maureen's off at squad duty, so I have computer access, but Fridays offer more time. I'll experiment this week. With the holiday coming, I should be able to get more than 15 pages in this week.
The running has been fine, though I'm struggling to find a good route for the runs longer than five miles. Experimentation again is the rule of the day.
Tuesdays are when Maureen's off at squad duty, so I have computer access, but Fridays offer more time. I'll experiment this week. With the holiday coming, I should be able to get more than 15 pages in this week.
The running has been fine, though I'm struggling to find a good route for the runs longer than five miles. Experimentation again is the rule of the day.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Chapter 10.7: I, Idiot
I stayed home for a couple hours today because we were having work done on our washing machine. We'd been unable to use it for more than a week because it wouldn't agitate. Our friend John Martini had come over on Sunday and we investigated the problem without success. We couldn't access all the motors and things, but we were able to test the electronics. We thought we'd isolated the problem -- by process of elimination -- to the transmission or what we thought was an alternator.
John suggested a local repairman he trusted. The name was familiar to me too, and when he returned my call he suggested I contact General Electric, because if it was still under warranty I'd save money. I like an honest business owner. I set up the appointment for today, and I was ready to assist the technician by relaying what John and I had learned.
The man arrived within the expected four-hour time window. I told him the problem as I saw it. He noticed the little flap where the probe from the loading door hit was out of place. It had been that way for months. John and I had played with it on Sunday as well. The washer had worked in the past with the flap out of place, though it spun regardless of whether the door was open or not. Today the appliance man flipped that flap back into its proper alignment. Just like that, the washer agitated again. I couldn't believe it; we'd tried that on Sunday!
And just like that I was out nearly $100 for his visit. I felt like a fool, but a fool who can clean his clothes again. It would have cost more had it been what I'd feared. Though the transmission was under warranty, the labor wasn't. (I don't understand that scheme.) So instead of a $150 job, I'd spent $100 for the five minutes this man was in my house.
I told Maureen what had happened. "I spent $100 for this guy to show me I'm an idiot," I said. "I usually get that for free."
John suggested a local repairman he trusted. The name was familiar to me too, and when he returned my call he suggested I contact General Electric, because if it was still under warranty I'd save money. I like an honest business owner. I set up the appointment for today, and I was ready to assist the technician by relaying what John and I had learned.
The man arrived within the expected four-hour time window. I told him the problem as I saw it. He noticed the little flap where the probe from the loading door hit was out of place. It had been that way for months. John and I had played with it on Sunday as well. The washer had worked in the past with the flap out of place, though it spun regardless of whether the door was open or not. Today the appliance man flipped that flap back into its proper alignment. Just like that, the washer agitated again. I couldn't believe it; we'd tried that on Sunday!
And just like that I was out nearly $100 for his visit. I felt like a fool, but a fool who can clean his clothes again. It would have cost more had it been what I'd feared. Though the transmission was under warranty, the labor wasn't. (I don't understand that scheme.) So instead of a $150 job, I'd spent $100 for the five minutes this man was in my house.
I told Maureen what had happened. "I spent $100 for this guy to show me I'm an idiot," I said. "I usually get that for free."
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Chapter 10.6: Old Friends
Happened upon the Web site of an old high school buddy of mine today. Leif Welch has been in a few bands in the years I've known him, including one with me that played for one gig only at Drew University, back in 1992 or '93. It's hard to even call that a band, but it was actually the first time I got paid to perform: $100 total, which I split four ways.
He later had a band based in New York called Trip to Mars, which I opened for a few times at Desmond's Tavern in New York in the mid '90s. I played solo under my own name and also with my friends John Upwood and Helen Nadel in a group known as Rebecca's Key. I don't think we got paid for those gigs, but I got some free beer, which in those days was the same thing as money. Plus I enjoyed having waitresses think I was someone important because I was opening for Leif's band. Ah the joy of angst-driven songs and a halfway decent voice to back them up. Back then I wrote songs that my sister has described as "songs about getting dissed by women." I guess I'm too happy in my love life to write such songs now. There are worse excuses for not playing guitar.
Leif eventually left the East Coast, heading to grad school in Chicago and apparently now lives in San Francisco. Perhaps I'll be able to catch up with him there whenever Maureen and I visit her brother and his family. Hope he's doing well.
He later had a band based in New York called Trip to Mars, which I opened for a few times at Desmond's Tavern in New York in the mid '90s. I played solo under my own name and also with my friends John Upwood and Helen Nadel in a group known as Rebecca's Key. I don't think we got paid for those gigs, but I got some free beer, which in those days was the same thing as money. Plus I enjoyed having waitresses think I was someone important because I was opening for Leif's band. Ah the joy of angst-driven songs and a halfway decent voice to back them up. Back then I wrote songs that my sister has described as "songs about getting dissed by women." I guess I'm too happy in my love life to write such songs now. There are worse excuses for not playing guitar.
Leif eventually left the East Coast, heading to grad school in Chicago and apparently now lives in San Francisco. Perhaps I'll be able to catch up with him there whenever Maureen and I visit her brother and his family. Hope he's doing well.
Chapter 10.5: Field & Dream
Is there anything more lonely than an empty baseball field? It's so sad to see -- all that potential fun going unused. There aren't enough baseballs in the world to satisfy my need to knock a few around the park.
If heaven is anything akin to the Norse visions of battle fields where warriors fight their battles, perhaps fall on the field, then return again the next day, then my nirvana would be to play baseball forever. I know it sounds like Field of Dreams, but that's why that film touched so many people. (Oh yeah, and the idea of connecting with one's father.)
Baseball doesn't seem to be as popular as it was when I was young. Kids today like to play it, but I lived in my back yard imagining myself pitching to batters, formulating a Whiffleball league of whales and sharks and dolphins and elephants and assorted others. Players with histories, families. Making trades, selling clubs to my friends, then acting as commissioner when they weren't honoring the league's traditions. (I was a bit of a pain in the ass, I guess.)
My point is I didn't need a whole team of players to create a game. Heck, I'd play by myself if no one was available.
Is it a lack of imagination that keeps children off baseball fields these days? Is it parents' fears of litigation that instills within a child a reluctance to pitch another kid inside when there's nothing on the line? Does any child in the Brayton school district of Summit know what qualifies as a double or a triple when playing stick ball at Memorial Field?
There is nothing wrong with boys and girls playing baseball for hours by themselves. It's not a waste of time. It's imaginative, it's creative, it's structured ("If you hit it to right field, you're out, because we don't have anyone covering there"), it's healthy. Kids strengthen their arms by throwing, their legs by running, their social skills by being their own umpires.
"Go out and play, be home for dinner by 6"
If heaven is anything akin to the Norse visions of battle fields where warriors fight their battles, perhaps fall on the field, then return again the next day, then my nirvana would be to play baseball forever. I know it sounds like Field of Dreams, but that's why that film touched so many people. (Oh yeah, and the idea of connecting with one's father.)
Baseball doesn't seem to be as popular as it was when I was young. Kids today like to play it, but I lived in my back yard imagining myself pitching to batters, formulating a Whiffleball league of whales and sharks and dolphins and elephants and assorted others. Players with histories, families. Making trades, selling clubs to my friends, then acting as commissioner when they weren't honoring the league's traditions. (I was a bit of a pain in the ass, I guess.)
My point is I didn't need a whole team of players to create a game. Heck, I'd play by myself if no one was available.
Is it a lack of imagination that keeps children off baseball fields these days? Is it parents' fears of litigation that instills within a child a reluctance to pitch another kid inside when there's nothing on the line? Does any child in the Brayton school district of Summit know what qualifies as a double or a triple when playing stick ball at Memorial Field?
There is nothing wrong with boys and girls playing baseball for hours by themselves. It's not a waste of time. It's imaginative, it's creative, it's structured ("If you hit it to right field, you're out, because we don't have anyone covering there"), it's healthy. Kids strengthen their arms by throwing, their legs by running, their social skills by being their own umpires.
"Go out and play, be home for dinner by 6"
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Chapter X: SpaceShip One
We're in a new era, in case anyone noticed. We now live in a world in which it's possible to fly into space without having the public pay the price in taxes. SpaceShip One has gone up and returned, and it will go up again soon. That puts the team led by Burt Rutan and funded largely by Paul Allen in the lead for the "X Prize." There are some hurdles yet to cross, but I consider it an auspicious beginning.
I was listening to a critic on the radio who said this was an "impressive stunt," but he shot down the significance of this effort. He pointed to Rutan's non-stop flight around the world in the '80s, and asked what implications that has had for the public since. To be fair, I can't say he's wrong because I've not heard of anyone whose done that since and his plane's design doesn't seem to have been copied in order to fly people to far off places without refueling.
But to me, the trip to space is different. I think there are applications short term and long term, but there are inevitable questions that need to be answered first. How quickly can such trips be turned around? SpaceShip One should go up again within a couple weeks, according to the rules of the X Prize. In fact, I'm not sure it's qualified yet for the first part of the X Prize. I think it needs to have two passengers or the equivalent weight of two more people. From the first couple of paragraphs of articles I've read, I've not seen whether the weight was met on Mike Melvill's flight. I think he was the lone flier. Assuming the Rutan team eventually meets the criteria and turns around two return flights within two weeks, how long will it take before those flights can be replicated even faster? Is it possible to get it down to two flights per day? How much does it cost for the fuel of those flights and how much would it cost to send 'ordinary' people up? Could the price point get to $1,000 per 15 minute flight?
At the early stages of amateur space flight, I envision space barnstorming. I picture people scheduling months in advance for their 15 minutes above the stratosphere, throwing a grand to the pilot for the chance to see the world in a different light. Two flights, maybe three flights a day per vehicle. And that's just for the first couple of years as the technology progresses to create orbital flights, which obviously would cost more. I don't know, one orbit might take 90 minutes to two hours ... surely that would be worth $10,000 at least. Eventually, barnstorming would lead to destinations in space, such as space hotels: Can you say Astral Hilton? I'd imagine that's a couple decades in the future at least, but it could happen.
Of course, there are questions about whether this is proper: We've polluted the planet, we've polluted space, but such hotels and ongoing trips would only exacerbate the problem; how many people will die before this is shown to be a bad idea? But the point is, Americans and others will recognize that there's money to be made in space, and therefore space cowboys will venture out on the Spacedust Rush of the 21st century. If I had the money to spend, I'd love to literally "see the world." I don't think I'm alone.
Go for it!
I was listening to a critic on the radio who said this was an "impressive stunt," but he shot down the significance of this effort. He pointed to Rutan's non-stop flight around the world in the '80s, and asked what implications that has had for the public since. To be fair, I can't say he's wrong because I've not heard of anyone whose done that since and his plane's design doesn't seem to have been copied in order to fly people to far off places without refueling.
But to me, the trip to space is different. I think there are applications short term and long term, but there are inevitable questions that need to be answered first. How quickly can such trips be turned around? SpaceShip One should go up again within a couple weeks, according to the rules of the X Prize. In fact, I'm not sure it's qualified yet for the first part of the X Prize. I think it needs to have two passengers or the equivalent weight of two more people. From the first couple of paragraphs of articles I've read, I've not seen whether the weight was met on Mike Melvill's flight. I think he was the lone flier. Assuming the Rutan team eventually meets the criteria and turns around two return flights within two weeks, how long will it take before those flights can be replicated even faster? Is it possible to get it down to two flights per day? How much does it cost for the fuel of those flights and how much would it cost to send 'ordinary' people up? Could the price point get to $1,000 per 15 minute flight?
At the early stages of amateur space flight, I envision space barnstorming. I picture people scheduling months in advance for their 15 minutes above the stratosphere, throwing a grand to the pilot for the chance to see the world in a different light. Two flights, maybe three flights a day per vehicle. And that's just for the first couple of years as the technology progresses to create orbital flights, which obviously would cost more. I don't know, one orbit might take 90 minutes to two hours ... surely that would be worth $10,000 at least. Eventually, barnstorming would lead to destinations in space, such as space hotels: Can you say Astral Hilton? I'd imagine that's a couple decades in the future at least, but it could happen.
Of course, there are questions about whether this is proper: We've polluted the planet, we've polluted space, but such hotels and ongoing trips would only exacerbate the problem; how many people will die before this is shown to be a bad idea? But the point is, Americans and others will recognize that there's money to be made in space, and therefore space cowboys will venture out on the Spacedust Rush of the 21st century. If I had the money to spend, I'd love to literally "see the world." I don't think I'm alone.
Go for it!
Friday, June 18, 2004
Chapter 9: Making progress
The night has been miserable, with humidity and bad movies. I'd never seen Jaws III The Revenge all the way through before. I wasn't missing anything. At least one of the scenes looks like film from the dailies, another scene gives the impression it's been spliced in from the wrong section of film. The tail of the shark is ripping apart. And I'm not even getting into the acting and script! Truly bad cinema.
Afterward, Maureen dragged the fan into the living room and I went into the office to write. I've finally returned to the original 240+ pages I'd originally written for this novel and plucked out what was then chapter 5 and placed it in as chapter 14. There's some continuity issues I need to address, which I'll get to tomorrow. I'm pleased to see the book taking better shape, however.
Afterward, Maureen dragged the fan into the living room and I went into the office to write. I've finally returned to the original 240+ pages I'd originally written for this novel and plucked out what was then chapter 5 and placed it in as chapter 14. There's some continuity issues I need to address, which I'll get to tomorrow. I'm pleased to see the book taking better shape, however.
Chapter 8.6: The Bird and the Heat
Do birds breathe heavy? I was sitting in my car, the egg, listening to someone on NPR talk about whether "blog" will last as a prefix (as opposed to a faddish trend such as "cyber" in the '90s) when I noticed a robin hopping about the foliage. I noticed when it stopped that the bird seemed to be breathing heavily, its puffed chest moving back and forth in a quick , rocking motion. It was almost comic, it looked so strange. I've never noticed how a bird breathes. It hopped away as though nothing was wrong.
It's very hot out. Perhaps the bird is affected by it. I can't remember if birds are warm blooded.
The heat and humidity have lingered all week, burning the ground and firing up tensions. Last night I umpired another playoff game. Both my playoff games have involved the Angels (a team I've mentioned in at least one previous posting). The game was in Summit and pitted the Angels against the Summit team coached by a guy I almost tossed last year. He's kind of a Bobby Valentine type; he argues about everything -- always in front of his players -- yet he also tries to joke around as though he's your buddy. Given the significance of the game (single elimination tournament) I expected trouble. While there was one play early that he disputed, the game was so well played by both teams that the game rolled along at a good pace. The Summit team lost by one run. They had a runner on base in the bottom of the 7th, and their best hitter up at the plate popped up to the first baseman. Afterward, the Angels coach asked if I was available to ump on Saturday. I guess I'm doing fine.
Maureen and I went out last night to celebrate her gaining a new client. We both needed to get out of the house, where the central air conditioning is timid and the fan disrupts our sweaty sleep. Maureen has felt ill for a few days, lethargic in the heat and a little nauseated. The washing machine is still not working, and she's been concerned about an old friend she spoke with recently whose injuries from an accident a couple years ago left her with brain damage. Sitting in a veritable sauna doesn't make her work easier.
Since I'd had the game, followed by a meeting with the Scottish group, I didn't get home till nearly 10. Maureen and I went down to McLynn's for a late meal and a few drinks. We needed to get out and relax with each other. I spent the exact amount I'd earned that night umpiring. We got home around 1 a.m., much later than I'd planned. I didn't write, I didn't run. Still, it was a productive night. I'm breathing easier.
It's very hot out. Perhaps the bird is affected by it. I can't remember if birds are warm blooded.
The heat and humidity have lingered all week, burning the ground and firing up tensions. Last night I umpired another playoff game. Both my playoff games have involved the Angels (a team I've mentioned in at least one previous posting). The game was in Summit and pitted the Angels against the Summit team coached by a guy I almost tossed last year. He's kind of a Bobby Valentine type; he argues about everything -- always in front of his players -- yet he also tries to joke around as though he's your buddy. Given the significance of the game (single elimination tournament) I expected trouble. While there was one play early that he disputed, the game was so well played by both teams that the game rolled along at a good pace. The Summit team lost by one run. They had a runner on base in the bottom of the 7th, and their best hitter up at the plate popped up to the first baseman. Afterward, the Angels coach asked if I was available to ump on Saturday. I guess I'm doing fine.
Maureen and I went out last night to celebrate her gaining a new client. We both needed to get out of the house, where the central air conditioning is timid and the fan disrupts our sweaty sleep. Maureen has felt ill for a few days, lethargic in the heat and a little nauseated. The washing machine is still not working, and she's been concerned about an old friend she spoke with recently whose injuries from an accident a couple years ago left her with brain damage. Sitting in a veritable sauna doesn't make her work easier.
Since I'd had the game, followed by a meeting with the Scottish group, I didn't get home till nearly 10. Maureen and I went down to McLynn's for a late meal and a few drinks. We needed to get out and relax with each other. I spent the exact amount I'd earned that night umpiring. We got home around 1 a.m., much later than I'd planned. I didn't write, I didn't run. Still, it was a productive night. I'm breathing easier.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Chapter 8.5: The Cuddling Gene
Apparently scientists have tweaked a gene in voles (they're similar to mice or rats) that makes the males more likely to stay at home and not fool around with other horny females. Aside from the inevitable question about whether this could be translated to humans (not yet, according to the scientists), I found myself wondering whether this should be done to voles.
If these animals are anything like the hamsters I had growing up, the idea that the parents remain together after gestation was not practical. The males get turf-conscious and eat the potential competitors. Moreover, mom would eat the babies if she feared something else would make a meal of her kids. Easier to make new ones, I guess, than to feed the enemy.
The scientists noted that the male voles didn't do anything around the ol' wood chip home either. So I can't help but think that such a genetic change doesn't do a damn bit of good if Dad's hungry or pissed at junior. Moreover, should we assume that female voles prefer having the same sexual partner?
What price to pay for monogamy?
If these animals are anything like the hamsters I had growing up, the idea that the parents remain together after gestation was not practical. The males get turf-conscious and eat the potential competitors. Moreover, mom would eat the babies if she feared something else would make a meal of her kids. Easier to make new ones, I guess, than to feed the enemy.
The scientists noted that the male voles didn't do anything around the ol' wood chip home either. So I can't help but think that such a genetic change doesn't do a damn bit of good if Dad's hungry or pissed at junior. Moreover, should we assume that female voles prefer having the same sexual partner?
What price to pay for monogamy?
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Chapter 8.1: play time
I actually played in a game last night rather than watch from behind the plate. It's the Springfield modified league (like fast pitch softball, only with certain restrictions on the pitcher -- no windmill, for example). We lost, largely because it's a pitcher's league and our top pitcher wasn't there. I played second base. I've moved around the infield this year. I've started at second, third, and even shortstop. I've also played some outfield.
I'm starting to feel more comfortable at the plate now. I'd gotten so accustomed to hitting slow pitch, arc softball that I felt unsatisfied with an average below .700. But in modified I've been unable to hit consistently. Last night I struck out in my first at bat -- my second of the season. The second at bat I walked, but I didn't get beyond second base. I came up with men on base for my third plate appearance and hit the first pitch into the gap in right field. I don't know if the right-center fielder made an error or the ball skipped past him, but I ended up on second and if I'd been more confident in my speed (of which I have very little) I'd have made it to third. Two runs driven in -- that's what mattered to me. Though we staged a late comeback in the bottom of the seventh (and last) inning, we lost 13-9, or so.
I didn't run any miles at home. My brother Mike stayed at his sister-in-law's house. But I did write a few pages in the book. Perhaps I'm getting into a good routine.
I'm starting to feel more comfortable at the plate now. I'd gotten so accustomed to hitting slow pitch, arc softball that I felt unsatisfied with an average below .700. But in modified I've been unable to hit consistently. Last night I struck out in my first at bat -- my second of the season. The second at bat I walked, but I didn't get beyond second base. I came up with men on base for my third plate appearance and hit the first pitch into the gap in right field. I don't know if the right-center fielder made an error or the ball skipped past him, but I ended up on second and if I'd been more confident in my speed (of which I have very little) I'd have made it to third. Two runs driven in -- that's what mattered to me. Though we staged a late comeback in the bottom of the seventh (and last) inning, we lost 13-9, or so.
I didn't run any miles at home. My brother Mike stayed at his sister-in-law's house. But I did write a few pages in the book. Perhaps I'm getting into a good routine.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Chapter 8: It's the heat and the humidity
Not much to say this time, which probably means I shouldn't write anything. A busy night tonight, with a softball game to play, three miles to run, a few pages to write, and possibly a traveling brother to house (in a hopefully clean house). Plus, I'd intended to call a friend to help with our washing machine. Obviously I need to prioritize.
If I were sensible, I'd understand that I'll be running on a softball field so I might not need to do it on the streets of Springfield in 85 degree heat. That makes the most sense, but I'd like to run. Perhaps what I should do is simply run after the game, decked out in reflective gear. But I've still not heard back from my brother Mike as to whether he needs our home for the night or not. Bob indicated Mike was likely to stay at his sister-in-law's, which makes sense since they're west of here. For some reason I think I'll be adding a note in my list of "flimsy excuses for not writing."
If I were sensible, I'd understand that I'll be running on a softball field so I might not need to do it on the streets of Springfield in 85 degree heat. That makes the most sense, but I'd like to run. Perhaps what I should do is simply run after the game, decked out in reflective gear. But I've still not heard back from my brother Mike as to whether he needs our home for the night or not. Bob indicated Mike was likely to stay at his sister-in-law's, which makes sense since they're west of here. For some reason I think I'll be adding a note in my list of "flimsy excuses for not writing."
Monday, June 14, 2004
Chapter 7.7: Progress is Slow
There's a line in one of my songs (the one my sister doesn't particularly like because it noted her portrait resting on the floor for years) that goes "Progress is slow when you still know the past."
I still believe that sentiment, though sometimes I think that as long as it's progress even a slow pace should be considered positive.
This past weekend saw progress in my dual marathons -- one mental, one physical. I jogged my five miles on Saturday, raising my total for the week to 13.7 and an eight-day total of 18.5. It's been a while since I've accomplished that. My mental marathon training (i.e., the novel) wasn't quite as successful, though I did write three or four pages this weekend. I didn't get much accomplished Friday, preferring to listen to the Reagan family say their fond farewells to the Father of Modern Homelessness. I cracked a beer to him and enjoyed Ronnie's swipes at the current president. Then I wrote a bit less than a page before bed. Saturday, after running the five, I spent some of the next several hours reading older sections of the book that I'd not viewed in months. I pasted some of the pages I know are better suited to backstory into an appropriate area (chapter two in that case), and reworked chapter 13 where I later reference the stuff that was moved.
Tonight is an editing night, but I also have other commitments. Weather permitting, I'll be umpiring in Springfield (my first in my new hometown), and then joining Maureen at the squad's general meeting. I'll probably miss the annual photo again; I've missed the past two or three. If the rain falls and cancels the game, I'll attend the meeting, get in the photo, and edit a few pages to counter the boredom. Tomorrow night I will run and write, though I also need to try to fix the washing machine that petered out on Maureen on Sunday.
The more I try to create a routine that accomplishes my goals, the more life sneaks a few realities into the mix. Discipline and progress... That reminds me, one of the other lines in that song I referenced at the beginning of this post is, "Progress is slow when you give it a fight."
I still believe that sentiment, though sometimes I think that as long as it's progress even a slow pace should be considered positive.
This past weekend saw progress in my dual marathons -- one mental, one physical. I jogged my five miles on Saturday, raising my total for the week to 13.7 and an eight-day total of 18.5. It's been a while since I've accomplished that. My mental marathon training (i.e., the novel) wasn't quite as successful, though I did write three or four pages this weekend. I didn't get much accomplished Friday, preferring to listen to the Reagan family say their fond farewells to the Father of Modern Homelessness. I cracked a beer to him and enjoyed Ronnie's swipes at the current president. Then I wrote a bit less than a page before bed. Saturday, after running the five, I spent some of the next several hours reading older sections of the book that I'd not viewed in months. I pasted some of the pages I know are better suited to backstory into an appropriate area (chapter two in that case), and reworked chapter 13 where I later reference the stuff that was moved.
Tonight is an editing night, but I also have other commitments. Weather permitting, I'll be umpiring in Springfield (my first in my new hometown), and then joining Maureen at the squad's general meeting. I'll probably miss the annual photo again; I've missed the past two or three. If the rain falls and cancels the game, I'll attend the meeting, get in the photo, and edit a few pages to counter the boredom. Tomorrow night I will run and write, though I also need to try to fix the washing machine that petered out on Maureen on Sunday.
The more I try to create a routine that accomplishes my goals, the more life sneaks a few realities into the mix. Discipline and progress... That reminds me, one of the other lines in that song I referenced at the beginning of this post is, "Progress is slow when you give it a fight."
Friday, June 11, 2004
Chapter 7.5: Weak Beginnings
There's a phrase in Irish, "bÃonn gach tosú lag," which means "every beginning is weak." It's a favorite phrase of mine. To me it implies growth from small beginnings and perspective of what even great beginnings can become; a fast start can fizzle just as quickly and thus prove its initial weakness. Circular reasoning, perhaps, but I like the phrase nonetheless.
I write this because from my fantasies nurtured on Shelter Island I am beginning again, weak though I may be. Though castigating myself in the previous post did not inspire actual writing that night, my brother Bob's gentle nudge on the marathon front also helped my writing. Bob sent me an article and a weekly mileage guide -- how many miles per day per week, including time to rest. It's an 18-week program that culminates with a 26.2 marathon (redundancy noted) on the final Sunday. What struck me was that the first week was only 15 miles. Three consecutive 3-mile runs, followed by a day of rest and a 6-mile long run on Saturday. I can do that now. There are actually two rest days and Sundays are intended for cross training, such as biking, walking, swimming, etc.
I'm beginning on week 20 (counting down), so I don't even need to keep to the 3,3,3, 6 week yet, though I might actually exceed it. Last night, after work, I jogged my 3-mile route in the muggy air waiting to break loose its rain. Tonight I'll jog either another 3 miles or perhaps 2.3, since I'll be using Saturday as a long day of at least 5 miles.
After dinner, with little on TV to distract me (I love re-run season!), I returned to the computer and re-opened my novel. I wrote two pages of what currently stands as chapter 12. I'm not saying it's perfect, first draft excellence. Perhaps none of it will remain weeks from now. It's a weak beginning. After getting through those pages, however, I designed a writing schedule based on the running regimen. The "rest" days will be for editing; anyone who writes understands that's not rest, but it's also not writing. For "cross training," I'll work on the Scottish articles, poetry, song lyrics, short stories, etc., that I often complain about not getting to finish.
Ultimately, the goal of running a marathon is much like writing a novel. But there's one notable difference: I intend to get the novel published and work on a second and a third and so on throughout my life. There's marketing to plan, agents to approach, knowledge to obtain.
BÃonn gach tosú lag.
I write this because from my fantasies nurtured on Shelter Island I am beginning again, weak though I may be. Though castigating myself in the previous post did not inspire actual writing that night, my brother Bob's gentle nudge on the marathon front also helped my writing. Bob sent me an article and a weekly mileage guide -- how many miles per day per week, including time to rest. It's an 18-week program that culminates with a 26.2 marathon (redundancy noted) on the final Sunday. What struck me was that the first week was only 15 miles. Three consecutive 3-mile runs, followed by a day of rest and a 6-mile long run on Saturday. I can do that now. There are actually two rest days and Sundays are intended for cross training, such as biking, walking, swimming, etc.
I'm beginning on week 20 (counting down), so I don't even need to keep to the 3,3,3, 6 week yet, though I might actually exceed it. Last night, after work, I jogged my 3-mile route in the muggy air waiting to break loose its rain. Tonight I'll jog either another 3 miles or perhaps 2.3, since I'll be using Saturday as a long day of at least 5 miles.
After dinner, with little on TV to distract me (I love re-run season!), I returned to the computer and re-opened my novel. I wrote two pages of what currently stands as chapter 12. I'm not saying it's perfect, first draft excellence. Perhaps none of it will remain weeks from now. It's a weak beginning. After getting through those pages, however, I designed a writing schedule based on the running regimen. The "rest" days will be for editing; anyone who writes understands that's not rest, but it's also not writing. For "cross training," I'll work on the Scottish articles, poetry, song lyrics, short stories, etc., that I often complain about not getting to finish.
Ultimately, the goal of running a marathon is much like writing a novel. But there's one notable difference: I intend to get the novel published and work on a second and a third and so on throughout my life. There's marketing to plan, agents to approach, knowledge to obtain.
BÃonn gach tosú lag.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Chapter 7: The Island
Home again. Normalcy returns to our lives. Maureen's off at the squad board meeting. I've umpired (what may be the last game for several weeks). Our long weekend with extended family at Shelter Island, N.Y., is now a pleasant memory.
We've come home with fantasies, however, of how our lives could be better. A home on the island, which we'd also use as a business for us both. A B&B perhaps, with a coffee house nearby or even attached. Music and readings. Assorted ways of making us unique on the island as far as B&Bs go. The dream of making the place available for certain weeks for family, free of charge of course. Worrying about little details like how our cat Riley would fare on the long ride out; half a dose of Dramamine for our little boy.
Yet, I must call them fantasies right now because we don't have the financial capacity to achieve these goals, and likely will not soon. A journalism job is not lucrative. Only my book ideas appear to have the ability to turn lead into gold -- and even they may fall like lead.
As usual, it all comes down to putting in the time and having a goal to achieve. Laziness comes too easily to me.
This afternoon, when we got home, I mowed the lawn. Then I went and umpired my game (another blowout). After the game, with Maureen at her meeting, I decided to jog. That makes three consecutive days -- the first time I've done that in years.
My goal is to join my brother Bob in a marathon later this year. It will require the same type of dedication I must put to my novel; I believe they can complement each other. After dinner, I will reopen the novel. I might only write a few words, but this will be a new beginning.
We've come home with fantasies, however, of how our lives could be better. A home on the island, which we'd also use as a business for us both. A B&B perhaps, with a coffee house nearby or even attached. Music and readings. Assorted ways of making us unique on the island as far as B&Bs go. The dream of making the place available for certain weeks for family, free of charge of course. Worrying about little details like how our cat Riley would fare on the long ride out; half a dose of Dramamine for our little boy.
Yet, I must call them fantasies right now because we don't have the financial capacity to achieve these goals, and likely will not soon. A journalism job is not lucrative. Only my book ideas appear to have the ability to turn lead into gold -- and even they may fall like lead.
As usual, it all comes down to putting in the time and having a goal to achieve. Laziness comes too easily to me.
This afternoon, when we got home, I mowed the lawn. Then I went and umpired my game (another blowout). After the game, with Maureen at her meeting, I decided to jog. That makes three consecutive days -- the first time I've done that in years.
My goal is to join my brother Bob in a marathon later this year. It will require the same type of dedication I must put to my novel; I believe they can complement each other. After dinner, I will reopen the novel. I might only write a few words, but this will be a new beginning.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Chapter 6.2: The Ring of Power
Last night's Little League game almost fried my already frazzled psyche. After umpiring through a blowout (I stopped noting the score after it hit 20-3, but there was more -- so much more), I unstrapped the tools of ignorance from my legs and shoved the equipment into the back of the egg-mobile (my little white 1992 Honda CX). At some point my Claddagh ring must have fallen to the ground. I didn't hear it and didn't notice it missing until I was almost home.
Usually I take my wedding ring and Claddagh off before leaving the car when I arrive at the field. I don't want them damaged by a random foul ball off my knuckles, no matter how unlikely that is to happen. But last night I wasn't sure the game would even be played, considering the amount of rain that had fallen over the previous 48 hours. Just before the game began I remembered the rings and tucked them in my pocket.
I was driving home when I thought of my rings and pulled over to rummage through the pocket. I was pleased to find my wedding ring, but the Claddagh was gone. It was a gift from Maureen and almost as much a symbol of our marriage as the One True Ring on my left hand. I'd misplaced my rings before, taking them off to play softball. I've placed them in my sneakers and discovered them with my toes. I've tied them to my sneaker strings and heard them jingle onto bleachers when the knot came undone. I've had a couple too many beers after games and forgotten where I'd hid them. This night, again, I was just a dope.
Having dug through the egg's seats without finding the ring, Maureen and I returned to the field, armed with a flashlight. I parked about 15 feet behind where I'd been before and shined the light along the curbside, feeling hopeless. The name of St. Anthony crossed my mind; I think he's the one to pray to for lost things. And I considered my guardian angel as well.
Then the light hit it. Resting on its heart, the ring lay on the ground unharmed. How easily it could have been crushed by tires. One of the players could have picked it up like Bilbo Baggins and gone unwittingly on his way. So simply I could have just missed it in my search. Yet, I'd found it, my precious. I raised my arm up in triumph, picked the ring up and placed it back on my finger, the heart pointing back to my heart. I smiled at my wife.
"It always comes back," she said.
My mind is still frazzled. I feel behind on my work, my freelance articles, my book. I feel poor. I feel unsatisfied that I'm doing what I should be doing. But if nothing else, I have a wonderful wife to whom I feel completely attached. Things could be much worse.
Usually I take my wedding ring and Claddagh off before leaving the car when I arrive at the field. I don't want them damaged by a random foul ball off my knuckles, no matter how unlikely that is to happen. But last night I wasn't sure the game would even be played, considering the amount of rain that had fallen over the previous 48 hours. Just before the game began I remembered the rings and tucked them in my pocket.
I was driving home when I thought of my rings and pulled over to rummage through the pocket. I was pleased to find my wedding ring, but the Claddagh was gone. It was a gift from Maureen and almost as much a symbol of our marriage as the One True Ring on my left hand. I'd misplaced my rings before, taking them off to play softball. I've placed them in my sneakers and discovered them with my toes. I've tied them to my sneaker strings and heard them jingle onto bleachers when the knot came undone. I've had a couple too many beers after games and forgotten where I'd hid them. This night, again, I was just a dope.
Having dug through the egg's seats without finding the ring, Maureen and I returned to the field, armed with a flashlight. I parked about 15 feet behind where I'd been before and shined the light along the curbside, feeling hopeless. The name of St. Anthony crossed my mind; I think he's the one to pray to for lost things. And I considered my guardian angel as well.
Then the light hit it. Resting on its heart, the ring lay on the ground unharmed. How easily it could have been crushed by tires. One of the players could have picked it up like Bilbo Baggins and gone unwittingly on his way. So simply I could have just missed it in my search. Yet, I'd found it, my precious. I raised my arm up in triumph, picked the ring up and placed it back on my finger, the heart pointing back to my heart. I smiled at my wife.
"It always comes back," she said.
My mind is still frazzled. I feel behind on my work, my freelance articles, my book. I feel poor. I feel unsatisfied that I'm doing what I should be doing. But if nothing else, I have a wonderful wife to whom I feel completely attached. Things could be much worse.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Later to link
I've still got to put time in and learn how to create links for this blog, but here's one to my AOL homepage, where a previously published piece of fiction now appears.
http://hometown.aol.com/mattsinc/myhomepage/writing.html
http://hometown.aol.com/mattsinc/myhomepage/writing.html
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Chapter 6: never ending story
I have no humor when unfocused. The new month is full already, a mouth to feed. Today I research and interview and write, as I did before, now and at the hour of our insanity. I expect change. What was it Gandhi said "Be the change you seek"? Sure, sounds simple. What do you do when those 15 minutes are past, however? As my boss has been known to say, "Just write the fucking story!"
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