Clutch Cargo Lips

Disclaimer: I really don’t think I am a stalker although I may fit the definition. I just found it fascinating that an author whose work I read lived within walking distance of church.

I’ve already written, elsewhere, about discovering where Phyllis Naylor lived by doing a simple Internet search and my confusion about why she would publicize her address.

For the past few years, whenever I drove past the house I believed she lived in, I’d glance to see if anyone was out and about.

Imagine my dismay at seeing a for sale sign in front of the house on Holmhurst. I thought, at first, I was mistaken and it was the house next door. But I noted the address and time of the open house (that Sunday) and went on with my business.

When the day of the open house came around, I thought I would pass. Why did I need to look at a house that an author I liked was selling? My husband convinced me to check it out, so we went. I actually hoped I was mistaken and the house was just another house on a suburban block.

The address was the address I’d hoped it wouldn’t be. We walked in and were greeted by a real estate agent who let us wander around the house at our leisure. She pointed out the desk in the kitchen where the previous owner “worked” and I knew, without a doubt, this was where Ms. Naylor wrote some of her many books.

We went through the house quickly, thinking that it was a typical split level. Nothing really profound, unless you counted the multitude of labeled bookshelves in the basement or the large poster of Newberry Award winners on one basement room wall.

I still was not sure that Ms Naylor lived here until I picked up the literature about the home. There, on the line for seller was the name: Phyllis R. Naylor. OH MY GOD. This was really her house. The packet of literature also contained information about the pool and fans and rooms and bathrooms. But the most important was the fact that one of the people that lived in this house was the author of hundreds of books for children and teens. Someone who I’d hoped to run into at the grocery store (walking distance from her house). Someone who made me feel ok about reading teen literature. Someone who gave me hope that someday I might write something worthwhile.

Years ago when I was enamored with Stephen King’s novels I read in an interview that the only book of his that scared him when he was writing it was Pet Sematary. I found that a little hard to believe. I didn’t think that someone could write something that scared them any more than they could tickle themselves enough to really laugh.

Last night, in my attic office, I was up late finishing up my alloted word count for my NaNoWriMo story. Everyone else in the house was asleep, or nearly asleep. In the story the main character has a seemingly irrational fear of something common in all homes and I was at the part describing this fear. I suddenly got a little nervous myself and when I heard a noise that seemed to come from the closet near my desk, I jumped and my heart began to pound. We live in an older house, that has creaks and groans all the time, and the night was a little windy, so the noise was either the house settling, a twig falling on the roof — only a couple feet from my head — or something dropping off my daughter’s bed (directly below my desk). Even though I told myself those things, I was shaken and when I checked that my word count was adequate, saved my work, closed down the computer, shut off the attic lights and hurried downstairs to bed.

Until last night I didn’t realize that I was writing a novel in the horror/thriller genre. Sorry Mr. King - I’ll never doubt you again!

What’s that saying: In for the something out for the something else? Oh - In for the penny out for the pound? In for the penny in for the pound? That’s gotta be it!

Whatever it is, it is what I thought about when I chose to write this post right now instead of work on my work-for-pay stuff. I am monumentally behind in my “files” and have made some probably poor choices recently like the Hiptop Halloween Hunt yesterday and Costco the day before. While there are some valid reasons I’m behind, I really should be concentrating on those files rather than on writing novels and blog posts.

That said, I’m glad I’m back and doing some of this posting on a daily basis. I miss writing - copying text from PDF and Word files and pasting it into an HTML editor may sound like a blast, but it’s not as fun as you may think. It can be mind boggling tedius and it sapps the energy from my brain, making me want to do nothing but watch television at night.

So, to get back to the title of this post, I figured I’ve already gotten behind in my work, I might as well get this post for today done.

I wrote over 800 words on my NaNoWriMo novel this morning - I had no idea what I was going to write about until I actually started writing. Now I’m kind of excited to find out more about my characters and the plot. I’m pretty sure I know where it is going, but it keeps changing in my head.

The kids have today off and I was supposed to go to a free 508 conference in DC, but because I’m behind in work and because the kids are home, I figured I’d not go. I went last year and the section I attended was nothing more than a commercial for Adobe.

Ok, enough procrastinating. Off to copy and paste and format.

—a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction
Virginia Woolf
A Room of One’s Own (1929)

Because my parents had a girl and a boy, I pretty much always had my own bedroom when I lived at home. My brother and I shared a room for a time - was his crib in my bedroom? I forget. I do remember that his first “big boy” bed was a trundle bed, pushed under my twin bed each day and set up each night. But once the living room was expanded, he was given a corner of that for a bedroom until my father finished the attic room for me. Then Kevin moved into my bedroom and I moved to the attic.

I also had my own room when I moved to my first apartment, and when my roommate moved out, I got the entire apartment, that is until my boyfriend moved in a couple months before we moved to Pittsburgh. Since then and until recently, however, I never had my own space.

I suppose I didn’t know I wanted a space of my own. I don’t recall longing for it until the past decade or so. Perhaps I was fine with just Dean and me - we didn’t fill the house so. And the first few years with the kids - they were so busy, I didn’t have time to seek solitude, nor, I suppose, did I desire it. I was having fun being a mom.

In 1994, when my children were small, in order to fulfill my teaching recertification requirements I took a class called Women in Education. It was mostly about women writers and one of our required readings was Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. We also read pieces from other women authors - one story in particular stands out, but I don’t remember the author or enough about the story to find it again. Sometimes I wonder if it was a nightmare - what could happen if I was not careful.

In the story a woman from sometime in the past - late 1800’s? Early 1900’s? 1950’s? - desires a room of her own. Perhaps she just wants to get away from her demanding children or perhaps she wants to write. Maybe she just wants a place to call her own. Anyway, her husband has the attic of their house refinished and she moves in. She loves this place and hangs out there often. Slowly, however, her children spend time there, they go up and disturb her when she needs peace. Perhaps her husband also visits too often. Eventually she throws herself out the window to her death.

I think I might have obsessed on this story, because a couple of women in the class who were work associates with my best friend at the time, talked to her about their concerns regarding my mood. I guess they thought I was depressed. I suppose I might have been - we’d just moved to a new home in a new state. I was stuck in the house most days with two toddlers. I had no friends in the neighborhood and was not socially comfortable enough to try to make some. My husband and I were not adept at hiring babysitters, so we never went anywhere without the children. I also was dreading going back to work, but thought my husband wanted me to.

I suppose it was this time that I began wanting a place of my own. We had a partially finished attic that was usable in moderate weather. Summers were too hot and winters were too cold, but spring and fall were perfect for spending time there. I made it into an office of sorts for grading papers and writing lesson plans.

Eventually my husband and I made a decision to refinish it and we could both use it for office space. He oversaw the project and by summer of 1998 the room was ready to be made use of which was lucky for me because I’d just quit my job to go back to college for a masters degree. My husband agreed to let me have the attic for two years while I worked on my degree.

Those two years were delightful. I spent most of my waking hours in the attic, sometimes working on the degree, other times traveling the new-to-me expanses of the Internet and World Wide Web. I loved the smell of the attic and the freedom of my solitude. The kids were both in school, so I had few responsibilities during the day.

In 2001 I began working full time. I also gave the attic back to my husband. I did so out of guilt. He’d not had a chance to experience this room that he watched transform from a dusty attic to a sanctuary. I moved all my belongings to the downstairs office, one that was shared with the children, two cats and adjacent to the laundry room and family room. I tried to make it my own, but it never did become mine. The only good thing about being down there was the proximity to the laundry room - we had clean clothes more often.

Since 2001 and my move, I’ve been in a blue mood more often than not. Part of that was probably the office job - it was so different from teaching and I didn’t get my summers off. I went part time and worked at home after a couple of years, but that work was usually done in the living room on my laptop or in the downstairs shared office space. I rarely visited the attic anymore - it made me too sad. The sanctuary was no longer mine, but my husband’s. He rarely used it as well, only for bill-paying and if he worked at home during the day or on weekends. When I complained about not having my own space my husband said that I got the entire house to myself for most of the day during the school year. While there was no arguing with his logic - he was right - I still felt that I needed my own space. What if I needed the solitude when everyone was home?

Earlier this year I purchased a newer router - one that had a range that reached the attic office. I tried to work in the attic a few times, and was able to get work done. I eventually did most of my work in the attic again, but it didn’t feel like mine. My husband insisted I keep it neat for him. (I’m not really a neat person).

Then one day I decided to try the other side of the attic. The side with the television and sofa (we’d recently purchased a second-hand Ikea sofa to replace a ratty old uncomfortable sofabed). I’d set up a desk for my daughter’s never used sewing machine a year ago and it looked out over the tulip poplar growing in our side-yard.

The desk was perfect for my laptop. I began having a feeling of ownership and have spent the last few months making this my space. Yes I share it with Dean’s stuff. Yes there is no door between the two areas. But it is mine. It has worked out well. It is away from the main floor of the house - the kids come home from school and do their own things and I can continue working until supper time. Granted, laundry doesn’t get done as often as before, but its a small price to pay for my sanity. The large window no longer looks inviting for a dive through and my mood is noticeably lighter.I do have to share with the occasional bug though.

Tomorrow I will write this post about writing. Promise.

I wrote that about nine months ago. Enough time in which to incubate a human in a womb. At the time I still had hopes of really writing. Writing for an audience. Writing a story. Writing to be published.

Not now though. Really. I still will write for myself, mostly because it feels good. The feel of words flowing out of my fingertips is just plain delicious. Sure, occasionally (more often than I like) something comes out under-ripe or bitter or too sweet. But the feeling of setting the perfect words or phrases in a paragraph is like eating a perfectly ripe plum or peach. Without the dribble.

You may ask why I’ve given up on writing for others. That’s simple. My mom quit believing in me. She now believes in my daughter instead. As she should. My daughter has been invited to join her school’s literary magazine. She’s that good. So mom gave my daughter a book about writing that she’d originally purchased for me. When she gave it to my daughter she said, “I bought this for your mom. Did you know she wanted to be an author?”

I thought Clare knew my dream, but I guess not because she was surprised at my mom’s words.

Why am I not an author? Well, aside from lack of talent, I don’t like criticism. I fear failure as well.

But it should not really matter. If I like writing, then I should write; whether or not I write for anyone is irrelevant.