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Up to Some Good

May 232009

I’m delving deeper into the writer’s life, learning more about the evolving world of online fiction. I’m no longer trying to restrain myself by holding onto my work for editing and revisions. With all the upheaval in the publishing industry, I see no wisdom in starting this adventure using traditional processes designed for a system that is quickly becoming obsolete. I was fighting my natural writing tendencies, shaped by years of blogging. Instead, I will continue to work with what moves me and hope something I do will fit in with new publishing models.

It’s a curious thing to be straddling these two fields; education and writing. Both are full of creative, intelligent, passionate people, but the systems, processes and products are vastly different. Even when they use the same tools, the practices differ. My colleagues in education spend much of their time writing and connecting through social media. Most of these people do this as part of their salaried employment, with a few consultants and contractors. My new friends in the writing world spend a similar amount of time writing and connecting, but many are unpaid for these efforts, instead, earning a living performing other work.

In the world of edublogging, it’s considered uncouth to sell products or run ads on a blog. In the fiction-writing world, it’s no crime to try to make a buck off your writing. In education, I supported the promotion of open content, free and open source tools and open teaching. However, I felt a bit like a trophy wife at a corporate cocktail party. I could talk about it without making a fool of myself, but here I sit with a MacBook Pro and have no idea how to switch to Linux, or use Open Office. On my education blog, I published everything using Creative Commons licensing, but new inquiry into the meaning of taking upon that license (including questions raised by Dave Cormier) has me reconsidering my copyright options.

This week I listed this blog with the Amazon Kindle marketplace. I received instant pushback from the education community for participating in something with such a restrictive format. However, to the writing community, my actions were considered very open, and some wondered why I would offer my work openly on my blog without charge in the first place. My thoughts about the Kindle project are that my blog is similar to buying chapstick or batteries at the grocery checkout counter. People are buying eReaders and I want my work available to them, in whatever format I can accommodate. I also see it as an opportunity to publicize my work in an environment with a strong participatory media community. I am looking into things like Smashwords, Mobipocket, and FictionBook, all of which will take time to explore and learn.

I have also explored some new options, including listing my blog with the Web Fiction Guide (online novels, reviews). I submitted a few of my flash fiction stories to contests, and plan to participate in the Editor Unleashed Flash Fiction Contest. Amidst all these fun new things, I’m completely neglecting the blogging activities I already know; reading and commenting on other blogs, and keeping a blogroll on my site. It will take a while to balance all this and find time to write and do the work that pays the bills. I’m glad I’m meeting new people and still connecting with old friends on my adventure!

Soul Meet

middlespace 1 Response »

Apr 022009

Image by Bud Hunt

Intuition.
Instinct.
Trust.
Listen.
Select. Purchase. Read. Abandon.

Experience.
Knowledge.
Open.
Touch.
Reject. Escape. Remember. Return.

Pain.
Fear.
Leap.
Taste.
Reflect. Accept. Release. Inspire.

Note: This poem is in response to Bud Hunt’s poetry prompt 1 for NPM2009.

Paper Voices

about reading, middlespace 4 Responses »

Apr 012009

There were names, a story within a story. I sounded out printed letter pairs searching for friends, curious about strangers. I had favorites, books where my name was printed several times, letters shrinking line by line. There was a time when they would stamp each book. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ten times. There was a limit for children. I would take them in my tote, keeping weight from cold linoleum.

Later, they quickly dunked a pre-stamped card, only slightly cracking open the cover at check-out. I wondered how they knew how many cards to stamp each morning, and who had the job of rolling the rubber to the next number. What happened to the unused cards? Their lists grew longer, closer to destruction, yet they remained in the box. Were there some that never left the library? Stamped and stamped again, but never slipped in pockets. At home, I breathed books. Unfamiliar smells. Coffee. Cigarettes. Curry.

I graduated to text books, old volumes, tracked by date, inventoried in ink. Names in responsible cursive. Sometimes I knew them, older brothers and sisters of my friends. I added my name to the bottom of the list, and imagined those who read before and those who would follow. Would they know me? I wrapped them tightly in grocery bags decorated with band names and logos, lyrics and icons of youth culture.

At university, I paged through used books, listening for voices in paper. I don’t write in books. I sought those closest to mint, but wondered why they were never touched. If the previous student didn’t use it, would I? Sometimes I would buy the book and later discover notes, penciled in margins in the first few chapters. What happened to the student before me? Did they drop the class? Did they know enough to pass without opening the text?

My daughter pulled a slip from one of my books and asked why it showed another name. She thought I had taken someone’s reserved book, and kept it for myself. I showed her the date on the receipt with the unfamiliar name. Kate something. December. I explained Kate must have had the book in December and left her receipt in the book to mark her place. Did Kate finish the book? Who is she?

I still smell books, and sometimes return them, repulsed. I miss the mystery. Now we have book clubs. We gather and read and reveal passions and weaknesses in therapeutic circles. Deliberate. Calculated. Organized. Scheduled. Machines keep our secrets, our trails of inquiry and entertainment. But where are the people? I want to know who last touched my book. I want to ask whether they finished, if they cried. I want to know if they read it alone, or in a crowd. Did someone sacrifice for their reading pleasure? And then I want to part, maybe to never cross paths again. A single social object to bind us for a moment.

Coincidental

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Mar 302009

Yesterday I made the ninety mile journey to Bellingham to meet a friend. I asked her to pull out her magic wand to change the weather, and as I arrived, the big yellow ball emerged. I had time to walk the beach and capture some photos, finally getting some blues. The spots on the camera may just convince me to learn to edit my photos, but I wanted to share them anyway. My friend met me at the coffee shop and we talked for a while, our conversation turning to the value of self-judgment in our lives, and whether or not it was helpful to classify our past actions as bad or good.
We later walked into a bookstore, my goal to find a strange book, something that would jump out at me. We wandered the unfamiliar shop until we found the philosophy section, where I could have settled in for a while, if there had been a better selection. I handed my friend Marcus Aurelius, Meditations and asked her to open to any page and read one. She opened the book and invited a distant guest into our earlier conversation:

If you suppose anything over which you have no control to be either good or bad for you, then the accident of missing the one or encountering the other is certain to make you aggrieved with the gods, and bitter against the men whom you know or expect to be responsible for your misfortune. We do, in fact, commit many injustices through attaching importance to things of this class. But when we limit our notions of good and evil strictly to what is within our own power, there remains no reason either to bring accusations against God or to set ourselves at variance with men.

We traveled the store and I searched for my lonely book. A full wall display was almost overwhelming, until I was drawn to the yellow cover. Yellow, like the paint I’ve been waiting to brush on the walls of our play area. I didn’t see the title, but opened the book and began to read. I was instantly drawn to the lyrical language and clutched the book to my chest. My friend came around the corner and I told her a book jumped out at me. She said, “Leaped out at you,” and I looked at the title, Leap. We moved on and I found a seat as she browsed poetry. I opened the book to the beginning and began to read the memoir of a woman raised in the same religion I observed for the first seventeen years of my life. Her descriptions of events and feelings mirror mine. Her questions and quirks are my own and I can’t wait to find out what she’s discovered about herself, and whether her early questions have been resolved.
After we made our purchases, we walked down the street and entered one of those pottery painting tea shops designed just for such meetings. We almost sat down to paint. I walked through the shop, touching the pots, trying to find one to represent my day. I suddenly remembered a time in my childhood where I attended a mother/daughter church event where I had to paint a ceramic jewelry box. It was actually quite pretty, in a heart-shaped, Victorian way, something I would never have in my own home now. I believe it rests now in my mother’s basement bathroom. Still plain, solid pink, a reminder of my lack of creativity, or interest. We did not invest in the experience yesterday, but may return again with our daughters. But first, I have another book to read.

A Secret

middlespace 8 Responses »

Mar 272009

Yesterday was absolutely gorgeous and I took my son for a walk. The sentence sounds so simple, but the action is not. I left my job five months ago to be a stay-at-home-mom and have spent those months inside and in pajamas. Just the thought of leaving the house and potentially having to relate to another person face-to-face is enough to keep me trapped inside with a stir-crazy toddler for another season. I am fine with activities where I can hide behind errands or headphones. I can do the coffee shop, grocery store or library. I can talk to people in passing. It’s the leisure places that scare me. To me, the thought of sitting at a park talking to another mother, is stifling.
It isn’t that I’m scared of people. I’m scared of words, or lack of words. Online I don’t have to have those awkward first meetings. Online I socialize with people in spaces where we’re already talking about things that interest us. It doesn’t matter what I do for a living, where I live, or how my children perform. Online, I can read all about a person before I start talking to them. I can find out if they’re mean or gossipy. I can choose my friends. Maybe I am not afraid after all. Maybe I am spoiled.

Anticipation

middlespace 8 Responses »

Mar 032009

I walked by the wall calendar yesterday and remembered to flip the page to the next month. The folk-art print with a white clapboard farmhouse drew me in and I paused for a moment to imagine myself in that place. It is the beginning of my favorite season; anticipation. It isn’t quite time to start making plans for spring. Plans make me anxious. There’s nothing written on the calendar for the rest of this year. Anticipation.

I think we’ve finally seen the last of the winter snowstorms and floods. In the past month, there have been a few brilliantly sunny days where we have been able to enjoy the outdoors and leave our coats piled on the hallway floor, where they usually remain until someone gets the urge to clean. We used to have a coat rack in the entry, but I think it disappeared into the garage last year when we had the house on the market. I still dream of a well-loved antique hall tree with a storage bench and little hooks for hanging up our keys.

There was one day last week when we awoke to snow. I still refused to wear my coat, confident the cold would not last. By noon, the snow had melted and our back yard was filled with robins, their tiny heads tilted, listening for worms. There were flickers above in the birch trees, pecking away in search of tiny bug treats and I breathed in the unmistakable scent of thaw. The real signs of spring come from behind the fence in our back yard where there’s a potting bench for the plant nursery that adjoins our property. As soon as the sun comes up, we hear the tap tapping of the gardener’s pots as he prepares the greenhouse plants to place in the slowly warming ground.

Later in the day we see the bucket of his little bulldozer as he moves the dirt and compost around the property. Since we first moved here three and a half years ago, I’ve had this fantasy of baking cookies with the window open, the smell wafting over to his potting bench. I would dust the flour from my hands, arrange the cookies on a pretty plate and hand them over the fence, with a big grin, and maybe a note card with the recipe. When I left my job, I imagined walking over there and asking him if I could record his story for a podcast. In reality, I’ve never spoken with him. I can see over the fence from the kitchen window, but I can’t just walk up and talk because the fence is too high. I would need a step-ladder and that would certainly clutter up the fantasy. Then I would have to overcome the fact that he works with giant plastic ear protection, and there’s no way he would hear me. As I continue to rationalize, I wonder if he would be allergic to the ingredients. I wonder if he resents the fact that there is now a home behind his bench, where only four years ago, there was a pasture.

So I keep to myself. I wonder if he can see me as I do the dishes, or dance around with my son. Does he hear me call the dog? Do the bird feeders attract unwanted critters to his property? We have birds and squirrels and snakes and opossums. A few days ago we watched a coyote stalking his land, ears erect, lost in suburbia. I stay in the comfort of my home. On busy days, other trucks arrive behind my house. When the trees are moved around around the property, it seems there is a forest waltzing behind the fence, trading partners and then bowing as the trees are loaded into trucks and carried away.

Last night the sky was clear and I saw the stars. I walked through the house, turning off each light, and through the window over our front door, Orion’s belt flashed and danced as I moved up the stairs. It’s the only constellation I can identify. I was surprised to see it at all. The lights from the prison on the hill across from us are so strong, I never expect to see the night sky. I peeked out the upstairs window, just to make sure it hadn’t gone dark in some kind of silent prisoner revolt. The lights were as bright and strong, but somehow, the stars still stood out for me. I will relish this anticipation and the potential promise of spring.

One Kind of Dreamer

middlespace 11 Responses »

Feb 282009

I’m a dreamer in my waking hours, and a vivid dreamer when I sleep. I have a series of recurring nightmares, including dreams about forgetting my locker combination or missing the school bus. My dreams are usually quite detailed, and when I recall them, I remember the thoughts going through my head within the dream. Last night was one full of dreams, and the last one before I awoke still stands out in my memory, because I described it to my husband this morning. If I don’t write them down or tell someone, they are forgotten by the end of the day.

Last Night

I was grocery shopping. I was not in a very good mood, because I was not shopping for myself. I was shopping for beer for my husband, because it was Superbowl Sunday, and we were out. I arrived at one checkout line and hung around waiting for a clerk. The store was practically empty, but there were some employees at the opposite end of the row of check stands. I walked down there to check out instead. When I got there, I discovered I had left my keys at the other station, so I walked back and picked them up and returned to the far checkout. The clerk was running something through the register, but stopped to take care of me.

I had no basket and no merchandise. She asked what I was purchasing, and I replied, “The beer.” In my mind, I wondered what was wrong with her. What else would I be purchasing? Then I looked down and realized I didn’t have any beer. I looked all around. There was an empty Budweiser box on the floor, but I knew it had nothing to do with my predicament. No one I know drinks that, and the box was empty. It was simply a coincidence. I told the clerk I would be right back.

I walked down the aisle searching for a premium brew. At the end of the aisle, two women were setting up a display of chocolates. I overheard one of them telling the other she didn’t know why they had made so much, since it was too expensive and no one would buy it. I saw a sign reading, “Peppermint Bark,” but no price. I asked, “Well how much is it?” One of them informed me it was $9.99 a pound. I told her she was right. No one would buy it because it was cheaper to make at home. She asked what I would be interested in buying. I told her I really liked the chocolate covered chocolates my daughter had bought me a few weeks ago. “Ah yes,” she said, “the box of eight.” I wondered how she knew who my daughter was and what she had purchased.

I walked to the chocolate department to see what else they had. The ladies were working in a Russel Stover shop within the store. As I was looking through the chocolate, I noticed they were in competition for customers with the workers in the bakery. The bakery shop workers were handing out samples. I looked at the beautiful display of chocolate some more. A customer came by and I was embarrassed. I explained, “But they’re all so pretty!” She said, “Yes, and that’s the kind of thing that keeps me in the garage.” I thought it was a curious comment, so I considered what she meant. I decided she must have a secret stash in the garage.

I left the chocolate aisle and got my beer and headed back to the check out, where they were still waiting to ring me up. I noticed an envelope stuffed with paper on the other side of the check stand. It had the words, “Jennifer M.” on the outside. The clerk was obviously in the middle of a transaction, but she scanned my beer and printed a receipt, ready to send me on my way. I explained that I had not paid. A male store employee, with obvious mental disability, came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. I had a feeling he was supposed to be running the register, but something had distracted him. I was trying to politely untangle myself, and the female clerk was telling him, “It’s time for love love,” or something similar. I knew it was some kind of code for him to return to his work.

He did let go and I again explained I had not paid. I wondered to myself if the employees were worried I would sue the store because of the groping incident. I wondered what kind of person sues over things like that. I felt bad for the groper. The female clerk told me I didn’t owe anything, she actually owed me $14. I explained that maybe she had rung up my items in the middle of the other transaction and that explained the discrepancy. She asked if my name was Jennifer, and I nodded. She said it must be my transaction. I held up the envelope and my card and explained that I am Jennifer D., and the envelope said Jennifer M.. She finally realized what I was trying to explain and she settled the transaction.

As I walked away from the register, I realized I had forgotten to purchase chips. I saw them at the endcap just on the other side of the register. I was angry. I wondered if we really needed chips. I didn’t want to go through all the hassle again. I wondered why we put up with stupid traditions like chips and beer for the Superbowl. I thought through all the food in my house, and wondered if I could get away with suggesting we start a new tradition. I left with only the beer.

Making Myself at Home in The Middlespace

middlespace 5 Responses »

Feb 282009

I intented to write a courageous post about how I came to be here, in this Middlespace. However, I discovered this morning, that Barbara Ganley had written it for me. When I read her Betwixt post, I had to smile because her sentiments mirror mine, and I know the two of us are not alone. After two years of total immersion in social media and educational technology, I have spent the last four months on the outside, observing and searching for answers. I have come close, but still am not satisfied. I’ve watched colleagues post transformative ideas, theories and models on their blogs, in anticipation of collaboration and engaging conversation. More often than not, the comments stray from the original inquiry, exposing commenter agendas and stilting conversations that really need to happen.

Maybe blogging isn’t the way to have these conversations. I don’t know. I do know that I am ready for a space that is not about educational technology, or technology in education, or technology or education. I am ready for a space where I can share my thoughts, without considering whether or not anyone will find them of value or will learn from them. I’m ready to make myself at home.

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