Category Archives: Writing

My baby’s grandparents.

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I’m posting this picture of him to set the tone.  You see, this is more than just my baby.  He’s… I don’t know how else to say it, but he’s magical.

He’s wonderful and one of the best things that could ever happen to anybody.  He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s interactive and sweet.  He barely, if ever, cries.  No shit.  I’ve heard him cry about once that I can remember.  It’s not that things don’t bother him, they do, but he yells at them or about them and then me or mummy sort them out.  Why cry?  There’s simply no need.

He’s 6 months old now.  Well, nearly, and he’s got two little teeth in the front.  He’s eating solid foods every day now and its better at it every meal.

But you see, his grandparents know nothing of this.

There could be lots of reasons for that.  I’ll get there, don’t worry.

His grandparents live 12 blocks away.  In the same suburb.

They’re not invalids.  They’re not immobile.  They’re not being kept away from him.  They’ve got their own transportation and means.  Neither of them have highly communicable diseases, nor do they hate children.  You see, they’ve had my older 3 children over many times.

In fact, they’ve requested to have the older kids over this weekend.

******

Almost a year ago, my wife and her mother had a “falling out”.  The details are too detailed, so I won’t detail them here.  Suffice to say that there comes a point in a person’s life that they have just had a gutful and they’re not going to take any more, so they don’t.

They haven’t spoken since.

My father-in-law, who is really my wife’s step-father, has approached me at my kids’ school.  We both teach kids how to play chess, and he’s done his hapless farmboy dance before, telling me he doesn’t know what’s up with them crazy womenfolk but he sure misses his grandchildren.

And I do, actually, consider them his grandchildren.  He loves them and they love him, that’s been enough for me.

So, he approached me.  I said, “Well fucking DO something.  Make it clear that the children are a priority.”  So he did.  He asked if they could have them over, made it clear that they missed them.  That was enough.  I sent the older 3 children and they had a great time.

Then my youngest was born.  Things got… weird again.  Briefly.  The older kids’ visits to Nanny & Poppy’s got more frequent and we settled into a comfortable zone.  Wife put aside a lot of the bullshit that gets in the way and offered up an olive branch.  Through me, she asked them if they’d like to have the baby for a few hours.

Nothing heavy, nothing too difficult.  Just a few hours on a weekday so they could experience that beautiful boy.  So they could hear him laugh.  Smell his hair.  Watch the way he watches people’s faces and the way he shapes his mouth when he says, “booooo…”

I rang and said, “Awesome, let’s do it!  One stipulation, keep Teddy away from him.”

Teddy is their Labradoodle (and I can’t believe I’m even writing that word, it’s too goddam funny) and he comes from a difficult background.  To say he is uncouth is too kind.  He’s obnoxious as hell.  He’s a fairly big dog (think proper poodle-sized and Labrador) and he’s ill-mannered.  He jumps on people.  His claws scratch.  He’s hard to control.

I can’t even dream up an alternate universe where a request to keep the ill-mannered dog away from a (then) 4-month old baby while he visits for a few hours.  I didn’t ask for the dog to be tied up.  I didn’t ask for him to be locked away in a closet.  I just asked that they keep him away from my baby, my helpless baby.

And the message I got back was, “Well, I think we’ll leave it for now.”

They didn’t want him.

If it meant that they had to alter their dog-heavy lifestyle, then they weren’t interested.

Well, needless to say, shit blew up.  Wife got mad and texted her stepdad.  I sent emails that went unanswered.  We heard from other family folk that I was perceived as “aggressive”.

So, I wrote a succinct email.  Nothing aggressive, but still pointed.  I told them that they chose a dog… a F*CKING DOG (I didn’t say that part that way) over their beautiful baby grandson.

No reply.

A month passed.  Then a bit.

No reply.

Yesterday, a text asking to have the kids over.  The “older” kids, I assume.

I am drafting an email explaining the fuckery of all of this, but I’m having a hard time with where to go with all of this.  I have no desire to keep the older kids from enjoying their grandparents.  I never want to stand in the way of their relationship, but how do I reconcile people who have such obviously fucked-up values wanting to spend time around some of my kids, but not my baby?

I tell you what.  I look at that picture above, and I can’t think of a thing on this planet that I wouldn’t do to spend time with him if he was my grandchild.

Maybe that’s just me.

Figleaf Shit

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Hitler Lollies

It’s 9:09 AM, I have Cheetos cheeseballs next to me right now, and I have the strongest urge to eat them with a toothpick and start counting cards.

Wifeage left a very sweet note for me to find this morning, the kind that signs off with something epic like, “I love you to the moon and back… and back… and back…” and trails off into tiny lettering that you squint to read and finishes with “forever infinity!”  Piehead might be coughy, give both kids some Figleaf Shit.

“Figleaf Shit” is a codename I devised for the 100% Pure and Unblended Olive Leaf Extract that Wifeage swears by.  The need for a codename came about because the children aren’t ready for me to bandy about names like, “Freshly-Squeezed Assjuice from Satan” or “Oh Holy Fuck Why Woman Why Do You Hate Me?”

In comparison, not that bad.

I give them Figleaf Shit, mixed in with their juice because I’m not a horrible and cruel man.  I offered up a lolly chaser, but oldest boy declined.  Then I did a shot, and Boy Howdy did I need a lolly.  I pulled out Pie’s Halloween candy and ate something waxy that may or may not have been some sort of aphrodisiac.  The Chinese on the side was prolific and there was an entertaining picture of a white rabbit.

While I was patiently waiting for my hallucinations, and making the kids’ lunches, Buddy comes asks for some more juice.

“Figleaf is bad joojoo isn’t it?” I say.

“Dad,” he pauses for effect, then screws up his face, sticks out his tongue and says, “It’s like Hitler ordered up a lolly… then sent it back, because it was so bad.”

This classic moment led into a discussion about one of the little kids’ cartoons, Caillou.  Buddy reckons I should go easier on the bald little bugger and stop saying “Caillou is Hitler!” because he clearly has cancer and had to steal his look from Charlie Brown.

Sydney Shimmy Shake

Boo is waiting patiently in his high chair for his breakfast with The Wiggles Youtube Channel to keep him occupied.  Piehead wanders in, watches blankly for a moment and asks, “What country are The Wiggles in?”

Having a partially-autistic child has its downsides, like everything.  I try not to be mean-spirited or tease, but sometimes I really just want her to use her fucking brain and sarcasm is my natural tone.

“You saw the beginning of ‘Shimmy Shimmy Shake’ right?” I say.

“Yeah, with the guy on TV?” she says.  She is 9 now, and everything is a question.

“Yep, where did he say they were from?” I’m trying my best to be gentle.

“Um… I don’t remember?” she says.  There wasn’t enough time for her to think about whether or not she remembered, she just didn’t want to invest any brain energy towards the matter.

“Did he say ‘direct from Sydney’?” I’m still gentle, but a pinch of jackass is edging into my voice.

She brightens.  “Yeah, yeah he did!” she says happily.

“And,” I lead her a bit, knowing this is a Slam Dunk, “What country is Sydney in honey?”

She scrunches up her face and cocks her head.  “America?” she asks.

I don’t fault her too heavily, for between my native accent and The Simpsons, the lines between the Aussie and American cultures are easily blurred.  But still.

I shake my head and go back to Boo’s breakfast.

Undaunted and still happy, Pie asks, “Can I have a lolly?”  It’s well after the Juice From Satan’s Ass could still be bothering her.

Only here in this writing, and sometimes under the secret covers with Wifeage, can I admit that if she’d known what country Sydney was in, I probably would’ve said she could instead of grumbling, “No.”

She threw on her backpack, jounced towards the door, paused, then turned around and bounced into the toilet for the next 18 minutes.  Getting ready for, and then going to, school, is apparently an activity that takes up so much mental energy that she was unaware of the need for a healthy poo until she was almost out the door.

Lovely Ammo Queen

The olders are gone to school, and I am sitting down to feed the patient and hooting Boo.  Bug walks up.  Born for the stage, you can tell when she’s theatric by the way she holds her chin up, half-closes her eyes and steps very lightly into your presence.

She’s wearing $5 ballerina shoes with blown-out toes on the right foot, a bright yellow velour flower dress that’s 2 years too small, and the plastic ammo belt from Buddy’s assault rifle is clipped in a circle and resting daintily on her head.

She walks in announcing, “I’m the Lovely Queen of Everyfeen!  And I am here to get some Lovely Princess Yogurt, but only the Lovely Princess Yogurt without the Lovely Princess Strawberries or Lovely Weetbix or any cereal or anything lumpy or yucky or stuff I don’t like… Cleem Yogurt!  Lovely Princess Yogurt that’s Cleem!”

“Yeah babe, “ I gesture at her baby brother, “I’ll hook you up when I’m done feeding Boo, alright?”

A regal nod.  Her chin goes higher in the air, her eyes half close again and she turns to leave before stopping herself.

“Can I play with Scarlet and Snake Eyes and Baroness and Storm Shadow?” she asks, pointing to each of the posed-for-action G.I. Joes on my shelf before adding, “And Wolfie?”

My hesitance is visible, but only because she insists on calling Snake Eye’s wolf “Wolfie” when his name is, in fact, “Timber”.  I’ve told her this.  Lovely Queen of Everyfeen chooses not to listen to such nonsense.

So she sits and plays and I spoon fruit and cereal mash into her baby brother’s reluctant but happy mouth.  Her games amuse him endlessly and it both helps and hinders feeding him, but we find a way despite his best efforts to grab/dodge the spoon.

DAMN I’ve missed feeding a baby.  Didn’t really realise that until just now.

Reading and Writing.

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The best thing about reading something really good is that it inspires you to write something equally good.

Well, maybe not “you” but the figurative “you”.

Just like when I was a kid and I’d watch The Lone Ranger or Zorro and feel absolutely compelled to go out and try that jump onto the horse’s back my very own self, I’ve always felt a strong pull whenever I’ve really been able to lose myself in someone else’s creative exploits.

Art, music, writing, action… it’s never really mattered.  It’s as if the artist has somehow put so much of their soul into it that my own innards resonate with a kindred spirit.

What.

Okay, YOU find a better explanation for why I jumped off the deck knowing full well that saddle was going to crush my nuts.

So, reading good things makes me want to write good things.  Reading though, is fairly easy.  I can lay in bed, falling asleep, and read.  I can feed the baby, and read.  I can sit on the toilet, the only completely alone spot in the house, and get a chapter out, it’s fantastic.

Writing though… uffda.  Finding the time isn’t a nightmare, I can take time just about any time.  Finding the quiet though, the ability to use both my hands, the ability to string 2, sometimes 3, coherent thoughts together in the form of anything resembling a story…

Well, that’s a different kettle of worms altogether.

What’s that?

Yes.  Yes, I am completely aware that I just spent precious writing time writing about not being able to write.  This kind of thing isn’t difficult though, even though there’s a wiggly somebody on my lap insisting that her shoving her thumb in my eye is tickling.

“It’s ticklish, Daddy, now hold still!”

Oh dear.

Why I’ll make it as a writer… someday.

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I was a Junior in High School the first time somebody ever called me a writer. The reason that memory has always stood out for me is not because it was momentous at being called a “writer”, because I still figured they were tweed-wearing hermits who didn’t do it for the money.

Nup, the reason I remember it was because it was the first writing assignment that I ever said, “Aw, what the hell” towards, and wrote from my heart.

I was fairly used to “A”s because I toed the line (on my writing assignments, not when I duct-taped Mrs. Stabnow’s thermos lid from the inside) but the grade on this paper didn’t matter a bit to me.

When I saw the “A” I felt more relief than anything, but when I read the next words my spirit actually soared.

“Well done Judd.  You are a great writer!”

But writing a novel is hard.

Years and years later and I’m finding it interminably difficult to sit down and work on my novel.  I’ve got the goddam thing all written, all laid out as far as structure and style goes, my continuity is fine and I’m even writing fresh stories to fill in gaps and add needed humour and character development.

But something is still missing.

I’ve got 4 kids and a wife and I work from home.  Finding “writing time” is never easy.  I have to get into the right frame of mind, I have to find the right mood and I have to get everyone to shut the fuck up for at least an hour.  None of this ever seems to coincide.

Yet, somehow, I’m able to sit at my computer for 2-3 hours at a time and bang out emails to friends, write blog entries on various sites and sometimes even churn out a short story or so for something on Page Buoy.

Why is it then, that I’m struggling so much with my novel?  Because it’s so BIG and IMPORTANT?  Because I’ve put so many goddamed hours into it?  Because I’m at that stage where I’m trying desperately to make it as perfect as possible?

Maybe it’s more simple than that.

Les Edgerton to the rescue… AGAIN.

I’d ordered the book so long ago off Amazon (who has to ship from the US and can take weeks) that I’d all but forgotten about it.  I’d been up one sleepless night trolling for books and remembered one of my absolute favourites, “Hooked” by Les Edgerton.

I Googled him, found another book or two on writing, got all excited and ordered one.  Then I found his blog and then I emailed him.

He wrote back about an hour later.  I still feel pretty effin’ coooool about that.

Then he joined Page Buoy, and that got me pretty fired up too.  So I got all caught up in the excitement of trading emails with one of my Writing Heroes and the novel was, once again, an afterthought.

The book showed up yesterday, and it’s called “Finding Your Voice.”

Which is funny, because I’ve had a couple of people, one of them heavily-codenamed but still one of my e-favourite writerfriends, all tell me I had a very unique and funny “voice”.  I can’t say as I’d ever heard it called that, but I knew what they meant.  I suppose in literary terms, your “voice” is a pretty unique way of describing something that would be called “style” in other languages.

I started thinking about the voice I was using in my novel.  And I started to get worried.

Finding my voice.

Then some of the gals in my other Writery Email Group Thingo were all commenting that I was good at cracking them up, and how they couldn’t wait to read my novel because it must be OMG Pee My Pants Funny.

“Shit,” I thought, “it’s really not.”

I wasn’t so worried about that though, it’s not really a humour piece and I’m not always out for laughs.

But it’s still missing something.

Wifeage and I got to talking about things last night, about how I relate stories from my experiences and how I used to blog about this and blog about that, and I got to thinking about my “voice”.  I use my “voice” in just about everything I do, from Facebook to Small Business Forums to emails to my mother.

It’s easy, it just flows, and I almost never have to think about it.

How to get it into my novel though?  Rewrite the whole bloody thing?

Writing is like sex.  If it feels like “work”, you’re doing it wrong.

“Well shit,” I thought again, “I’ve got some serious work ahead of me.”

Then I emailed my new email friend, Blue Skies Les, and told him that he’d written yet another book that had completely rocked my writery world, and I was only 35 pages in!

See, the problem, thus far, is that my novel IS a lot of work.  I’m working my ass off to find time, to find motivation, to find the right words, the right style, the right flow.

Writing, good writing, my good writing, shouldn’t be this much work.

And I don’t reckon it will be.

For the first time in a very long time, maybe ever, I’m really looking forward to starting in on this novel again.

Because, if it ain’t fun, then why in the hell am I doing it?

A Slightly Different Crowd

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Hanging out with writers on the forums and the email lists and the newsletters and all that, has taught me a few interesting things about the types of personalities that I’m drawn to.

There is a certain level of disappointment that falls over me whenever I see the reaction when I’m saying something mildly inflammatory on Facebook.  Sometimes I spout off about how gay people should be able to get married and it shouldn’t be a thing at all, or that I don’t mind if others believe that Jeebus went zombie and then took flight but don’t try to treat it as undeniable fact, and I will inevitably get an earful from the small-minded (usually folks from back home in Montana) that are quick to inform me that there is, in fact, only one way to look at things.  Seems to be theirs.

At the risk of sounding incredibly wanky and elitist, I’m really enjoying discussions that don’t devolve (too quickly) and the articles and blog posts that talk about industry changes and the way the world is changing in regards to writers and publishing.

It’s incredibly refreshing to be able to take all this information in and NOT feel like my hackles are hackling.  Not that I tend to get hackly, but still, I like feeling calm and zen at the end of a week where I’ve accomplished f*ck-all with my books, websites or house.

Maybe I’m hanging with a better class of people?  Heh.  Well, I’m certainly doing what I can to drag that down.