I sent this photo to my parents during a recent trip to the coast, because “Kelly loves to learn” is a long-standing joke in my family. I’ve been learning-avoidant for as long as I can remember. Even way back in first grade, I asked my mom how many more years I would have to attend school, and her answer made me burst into tears.

But the fact is I need to learn, as much as I rebel against it. This became clear to me after I wrote a couple of novels (without any real knowledge of how to write novels), then read them over and thought, The stories are good. But these do not sound like books. Crap. I have to go learn something. 

So I signed up for a novel-writing class, and I learned. A lot. It was most unpleasant. When loved ones read your writing, they say, “This is wonderful!” but when strangers read it, you get feedback more along these lines:

“You have about a thousand adverbs in the first ten pages. That’s lazy writing.”

“I’m drowning in your gerund phrases.”

“I think this character makes better sense in your head than he does on the page.”

Ouch.

Thankfully, I’m a Leo, and we take criticism really well. Yes, sir. With grace and ease.

HA!!!

AH HA HA HA HA HA!

<choke, snort>

HA HA HA HA HA HA!

<wipes tears>

HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!

In other words – no, Leos do not take criticism well. We lash out, claws and fangs bared, then crawl into a private corner to sulk and lick our wounds. When we’re ready, we creep back into the world, glaring at everyone. I call that process “learning,” which may be why I have such a fiercely negative, visceral reaction to the word.

“Learning, eh? Is that the thing where I prove my inadequacy and someone points it out? Because I don’t like that.”

I need a new way to describe the process of stuffing information into my brain. A few years ago, my husband started to call parties “human gathering events,” because he’d noticed that whenever he said the word “party,” I said the word “no.” So I suppose I could rebrand learning in a similar fashion. Perhaps I’ll call it “knowledge acquisition.” That sounds much better. Sophisticated, yet non-confrontational.

With the dastardly word thus rebranded, I will try my damnedest to commit to a lifetime of knowledge acquisition, because something I’ve learned (blech) through the novel-writing process is that the acquisition of knowledge takes our passions from this:

…to this:

While the first one’s pretty cool, the second one’s got a whole lot more going on. It’s billowy, pointy, and fuzzy all at once. Lovely. Plus it can feed bees, and without bees, we are all screwed.

In the first chapter of Aret, Diana Scarlett turns 21. It’s a day of great significance, not only because she discovers she’s a dragon, but also because she receives a very credible death threat. So while it’s not the most festive of birthdays, it is certainly a milestone.

During the book’s most recent revision, I planned to self-publish in 2016, so I was able to determine the exact date of Diana’s birthday based on surrounding events (e.g., the first day of spring; Mother’s Day; the new moon). And that date is: April 28, 2016 (aka this Thursday).

In lieu of giving actual flowers, I give people pictures of flowers on their birthdays. If I were able to do that for Diana, I’d send her this one, because it looks like a shrunken-headed gorilla wearing a frilly dress, and I think that would put a smile on her face.

But really I’d choose this one, because it’s red and black (her favorite color combo)

On Thursday, please raise a glass to Diana and wish her luck with those pesky dragon and murder issues. She could use it. And if you’re not sure what to put in that glass, might I suggest tequila? That’s what Diana drinks on her birthday, and everything turns out fine! (Aside from the be-all & end-all of identity crises, that is. And a brand new concern re: impending death.)

Speaking of birthdays, I have news. I’ve finally chosen Aret’s publication date: my own birthday – August 8, 2016. After all, I have to make turning 41 seem special somehow. Forty is a big deal, what with the new decade and all, and 42 is the answer to the ultimate question about life, the universe, and everything, but 41 is just sort-of…41ish. It reminds me of Wayne’s World. “Hi. I’m in Delaware. And I’m 41.”

So there ya go, folks – on August 8th, you will have the opportunity to dive into an unknown world, learn a new language, and meet some fascinating creatures. Are you excited? I know I am. I’m even more excited than I was on my last birthday, and on that day, someone gave me a MAGIC WAND.

I mean really, people. You know something’s got to be pretty damn fabulous to provide even greater excitement than a magic freakin’ wand. I used that wand to summon whales while I sat on a summit in Big Sur, and it worked. I am not making this up. The wand is powerful, folks.

But the book is even better. 🙂

Stone work rocks

Since quitting my full-time job, I’ve done some work as a stone mason’s laborer. In terms of complexity, it is pretty much the opposite of social work. When presented with a task, I don’t spend much time brainstorming potential interventions, because the maneuvering of rocks is very different from the maneuvering of humans.

There is another significant distinction between labor and social work (besides the pronounced increase in one’s muscle mass, which I don’t remember happening at any previous jobs). At the end of the day, I can look around the worksite and think, Ah, yes. That’s why I’m so tired. Seeing the tangible results of one’s efforts is a luxury rarely afforded in the social work field, and it is really damn satisfying.

Plus I get to wear knee pads and look super glamorous.

Here are my most common tasks as a laborer:

1. Help big rocks get from here to there (aka “pick up heavy things and put them back down again”)
2. Transport gravel, road bond, and rock dust along precarious terrain (there are some really hilly yards in the Appalachians)
3. Dig trenches
4. Bash my shins with the wheelbarrow (this happens far too often)

Beyond all of that, in terms of stone work, I refer to myself as “skill-free,” because anything that requires three-dimensional thinking causes my brain to panic and fall into a weakness. My stone mason boss, on the other hand, is chock-full of skills. She can examine a huge stack of rocks, choose one that doesn’t look (to me) like it will work for her purposes at all, then grind, chisel, and manipulate the crap out of it until it has become the perfect puzzle piece. To skill-free me, her abilities border on miraculous.

Whenever skill is required, I just don protective gear & take selfies.

What I’ve realized over the past several months is that my boss has a guiding vision. This is true not only in terms of her stone work, but also in terms of her life. While she earned a degree in counseling and held a job in that field for a brief time, she soon realized that career was incompatible with her temperament, so she ventured back out into the world to discover her true path. After years of exploration, she and stone masonry found one another.

That kind of decision-making takes courage. It relies on an individual trusting her own personal, guiding vision, rather than succumbing to inertia, guilt, or the ominous (though usually well-intentioned) warnings of others. And while I strive to live my life that way as well, sometimes I get bowled over by a tsunami of self-doubt. This happened a couple of weeks ago, and my tsunami-thrashed brain reacted by spewing out a detailed commentary on my MANY delusions around writing – not only in terms of self-publishing Aret, but also in regards to my decision to write at all.

With my thoughts floundering in this deluge of doom and gloom, I glanced down and saw a bottle cap on the ground. While I entertained myself with the usual fantasy about chopping off all litterers’ heads with an enormous scythe, I bent down to pick it up, then read these words.

It’s funny how often a little thing (literally, in this case) can make a big difference. Thank you, oh wise and wonderful bottle cap. You reminded me to trust my own guiding vision, even in the face of a tsunami smackdown.

[I believe this is the only time I’ve ever encountered helpful litter. That does not, however, change my feelings about litterers. I say bring on the scythe.]

Spider web…of doom!

I like to conclude spoken sentences with the words “of doom!”  Sometimes this practice makes sense, like with the statement: “That standing water is going to create a mosquito cloud…of doom!”  Other times, it makes less sense (i.e., “I need to go feed my friend’s cat…um, of doom.”).

Seaweed of doom

My nephew recently asked what doom means, since his Auntie Kelly says it so often. My definition featured a menagerie of sound effects and wild gesticulations, which I didn’t think was an issue until I saw the reenactment he provided for my sister. “Hey, Mommy, do you want to know what doom is? It’s when things are all FWOOSH! KABLAM!” While he continued his demonstration with a cacophony of dramatic noises and dance of flailing limbs, my sister looked at me as if to say, Please refrain from defining any additional words for my son.

Fly trap of doom

But if it weren’t for sound effects and spastic gestures, my ability to define words would decrease by about 75%. For a writer, I imagine that’s a bad thing, but I don’t care. Sound effects and gestures are fun, and words are a pain in my ass. When I try to find them, they elude me. Even a word as simple as “excitement” will fly right out of my head if I search for it, but I can always assume a wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression, add some exuberant jazz hands, and squeal, “Eeee!” to express the same damn thing.

Tunnel of doom

If I could use this same method to write novels, the process would be far easier. I could’ve created the story of Aret in a week instead of 3+ years. Now that I think about it, it might be a good idea to roll out the third book of Aret (since book two is already more than halfway done, using that cumbersome, word-based method) as a performance art piece. I imagine myself leaping across a stage exclaiming, “And then the dragons go FWOOSH! RAWR! BAZAAM!” until my epic trilogy soars at last to its amazing conclusion…

…of DOOM!

Hmm. I really think this could work.