Bookcases and Windmills

As my husband passed the bookcase in our computer nook, I asked, "Do you see that middle shelf?

"Yes," he replied, with that what's-wrong-now look.

"It's sagging in the middle."

"Hum, you're right. What do you suppose caused it?"

My immediate thought was "cheap bookcase." I got it on sale at an office furniture store. It was a put-it-together-yourself type that I had worked on for two days before calling in a handyman to finish the job. The handyman was more expensive than the bookcase.

My second guess was that the books were too heavy for the particle board (well, it looked like wood and matched my computer desk--which came from the same store). The shelf contained two bound dissertations, three volumes of "Who's Who" and all my cookbooks (mostly unopened—ripe for Ebay).

When You're On Overload

Simply distributing the weight differently would probably have solved our problem. Except that every bookcase in our house (6 at last count) was full. Rearranging this bookshelf might entail a transfer to other, more substantial shelves in other rooms. Or, heaven forbid, giving away some precious books. There wasn't going to be a quick solution. 

Then an analogy poofed into being: my overloaded mind. Not a simple solution, either.

I grew up with Glenn Campbell singing "Windmills of My Mind." The song made a lasting impression because I lived in west Texas where dust storms were more feared than tornadoes. In west Texas, if you found a windmill that wasn't whirring, it was broken. Even as a child, my mind whirred with ideas, dreams, goals, and all the stuff of a great imagination.

Almost a thousand miles from west Texas and with Glenn Campbell nearing retirement, my mind still whirs. Getting it to stop—or at least slow down—proves difficult. All those unwritten books, articles, letters to the editor, not to mention keeping up with Facebook; e-mail; LinkedIn; birthday, sympathy, and get well cards—minds, like bookshelves, can get overwhelmed, even those of the most dedicated workaholics. 

Unloading the Overload

I'm staring at the sagging bookshelf. I'm thinking about what's left on my mental "to do" list. But I'm about to finish my blog for now. Strike one thing off the list! It's time for celebration!

Except that I need to spend an hour or so on my second book (the first one is at the printers), and time is wasting. Or is it? 

To unload the overload I've got to unwind the windmill. It occurred to me that a windmill looks a lot like my bedroom ceiling fan. When it's blowing more than needed, I simply turn it down one or more speeds. Occasionally, I turn it off. All I need is a chord to pull.

Time is precious, but so is rest, reflection, and renewal. I'm pulling the chord to slow speed. Humm ... it's feeling good. 

Birthing Books and Babies

Scarlett O'Hara's maid didn't know nothin' about birthing no babies! But I've learned a lot recently about the connection between birthing books and babies.

1. Books and babies are birthed in their own good time, regardless of due dates.

My manuscript was due to my publisher on May 1, 2009. On April 26 I had finished reviewing 11 of the 12 chapters I had received from my copy editor and prematurely breathed a sigh of relief. On April 27 I had intended to finish the last chapter and back matter and send the manuscript to my editor when I got home from work. My unborn grandchild was due April 29, and we had thought he would be late, according to the doctor. No problem, right? Wrong! At 2:30 p.m. that Monday I was in my office when my son Scott called to tell me his wife was in labor with their second child and could I please call his dad. We were to leave ASAP for Pensacola, FL.

So much for the best laid plans of mice and women. Although Nathan Andrew was born before we arrived, I was with him, his parents, and his sister on May 1—and chapter 12 was a distant memory. On May 5 the publisher received the book with my apologies.

Some things in life take their own sweet time. Others come unexpectedly. Books and babies have their own timetable, and it's best to let nature take its course.

2. Books and babies just pop out.

Did that come out of me? I look at my manuscript and feel amazed that these words emanated from some place deep within me that I didn't even know existed.

My 4-year-old granddaughter had asked her mom, "How is that baby in your tummy going to get out?" Becky, thinking quickly on her feet, said, "It will just pop out." Several times last week Sara remarked on how Mommy's baby just popped out. It seemed a reasonable explanation to her.

How appropriate, I thought. I incubated my book for longer than nine months, but eventually, the words just popped out. When those who read the book ask, "Where did those ideas come from?" I have the perfect answer. "They just popped out."

What's in you that needs to pop out? Let the words flow!

Writing Bug Aptly Named

Did you know that bed bugs are a national epidemic? So said the evening news last night. Thousands of dollars can be spent trying to eradicate them once they creep or are carried in to your home. They make red sores that itch constantly.

What do writing and bed bugs have in common? The bite. The itch. When the writing bug bites, you best tend to it because it won't go away. When I try to calculate how many hours I've sat at the computer thinking, then typing, then pressing delete—I've probably spent thousands of dollars in lost income trying to scratch that itch.

Scratching an itch satisfies only temporarily. Many nights as I head for bed I've sworn my computer will stay in sleep mode much longer than I will, only to find I'm right back here the next day pecking away.

Do you know of an exterminator for the writing bug?

Keep living between the ditches,
Betty

Got a book in you?

They say everyone's got a book in them. That would be fine with me, but my problem is that I've not only gotten one book out of me, but I have at least two more in me. (Okay, four!)

The bug hit when I was in the second grade. I hid my manuscript under my bed. The notebook paper with large penciled letters was off-limits to my younger sister, and no one else looked under my bed. Fortunately, I suppose, we moved a lot when I was young, so the book didn't stay under the bed long. When I finally dragged it out on moving day, I skimmed the pages. In a flash of insight I recognized the plot: the soap opera my mother watched daily.

Maybe an unoriginal start, but a diary followed; then reams of stories, poetry, essays, and lessons. The writing bug, fattened by a steady diet of library books, was worming its way into my neurons. I was hooked.

A college major in English, a couple of post-graduate degrees, two rejected book manuscripts, a number of magazine and curriculum-related articles, and a career in teaching and publishing followed. Then it happened. A publisher said yes.

Living Between the Ditches: When God Makes No Sense will be published in June. I'd love to sit on my laurels, knowing my grandchildren can order POD, but the bug is biting again. I was finishing a household task this evening when my thoughts drifted to the main character in my next book. He was playing on the stairwell in his home when he was a little boy.

I'd love to tell you more, but I've got to write the story down before I forget it.

Live between the ditches, 

Betty